"No", my dad said. I had learned long ago his "No" would be the final say on anything in the house. But sometimes, the stench of opportunity can break one out of their habits.
"But dad-,"
"No," said my father. "You're needed in the diner. I can't do this work without you."
I turned to my mom, hoping for her reason to convince my dad. But she gave me this frown.
"Harry," she said in her annoying motherly way, "we need you here. Besides, I don't want you to spend your whole summer just screwing around."
I paused for a minute. Yeah, that was my main reason for going to America.
"What do you mean, 'just screwing around' ", I replied, slightly flustered as this inadvertent insight, "it is a working vacation."
"The commies just like lazing around," my dad grunted, "they expect government to work for them. Thus, they were robbed of any work ethic. I don't want that infecting my son. You'll come home expecting everything handed to you." He paused, as if searching for an argument. "And like your mom said, they just like screwing around. They don't know how to treat a lady, and they don't respect family."
'Yeah, and you still kept love letters from your old girlfriend,' I thought. I found them when I was eight, during my old snooping phase. That phase came to an end when my dad found me going through his desk drawers. Any phase will end when your behind meets your father's leather belt.
"Yeah Harry," my mom ,"Stacy broke up with you, which shows you still need to mature, which you can't do in the UASR."
My face got a little red at my mom pushing the rumor. 'Stacy moved away', I thought to myself ,'Okay. Before she moved, we did have a big fight, where she said I wasn't considerate of her. Okay, I stood her up once, but she said she was over it, although I haveb.' Everybody saw that fight, and assumed she moved just to get away from me. It really was getting on my nerves. But I chose not to argue it, instead trying appeal to dad's business nature.
"You know," I said earnestly, "you could hire a student from the UASR, if your short on labor. The Reds are also looking to send people to the-",
"No," my father uttered," those Reds always argue with you. Even the maids and janitors feel entitled to make noise. I don't want some entitled lefty telling me what to do in my own damn diner."
"Steven," my mom said glaringly. My dad instantly stopped with his Red-bashing.
"Sorry, Marianne," he said regretfully. My mom was the kind of person who thought that swearing was the ultimate sin, or more specifically 'bad manners'. Born to an English descended family, she had the outlook of an English aristocrat: you can oppress people, as long as you are polite and well-groomed when you do it.
"The point is," my dad said with a wide smile, "you've been working here since ten, and I highly value your contribution."
"I'm not gonna be working here forever, you know," I said.
"I suppose your 'C' in calculus last week was a sign you care about your future," my mom threw in.
"The semester's almost over," I yelled back at her. "You know..."
"Yeah you do the bare minimum," my dad yelled. "The bare minimum doesn't suffice in the real world. You need to do extra. I was..."
"Working fifteen hours a day when I started my dinner," I finished for him. "Yes I've heard that line 300 times."
"301," my Dad said ironically, "My point is, you don't seem to have much drive. Do you even know what you want to study?"
"I haven't figured that out yet, but I will..."
"Life is short Harry," my dad said, with an unusual amount of conviction. "It can sneak up on you before its too late. So 'now' should be..."
"What's this 'life is short' speech," I interrupted, "have to do with me not going to Metropolis?!"
"This has to do with how I see you," my dad said ,"and I believe you should wait before going to Metropolis.I don't think you are responsible enough."
I held back a sigh. I almost erupted then and there, but I decided to use an ace in the hole.
"Did you know the program gives you college credit," I asked my dad with a sly tone of voice, "it can help meet some Gen-Ed requirements."
"Let me see," he asked, and I handed him the brochure. He poured over it with the interest a prospector would give a goldmine. He handed it to my mom, and looked at me.
"Okay, Harry," he said, "I'll make you a deal. You can go, but in exchange, you'll have to spend month and a half working overtime. If you're not going to work this summer, you'll make up this spring. Deal?" He outstretched his hand.
I held back another sigh and just shook his hand. My parents will be off my back this summer, that's my prize.
Part 3: Parental Agreement, Memoirs of the Red Turn (2006), Harold MacDevon