sit the fuck down

I'd looked for French in the shed; it was empty.  I saw a light in the kitchen through the screen door.  I went up the cement steps.  French's dad was sitting at the kitchen table changing a guitar string.  A cigarette was dangling from his mouth.  He looked up and said: "take a picture, it lasts longer".  He then told me to come in. I asked him, "if French was home"?  He shook his head no and tightened the string a bit more.  I then said: "Sweaty?" He just said: "naah".

I stood there like a typical awkward teen thinking about what to say.  French's dad looked up again said: "sit the fuck down".  I did.  He put a tea cup in front of me and poured in some really dark tea.  It looked like coffee.  He then tipped in a healthy splash of Amaretto. 

He picked up his guitar and finished tuning the string that he had replaced.  He opened the fridge.  There were hundreds of bread and milk tags hanging on a rod inside.  He picked out a larger than normal plastic bread tag and started to pick out a little tune.  Soon the pace picked up and he blasted into several songs by Neil Young; mainly from his Crazy Horse years.  Every coupla songs he'd hot up our tea and splash in some more liqueur.

He was singing Cinnamon Girl at the top of his voice when his wife came in.  She smiled and put the kettle back on.  He packed up his guitar and said: "I'll tell French and Sweaty that you came by".

I wandered home with a lingering warm buzz.