After his quarrel with his father, Brig spent the night in his Range Rover alternating between sobbing and sleeping. He had quit praying years ago, but when he was alone and down, he still spoke, and sometimes wrote, to his mother. He pulled out his journal from under the driver seat.
Why did you marry that asshole? Was it the money? His good looks? His ambition? OK…I sort of get it…and I can also understand and forgive you for finding someone else. I’m thinking now, hoping, that you were planning our escape.
Brig realized he was really writing this for his father. He imagined his father finding his journal, and reading how Brig hated him, and how Brig knew that his mother had been unfaithful.
I do. I understand. But he’s a horrible father, and Brenda and I don’t have you to protect us anymore. He doesn’t care about us. He spends more time with his illegitimate children in the Philippines, or Germany, or wherever it is, he goes.
I’m sure, now, you see how he is…if given a chance to do it again, you wouldn’t, right?
I’ve never asked him for one God damned thing, but when I do, when I ask him for the one thing that matters most to me, he laughs. I expected him to say no, but to laugh in my face? It’s not right. He doesn’t even realize how destructive he is, how much I hate him, and everything he represents. He has more money than God, and he can’t part with a sum that he makes in a few minutes, maybe seconds, to allow me to realize my dream? What a dick!
Brig punched upward, hitting the roof of the Range Rover and hurting his wrist.
The next morning he called his father’s office, intending to leave his father a message on his answering service. A woman’s voice answered, “Brigham Young International, how may I direct your call?”
“Brigham Young please.”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“This is his son.”
The woman paused. Brig could practically hear the wheels turning in her head. “Why wouldn’t Mr. Young’s son dial his direct number?” she wondered. Regardless, she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t challenge the person who might be her future boss.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Brig pleaded.
“Yes. I’m here. How can I help you, Mr. Young?”
“He’s in the office today?”
“I believe so. Shall I put you through?”
Brig thought about it for a few seconds and then decided he would still leave his message. “I’d prefer to leave a message with you if you don’t mind?” Brig said pleasantly.
“No, not at all. Please go ahead.”
“Hi, Dad. This is your son, Brigham.” He paused, allowing the woman time to write it down.
“Hi, Dad. This is your son, Brigham.” the receptionist repeated. “Got it. Please continue.”
“I have decided NOT…please underline the word ‘not’…to go on a mission.”
“Not… underlined… to go on a mission,” the receptionist repeated back to Brig.
“Fuck you! Brig.”
“And if you could double underline the word fuck, and put an exclamation point after ‘you,’ I would appreciate it.”
“Let me…” the receptionist stammered, but before she could finish her sentence, Brig had disconnected.