Duality

A one shot story I've been doodling with as a mood exercise.

Duality

As I sit at my desk and discuss possible tactics for getting the mayor on side in rebooting the ferry, I'm also in a Hardy Boys Burger Barn, eating their Triple Bessy, the quarter pound potatoes of American beef with tomatoes, avocado, onion rings, and Hardy sauce. It's a big burger, their best, and I'm going to get to enjoy it for free and without the inevitable stomach ache that follows. I'm skipping lunch today so I figured I may as well enjoy myself; an hour is too long for lunch anyway.

I briefly wonder what Taylor is doing at school but the thought brings with it a wave of shame and self loathing that manages to cut its way through my enjoyment of the burger in front of me, and I find I no longer have an appetite. I drop the fast food dinner timeline and split again.

"I think I'm gonna call it a day, Dave," I say, as I also say, "How much money do you think we'll have to raise for Christner's next campaign? I'm not crazy about how much competition we're going to have from Medhall's lobby."

Dave looks surprised but answers, "No problem, I'll hold things down here, Danny," while also sighing heavily and replying, "Honestly? I'm pretty sure Medhall threw in almost three-quarters of a million dollars during the last election cycle. And they've been pushing back hard on keeping the ferry off the docket. I don't see us outbidding them."

I'm already walking out the door to my truck, and I pull out a Manila folder at my desk, leafing through the pages. It's all dockworker paperwork, specifically men I know that have joined up at least part-time with the Empire. Guys we have leverage over. "Might be time to call in a couple favors, then. They might be Kaiser's but they're still dockworkers. Could be time to nose around Max's dirty secrets."

"You sure that's a good idea, Danny?" Dave asks as I turn over the engine, listening carefully to the healthy growl of the truck as it starts up. It's amazing how cheap it is to maintain a truck on your own when you can undo any mistakes you make while you practice. Dave continues, "The Boys are better off sending us info from the inside. The moment one of them gets caught it immediately throws suspicion on anyone that's ever worked with the Union. They're good enough guys but let's face it, nobody who's actually good at that spy shit becomes a dockworker. We're not a subtle breed, present company excepted, of course."

I don't say anything for a few seconds; I'm almost out of the parking lot by the time I finally have a reply. "You don't give them enough credit, Dave. And it's not so difficult. I'll never ask anyone to do anything they can't deliver on."

"Maybe not," Dave concedes as I pull up to the stoplight. "I can't say I remember a bad decision you've made in the last six months. At least, not for the Dockworkers' Association."

I stare at him for about ten seconds; the light turns green and I step on the accelerator a bit harder than wise. "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask slowly, trying to keep my anger in check and my voice level. Because I know damn well what he means. My knuckles whiten as my hands clamp down on the steering wheel.

"I mean you spend all your time on the union, Danny. When was the last time you spent time with your daughter?"

I don't answer him. He has no way of knowing, but I've spent a lot of time with Taylor over the last year and a half. Less so in recent months, because... but I don't want to think about that. He has no way of knowing I'm driving home now, uselessly, pointlessly, to make another attempt.

Dave doesn't, can't, is literally incapable, of understanding the context. It doesn't stop him from smelling blood in the water, of course. "Danny, go home and spend some time with your daughter. Fuck's sake, man. Your time with her, involved in your life, is ending a day at a time. And the less time you spend with her now, the less she's going to have anything to do with you when she moves out."

It's already too late for that, I don't tell him. "Assignments. We have a union to keep employed, a city to fix. Taylor knows how important all this is, she understands." I don't say the hidden subtext, that she thinks I think the union is more important than she is. And I can even understand why she believes it, because she doesn't know, she can't know, that all those days I was there.

---

I walk up the steps to the front door, the broken step long fixed after the months ago Taylor angrily pointed out it had been broken for over a year and I'd done nothing about it, just like I'd done nothing about virtually anything since Annette died.

We always argue, now, in these discarded timelines, which is why I'm the ones I keep we almost never talk. It's better for her; instead, I keep doing things behind the scenes. Arrange for a police officer to visit Winslow, every day, timelines discarded for three weeks straight until the day he stumbled onto that Hess girl shoving my daughter, almost making her fall down the stairs. Only then did something actually happen when I gave the police the secret, hidden stash of records Taylor kept of all the abuse she suffered, only then did they get a warrant for the school email servers, and for Hess's phone. Eventually, leading to evidence that tied the three primary girls to the locker.

I would have thought that would at least make up for... everything. That our shattered family might start, I don't know, gluing itself back together, at least a little. Instead, Taylor was infuriated at the violation of her privacy, that I never even talked to her but went behind her back and through her things to find her notebooks.

Everything I do only seems to make everything worse. But when the alternative is to actually do nothing?

Even though every time I try, it all fractures just a little bit more. What little is left of my family, crumbling away like sand through open fingers.

Dave has gone home, and I'm still making phonecalls, going over my files, and making plans as I open the door. Taylor's surprised, wary expression cuts me like a knife, the way it always does-- every time, a little more angry, a little more cynical. A little more hostile. "You came home."

It's not the worst greeting I've gotten from her in the last three months. "You hungry?"

She grunts noncommittally.

"Is that a yes?" I prompt, although I can smell that something was cooked, even though the stove is empty and the dishes are in the drying rack instead of the sink.

She looks away from me, before finally replying, "I already ate. At dinner time." Her reply is sullen.

"I'll have what's left, then." Talking to her is exhausting. I've tried reaching out to her. I try a lot, although admittedly, less the last few weeks. It's hard to keep up at full steam when every path in the conversation just leads to worse and worse results.

She doesn't say anything, just slipping towards the doorway. Avoiding me. I ask, "So how was school?"

She doesn't answer at first. "It's okay."

"Are you having trouble with those girls?" I ask, knowing full well she's not. Not with the three primary bullies, at any rate.

"Why are you pretending to care?" she asks, eyes narrowed.

Fuck. And here it begins. "Taylor, I've been busy, but that doesn't mean-"

"Doesn't mean what, Dad? Doesn't mean you spend more overtime nights than dinners at home? Doesn't mean you talk more to the mayor about the ferry than you do to me about anything? Doesn't mean you come home more than half the time after I've gone to bed?" This one's worse than the last. It always is. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot.

Right now, it's a lot. And despite my best efforts, I feel my own temper rising. "Doesn't mean I don't care!" I finish snappishly. "I have to make sure the lights stay on and there's food in the fridge. I can't be home as often as I'd like."

"When's the last time you went to the store to keep food in the fridge?" she counters with more justification than I want to hear. "When was the last time you were home to turn on the lights- how often are you home early enough to turn them out? I think you're home exactly as much as you want to be, if not more!"

I'm angry with her. Irrationally so. Months of frustration, of helplessness, of not being able to fix things, not being able to find the right words no matter how many times I try, no matter how many times I erase the conversation, do it over. The words tumble out of my mouth, treacherously, unwanted. Far, far too easily. "Maybe if I didn't know I'd come home to an ungrateful daughter who can't handle the necessities of the real world, maybe I'd try to find the time." God dammit.

I see the hurt in her eyes, know it hit home. And the hateful, spiteful, worst part of me feels glee. I see the hurt, the betrayal, and worse: resignation. My mind goes back to the notebooks of her bullies' insults and attacks, and I can't help but draw a parallel. All because I couldn't control my temper.

I drop the timeline. And I'm still in my office, the paper I'm reading crumpled slightly from my clenching hand. I force myself to relax my grip, set the page down, smooth it a little. Then, I open my desk drawer and pull out the flask of Sailor Jerry, unscrewing the top and taking a hard, fast slug.

I'll wait til she's gone to bed before I go home, much like I almost always do. I'll just soothe my nerves with the run, sober up, go home.

Try again tomorrow. Try again, try again, but I know it never gets better, only worse.

Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe I'll figure out what I'm doing wrong. Maybe I'll figure out what to do that's right. Try again tomorrow.