"Dad! Are you sure? I can stay if you need me!"
Tim looked at his son thoughtfully. It was just like him to put family first over himself. He felt proud at this moment, knowing that his boy would walk his path, knowing right from wrong. He had done his job well.
"Alan. We'll be fine. Please done worry. We've been through tough times before. We'll work it out, as we always do. Besides, you need this to get the scholarship for the University."
The young man flushed out of embarrassment and frustration. "I know. But I'm not liking the numbers this year. Somethings off. They don't look right. If I stay, you can let one of the hands go, maybe that will help?"
His father walked up to him and put his calloused hands on each shoulder, looking his son in his eyes. "We. Will. Be. Fine. You come home in 8 weeks, we get you application in for the scholarship and you make something of yourself. It's my job as parent to worry about you. Not the other way around." He tasseled the boys brown hair playfully, getting the "aw shucks" reaction he had been expecting. And loved.
Alan gave a half-hearted sigh and hugged his father tightly. After a moment, he turned and picked up a large duffel bag sitting on the floor. "Thanks Dad. But call me if you need me. Number is on the fridge."
"I won't!" he answered cheerfully.
Alan shot him a look, then smiled as he went out the door. The screen door slammed loudly behind him. Tim watched proudly as his son casually tossed the duffel bag into the back of the weathered truck, hopped in the cab, and with a general wave back at the house, sped off down the dirt road.
*********
"GODDAMMIT CHRIS!" He shouted, beet red in the face. An unbecoming bit of spittle flew from his lips. Chris frowned to himself as he watched it fall to the floor before him. The old man was at a new level of pissed today.
"What? The judge said if I finish my community service, he'll expunge my record. So I help out at a soup kitchen for a few weeks, and everything is fine. Why are you so upset?" Chris stated simply. Usually if he kept himself on an even keel, the storm would pass.
"I'M UPSET BECAUSE MY SON IS A SPOILED, SELF-INDULGING LITTLE SHIT!" His father was in rare form today. He rarely got this mad about anything. Chris had begun to have a little pang of worry as the large man in front of him turned away, running his fingers through his own hair. "You're lucky I'm a member of the same golf club as Judge Ferguson. You could have been facing jail time," he growled. The man ran his fingers through his rapidly graying hair again as he sat heavily in a large leather chair. He picked up a manilla folder off the desk, flipping it open. Chris couldn't see was in it, but was grateful for the silence it brought.
For long minutes, the only noise was an antique desk clock, counting the seconds. He didn't even hear the staff in the halls. They knew to stay well clear of a "family meeting." After awhile, Chris cleared his throat. When that didn't get a response, he broke the quiet. "Are we done here? Can I go?"
His father slammed the folder down with such force, one of the dogs in the den yipped and ran out of the room, pissing the entire time. "Yes. You can go. And here's where you'll be going for the next 8 weeks," he said, flipping a brochure at his son. Chris looked at it warily, puzzled.
"A camp for little kids? I'm way too old for this."
His father broke into a long grin that was far more threatening than he had been before. "Too old to attend, but old enough to be a counselor."
Chris' eyes widen as the realization swept over him. "Oh God no. You can't mean..."
"Eight weeks of being outdoors. Taking care of the camp..."
"What? No way!"
"And helping out with the kids of your cabin to have a great summer. Upon completion of this, it will be considered that your community service is complete," his father continued.
Chris was beginning to get mad now. "What the hell! There is no way I'm babysitting for a bunch of brats for 2 months!"
"This has been approved by myself and Judge Ferguson."
"I'm not doing it. I won't.."
"IF," his father boomed, silencing him. "If you refuse, OR if you are fired or expelled, then it's 180 days of jail time, mandatory. And per the contracts of your Grandfather's will, if you are convicted and jailed for a crime, the trust in your name is immediately void and forfeit, to be distributed among the remaining family members."
"WHAT THE FU...?"
A set of keys arced through the air. He barely caught them.
His father looked at him, a wide smile on his face. The first Chris had seen in over 3 months. "Get packing. You report in on Saturday. "