Clayman: A DecaDynasty (1/20)

[Trip]

Warning: While this story obviously will follow the content guidelines for the forum, it's largely a slice-of-life/drama that will deal with themes of depression, bereavement, and general unpleasant emotions. If this is potentially unwanted or triggering, thankfully this is a big forum with a lot of stories to choose from.

[Trip]

Chapters

Founders

• 0.1: Two Minutes to Midnight (December 31st, 2023)
• 0.2: Hearts (January 9th, 2024)
• 0.3: Too Late Now (January 11th, 2024)
• 0.4: February 27th, 2024

Generation One

• Coming eventually!

[Trip]

[Reserved]

[Trip]

0.1: Two Minutes to Midnight

December 31st, 2023


"So, you ready to leave this joint and go back to your place for an encore?"

Sinbad leered at his fling, as she brushed some unknown grossness from her fringed jacket. He wasn't crazy about the old broad. She smelled like patchouli and talked about her pet macaw for half the date. Dilly was also as wild as she could be with him in a cramped, filthy bathroom stall. Not to mention her excellent figure. Plus, she lived in a big mansion up on one of the town's highest hills, and it just got central heating installed. Sinbad still had a wood stove.

"Sorry, but I promised my mum I wouldn't leave her alone for midnight" said Dilly.

"What? I put up with you talking about bird poop for a night and you can't even take me home. I should have known you were a disgusting hag."

"Well, we can talk later!"

She bolted before Sinbad could object further. Dilly was supposed to be his ticket to a warm bed for the winter night. Not like he didn't have that at home, but home also had housemate Goodwin. If that wasn't bad enough, he let his girlfriend and their screeching infant son stay over that weekend. Sinbad didn't sleep at all on Friday and Saturday because of it. He would do so much worse just to not sleep on a bench outside that night, or worse, return home.

So because of that, Sinbad let Dilly drag him to a bar on New Year's. It would have been his last choice, but he played along. There would be drinks he hated! Billiards he didn't know how to play! Karaoke, to showcase his awful nasal voice.

And now, he was stuck alone in a musty old bar, and the time to fish for dates was running out.

"Yeah right like we'll talk after this," he muttered.

Now, Sinbad was not opposed to the idea of ruining a marriage. It was a sham. And besides, the best flings were from prowling Terrebonne's nearby military base. There were lonely army wives and soldiers who married fast and made a horrible mistake. Granted, he would always hate himself afterwards. Their fatigues and schedules reminded him too much of his military mum.

At The Red Rendezvous, plenty of fingers glimmered with wedding rings. But, it was more of a gamble there as to who was a willing cheater. And Sinbad didn't have time for that.

He had a slightly better vantage point at the bar. It offered little of anything he liked. Every lager and ale and bottle of schnapps reminded him of mum too. How dare Sinbad give nasty old Emma any thought, when it wasn't to celebrate over her death. The ninth anniversary of it approached fast, for March 2024.

The bartender gave him a bottle of water.

A new vantage point didn't give Sinbad much at all. Everyone gathered around for billiards wasn't an easy option. There were rings or rumors of relationships with his neighbors for all of them. The guy in the green shirt at the bar was too enamored with the bartender. Whatever. They were both kind of plain. The girl in high boots came in with another guy.

There were some loveseats near the exit. A couple made out on them, and unfortunately, Sinbad knew them well. Dear friend Amy Bull, and military bachelor Marc Brandt. They both lived close to Sinbad, but he'd ruin everything for Amy coming between them. No one in town tolerated Sinbad like she did. If she was the one getting cozy with him instead of Dilly, surely he would have a place to sleep.

It wasn't like Amy ran away when he told her about his "warehouse" job. Not many people figured it out, but those who did left and left fast

His options were running thin. And then he realized that he missed a corner.

The old man seated at that table was alone with his oatmeal stout. How terrible. Emma loved those the most.

Unfortunately, he was Sinbad's best bet. They lived on the same street, and everyone had a reputation and rumors about them. Harwood Clay was no exception. Some was nice. He was kind and quiet and the driving force behind Twinbrook's municipal clean energy quota in 2017. For better or for worse, everyone knew that he was single. Maybe a permanent bachelor, or maybe a divorcé or widower with a lot to hide. The rest was ill-intentioned. He had a criminal record and past psychiatric holds. Harwood was mixed-race and a dirty bisexual. The bad stuff all came from Goodwin. Most of it was the same stuff that made him wary around Sinbad too.

But single and bi was all Sinbad needed. He could ignore Harwood's scrawny, weathered frame and ridiculous lopsided haircut for a night.

"Look, old man, I'll be nice if you decide I'm not too scary to take home." Sinbad took the seat across from him. "I just need a quiet place to sleep tonight."

Harwood braced himself in his seat. His big green eyes widened, and he didn't make any contact with Sinbad.

"I'm sorry, but I won't," he said. His voice was deep and each phenome came out sharp, like he rehearsed it all day.

"What? You look like that and you think you get to have standards? Hell, all you have to do is put me on the couch.”

“You seem like a nice kid. You deserve better than couch-surfing, especially better than what you’re trying to give for it.”

“Yeah, like you never did anything like this,” Sinbad said, sneering.

“Point taken. But my answer remains.”

“How useful.”

Harwood gave him a stern look. “I get it. I have had plenty of bad New Year’s too. This whole year has been an awful ride.”

“Looming threats from your roommate levels of bad?” Sinbad asked. Living with a new police officer had no perks at all. It was bad enough when Goodwin was excelling in the academy.

“Well, no. I live alone. But, when you get to be my age, everything horrible stops creeping and just attacks. And things you thought you were done with years before happen again. I think you deserve the advice.”

“Great, I have to be 23 all over again.”

Harwood tapped his fingers, keeping the conversation silent for a moment.

“Were you singing an hour ago?” he asked.

“That silly old bird made me do it,” said Sinbad. She insisted on singing “Love Shack”, as if it was a crucial prerequisite for going home with her. But all Sinbad accomplished was embarrassing himself. “I’m not a singer. I get it.”

“No, I thought you sounded fine,” Harwood said.

“Your lies don’t make me feel better.”

He crossed his arms and grinned. “How about a duet anyways?”

“Dude, that stout’s going to your head,” Sinbad said. “I say no.”

“But we could have a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, you’re now the last person I like.”

---

As it turned out, without a partner, Harwood wouldn’t sing either. He fidgeted around at his corner table, and walked up to the bar only to order nothing. At least Sinbad harangued some billiards players before getting kicked out.

The two left around the same time, which let Sinbad watch the old man slowly walk down the cold sidewalk. Sinbad, meanwhile checked his watch.

Two minutes to midnight.

“Hey, uh, I’ll give you a second chance!” Sinbad called out, into the somber winter sky. “It’s really cold out here tonight.”

No response. Harwood dropped his friendly act, and disappeared into the dark.

Right across from The Red Rendezvous was a small waterfront park. During the summer, it was a favorite spot for dates. The view over the lake that it gave made Twinbrook look almost charming. The disgusting abandoned factories on the other side lost their gross details when a mile away. During the winter, it was abandoned, but that might have made it better. Sinbad didn’t trust those college kids and hot dog vendors anyways.

He took the least-snowy bench there, and looked forwards towards the cold town.

“Yup, here again,” Sinbad said. “Can’t even sleep in my own house.” He could see it across the water, sitting on the lake with all the lights on. The wood stove probably burned hot. And those two inconsiderate pigs and their spawn didn’t deserve it.

He brought his legs up onto the bench, and curled up.

Sinbad drifted to sleep fast. Dilly must have tired him out after all. But it was useless to dream of her toasty mansion and crazy mother bothering them. In a summary of his flings, she’d barely get a sentence.

2024 entered with fireworks. Tons of them shot up from his street. Sinbad didn’t know who to blame, but they were so lucky to be unknown. He’d smash their windows otherwise. Slash their car tires. Dig up their garden.

“Good night 2023,” he muttered. “Stay miserable.”

[Trip]

Phew! This turned from a wild "what if?" New Year's idea to perhaps something great...key word is "perhaps" though.

So welcome to Clayman.

I really am playing a HoF-compliant decadynasty behind-the-scenes! This story will just end up reading like a very loose legacy with some inexplicable house-switching. Keep this in mind before running your mouth about me breaking rules.

Don't fret if you're looking for raw dynasty summary too! I'll have a thread for that up sooner or later, but I need to keep spoilers in mind too.

Also, thread's unlocked now.

[FrancescaFiori]

Well, hello there! Happy New Year, indeed!

I just love how devoted you are to Twinbrook and its townies. I'm very excited to see you giving them a new adventure. A couple of familiar faces already. Can't wait to see who else shows up! I look forward to reading more!

[Trip]

Well, hello there! Happy New Year, indeed!

I just love how devoted you are to Twinbrook and its townies. I'm very excited to see you giving them a new adventure. A couple of familiar faces already. Can't wait to see who else shows up! I look forward to reading more!

I'm a very stubborn person who's averse to changing towns and characters. Cicadas is nice but I need a distraction and an answer to some of my questions.

Thanks boo. <3

[Trip]

0.2: Hearts

January 9th, 2024


Twinbrook was a seasonal anomaly in the state of Terrebonne. The north of the state was warm and wet year-round, but coastal and southern Twinbrook got snow each winter. December to March and sometimes beyond, thick snow coated the town. 

Many townsfolk liked it. They got snow days that the rest of the state didn’t. Children loved to play in the snow. You could even skate on the outer edges of the big lake.

Harwood Clay was not one of them. For one, he could remember a time when Twinbrook was as hot and miserable as the rest of Terrebonne. He never experienced a snowstorm until his first winter in Renaissance City. It soon lost its charm. He had to shovel the sidewalk outside of his flat. The Renaissance City School of Design would often refuse to cancel classes. And even if they did, Harwood always found himself saddled with studio work. The kiln wouldn't load itself, after all. Twinbrook was supposed to be a familiar relief from that.

And second, everything bad happened in the winter. Friends died. Lovers died. And Harwood was a winter birth, albeit in late February. Being not-born looked attractive more and more often.

1977 was when winters started going from bad to so, so much more worse. That meant nearly 50 years of hating the season. And 50 years of trying to cope with it.

Harwood often plunged himself into his artwork, waking up at odd hours for it. It was the closest thing he had to a savior from the wintertime blues, but as the years wore on, he felt it less and less. His retirement wasn't about age at all, and more about burn-out. There were so many people in the field he idolized over the years, who continued well into their 80's. He wasn't that old yet.

However, his latest piece was turning into a disaster before even half of it emerged from the wood block. He was an expert woodcarver, having honed it first as a distracting hobby, but it wasn't Harwood's native medium either. His last name won that battle, it seemed.

He sat down to re-draft his design for it, ready to give up on making it so round. Round was easier to do in clay. Easier to make while fighting with the force of a pottery wheel.

 That piece was going to be the next winter tragedy. He could get two in a season! His best friend and ex-brother-in-law, Juan, dying over Christmas made that winter start out so great. What was better than being out of living friends?

That ruined Christmas forevermore. For a non-believer like Harwood, it used to be a great Christian holiday. And what bad thing happened on January 9th? In 1977, Harwood was young and stuck in a smoky room. His wife was on fire...

...he shut that thought down. During most of January 9th that year, sure, parts of him were burnt to the bone. People, in the plural sense, perished. But he was unconscious and full of meds for most of it, which was great.

He could weep over wasting time over a bad sculpture. Only that.

He needed a cup of coffee.

Strong, black coffee did nothing to help Harwood's sleep patterns, but he loved the drink so much. Seven minutes in his percolator, and he had a delicious cup ready. His tea supplies were replenished too, should he run out.

Harwood's dining table seated four, in theory. But as usual, he and his coffee were the only ones there that night.

He closed his eyes, and tried to forget that he was alone. But the house was so quiet. His wood stove was cold and dark, as it usually was. But when he swallowed his distrust of fire and lit it, its soothing crackling sounds were a great companion. That night, though, he couldn't stand to light it. There wasn't even a wind outside, rustling the cattails or pounding against his windows. No rowdy neighbors and very few passing cars.

And, of course, his noisy percolator was done brewing.

Harwood finished off the pot. It perked him up and stopped him from shivering in his house so much. It also killed any plans to sleep, as usual. He didn't even want to look at his own artwork. And nighttime television was a crapshoot. What was left to do, other than chores. Laundry and cleaning the shower? How disgusting.

Good thing Harwood owned a bookcase taller than him. It almost reached the ceiling. Granted, half of it was works of his that he prized too much to sell. Ceramic giraffes, amazing plates, and tiles too nice to walk over.

He stored books there too, and lots of them. There were collections of Lebanese poetry, to honor half his background. He loved a good art history piece, or a political manifesto. Hayek to challenge his leftist stances, and Dworkin to challenge his opinion that men were flawed but pretty cool.

Hearts in Atlantis was on a higher shelf. Harwood long since had fallen behind on Stephen King's works, and Hearts stood dusty and unread since 1999.

It was just one big reach for a stiff, short old man...

Crash. Fwap. A bunch of other books fell instead. A cherry-wood box hit Harwood on the forehead. He worried more for the box, as it was one of his favorite wood-works.

He curled up on the floor with his felled books, and held the place of impact. No bleeding, but he'd have a bruise by dawn. It hurt so much.

He murmured a deadpan "ouch". Hearts in Atlantis did not fall. He kept that book near some more personal items, though, like that box. What also fell was a purple folder full of old drafts and sketches. A photo album of the Clay family, up to the 1960's. His old diary. Some paperback fiction he felt shame about.

"If only you broke," he said to himself, picking up the journal. "It would be great to forget." It was active for forty years, from 1977 to 2017, and should have ended much earlier. But it kept a lot of things about Harwood on record. For example, there was a good reason he was a sculptor and not a writer.

He sighed. Harwood remembered starting that journal, later in January 1977. He was cooped up in the hospital, with his torso and face bandaged and burned and stinging. He was miserable and mourning, and refused all of his mum's offers to calm down and play a round of tarneeb. So his doctor ordered a therapist, who recommended the journal. His hands were intact and his pen-grip was still perfect, after all.

So that's how it started, and the first few years were a tear-stained mess of rants and yearning for his wife back.

But something more than twenty years after that bugged him more that night. It was a welcome distraction.

He hadn't stopped thinking about Sinbad since New Year's, and Harwood knew why. However, he couldn't bring himself to prove it any further, not without fumbling on his bookshelf. Fortunately or unfortunately, though, he pulled the right journal out.

July 5th, 1997: Delmarva Beach Buddies! Thanks to another kind tourist for the picture. Troy not pictured, of course.

July 8th, 1997: Beach camping is fun. And yes, I picked up a camera this time. Emma wishes I didn't.

It was healthiest to leave his late-in-life girlfriend in the past, and he was often good at that. Otherwise, Harwood wouldn't survive the self-flagellation of a second lover dying young in the winter. Granted, they had long-since separated by the time of Emma Takasugi's passing. He didn't see her at all between the summer of 2000 and the winter of 2015. He felt little sorrow and a whole lot of aching guilt, enough to keep him from her funeral.

But, how sad it was to often forget her beauty. Thank goodness he had photos, because she was a stunner in the 90's. Slender and toned and shorter than him, with messy auburn hair and a soft face. It contrasted well with her pouty lips and stern grey eyes.

Those were the best parts about that Sinbad kid too, weren't they? He was slender and toned and not that tall, with coarse auburn hair spiked up into a mohawk. His face wasn't that soft, and to match it, he pouted and frowned hard and stared even harder. If you replaced his bright green irises with grey ones, he'd almost look like Emma.

And if you kept the green, he would match green-eyed Harwood.

It's impossible, Harwood told himself, when Sinbad first moved to that street. The last names didn't match. Rotter and Takasugi were a hemisphere apart. He had a wild side to how he dressed and drove, which couldn't have stemmed from an Army mother.

But from wild, partying, stout-drinking Emma? Who just happened to be enlisted? Of course he could.

June 19th, 1999: It's her first time renting a real house. How cute!

May 28th, 2000: She's only tolerable when she sleeps now. And she's clingy enough to steal my shirts? How is it only 16 weeks? We find out if it's a girl or a boy later today.

That little tidbit came back to him: they were expecting a boy. Emma got monitored and prodded all the time, even early on. It was a difficult pregnancy, and so unusual to see in a healthy woman in her mid-20's. Finding the baby's sex early was the least they could do as a consolation prize.

He bailed at 25 weeks and left ailing Emma to fend for herself. In a sick way, he doubted that she would have a healthy or even living baby. He didn't read her obituary; Harwood feared that he got a mention in it. That one last time they met, mere weeks before her death, she didn't mention a son at all. All she had was venom and hate, and her beauty wrecked. It soured Harwood on doing anything to save her life. She looked sick and dying, from her sallow skin to her dead eyes. Maybe it was too late no matter what.

Was he wrong? Emma's little fetus deserved a chance. And if it was Sinbad, he was such a handsome young man! Mission accomplished.

But that meant that the handsome young man could be his son.

There were always two parents for a kid to look like.

He looked over his shoulder, to that black photo album. It filled up sometime while Harwood was in college. His graduation photos were elsewhere, with his sister, and she likely burned them and laughed.

Hard as it was for anyone to believe, Harwood was a handsome young man too. He would be a much better-looking elder, was it not for the fire that burnt half his face. And the car accident in 1980 that took out his right cheek and eye socket. And that wretched Dr. Travis, who couldn't reconstruct a face if his own good looks depended on it.

But there was a caveat to Harwood's former good looks: his nasolabial folds. The crease pinched in hard, and his mum spent years assuring him it was a harmless family trait. Hers did the same, even when she was twenty and gorgeous! It was just so hard to find in anyone else though, except for him and mum.

And Sinbad from down the street too. His face had a rough structure. It was thin and chiseled, with lean cheekbones and strong nasolabial creases. Of course, he had Emma's eye shape and no one else's, but in Harwood's green instead of her grey. His nose was thin and sharp, like Emma's, but not as thin and not as sharp at the end. It might have took some hints from Harwood's wider and softer nose. His lips curled downwards like Emma's, but he had a prominent cupid's bow shape to his upper lip, like Harwood did.

He turned to one of the last pages. Harwood off to college, 1967, written in his mum's calligraphic cursive.

Even in crummy black-and-white, it hit him. He hated feeling so right.

It even made him cry, but just two tears to make his thick eyeliner run.

"I really have been horrible," he whimpered.

[Trip]

0.3: Too Late Now

January 11th, 2024


Dennis called him in for a night shift.

With that schedule, Sinbad couldn’t believe Mr. Racket was a family man back at home. There were so many nights that Dennis called to say I’m feeling like doing this at 3 in the morning. But Sinbad had the good sense to say yes to him. It was why he was the warehouse’s second foreman, only behind Dennis. That’s what his W2 form had to say, after all.

But until eight that night, Sinbad had the freedom to relax in a cozy sweater and turn on the telly. The last embers in his wood stove burned, but it would still be cold until he reloaded it. He would pick up some used wood pallets from the warehouse after work.

“I thought you were going to pick up firewood today!”

Oh yeah, Goodwin’s shift ended around four. And the Twinbrook City Police refused to issue uniforms with sleeves to its officers. Not that Sinbad cared about keeping the police or his delicate blond roommate warm.

“Yeah, tonight,” Sinbad said, over another X-Files rerun. “Throw on a sweater and shut up first.”

“No! We’ve been down on firewood for a week and you’ve just been sitting down at the telly.”

“I’ve been to the gym too.”

“So what? You do nothing for this house.”

Oh, Goodwin went there.

Sinbad burst from his seat, storming over to Goodwin. His already stern green eyes intensified. His thick auburn eyebrows lowered and furrowed.

“You know what I do? Pay the bills!” He snapped. “I own this place and you’d be listening to your crazy in-laws and screaming kid all day without me.”

“Have you ever heard of literally anywhere else?” said Goodwin. “Or kicking you out.”

Ugh. That again too. Those threats started when Sinbad was stupid one afternoon, and left his pay stub on the table. A salary from the payroll at Haverhill Packaging and Receiving, of a modest amount but signed by Dennis Racket. He had yet another ongoing investigation on his line of work, and what came in through the bay doors at the warehouse.

Sinbad made sure to hide those boxes well.

And hide himself.

Yet somehow, he shacked up with the most zealous young officer in the state.

“You’re such a tool,” Sinbad muttered.

“And how did you get the money to buy this house at 18?” Goodwin asked, waggling a finger in his face.

Sinbad rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you it was my dead mother’s cash before you shut your mouth?”

Of course, Emma was dirt-poor in her waning days. Dishonorable discharge took away her job. Generous Grandpa Takasugi died when Sinbad was 11. Grandma huffed and ignored the two up to that day. He would have tried reaching out to his father, if Emma would say anything about who he was. And her use of public assistance money might have helped boost Terrebonne’s ruinous welfare cuts in 2013.

The fostering Rotter family let him go when he aged out of the program. He got a small graduation check, and of course, a last name.

But most of that was hard to research, even for Goodwin.

“I think you need a few more,” said Goodwin. “Did you buy bread today?”

“We have half a loaf. You’ll be fine.”

Goodwin settled down at the breakfast nook, with his favorite comfort food of jam and toast. It beat his morning peanut butter protein shake, or all that salmon and veggies for dinner. And he had an immense dislike for Sinbad’s chili con carne. Maybe it was how he filled it with arbols, for his palate. But it just meant more pre-work dinner for Sinbad.

He watched Goodwin’s stupid, smug face as he ate his toast. His new baby was a blessing for keeping him away from Sinbad’s work and most of his life. He needed a breakthrough for getting Goodwin out of his life forever, though.

At least he left that night, to let Sinbad shower in peace.

His stubble wasn’t too long. It grew so fast, though, and he’d be bound to need a shave the next day. His grandpa and uncle Mike grew them slow and patchy, which could probably be based on being Japanese. For curiosity’s sake, Sinbad wondered what his dad contributed. Armenian? Levantine? Italian? But every time he asked Emma, he got a grunt and a shut the hell up, kid.

And after a while, Sinbad concluded that his dad had to be a real monster for leaving him with Emma. The hair didn’t make up for it.

Cleanliness came into order fast. Deodorant applied, teeth brushed, fingernails short and clean. Sinbad could spend up to fifteen minutes mining dirt from under them.

It was a good thing that the knock on the door came after Sinbad was clean.

“I swear, I’m gonna kill that mailman,” Sinbad said, grumbling. He tightened his towel’s wrap and headed to the front door.

It was made of glass, so Sinbad would always know who was bothering him. Most of the man’s most distinguishing features were obvious, even as the window was frosted over in the cold. His white hair that covered half his face. That rich, olive skin. His strange insistence on the color purple for his shirts. He pressed himself against the window and peered in. His breath fogged up the glass even more.

He didn’t hate old man Harwood, but couldn’t the guy be less of a bother?

“You better have something important,” he muttered to himself.

“I’m sorry if this is a bad time,” said Harwood. He wrung his hands as he spoke to Sinbad, and with a guilty look, averted his eyes from him. “There’s just something I want to talk about with you.”

“Yeah, right before work?” Sinbad asked, sneering. “I really don’t care about you.”

“I get that you don’t, but it’s something that’s been bothering me. Can you at least listen?”

Sinbad scowled.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Do you want to cover up first?” Harwood asked him.

“Too late now.” Sinbad growled a little under his breath. This was going to be tedious. Dennis wouldn’t believe him at all if he said he was accosted by a neighbor. Wasn’t Sinbad supposed to not care about them?

“Anyways, can we start with a little about yourself?” Harwood said. “You have…” He stalled, as he almost never did when speaking. “...well, you’ve always fascinated me. You’re the only neighbor I haven’t met.”

“Great, you think I’m hot now.” Sinbad let out an annoyed huff. “That offer only stood for New Year’s. I’m not touching your wrinkled old-”

“That’s not it,” said Harwood. “I’m just curious about you.”

“Fine. Grew up in Twinbrook, Rotter’s not my birth name. I don’t like you much.”

“What was your mother like?”

Sinbad turned around, and was surprised with how he found any words at all. “How about you stay in your lane, old man? This isn’t the time for that.”

“Well, I grew up in Twinbrook too. Maybe I knew her,” he said.

“Why?”

“Oh, I’ve lived everywhere, but somehow, I know a little bit about everyone in this town,” said Harwood. He gave Sinbad a weak smile. “I can break the ice. I had my issues with my mum too, but her name was Mariam and she came from east of Beit ed-Dine.”

“Yeah, that’s great, man,” said Sinbad. “Tell me all about her, because I don’t need to say anything.”

“Are you Japanese?”

“So what if I am?”

“Just curious.”

“Whatever. It’s kind of obvious,” said Sinbad. “Can you go now?”

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Harwood asked.

“Yes, to work! I get that you’re a bored retiree, but guess what? Most of us aren’t.”

“Please, I just need a few minutes!” Harwood begged at Sinbad, with his hands clasped in repentance. “There really is something important to tell you.”

“Then stop hounding me with questions about my mum and who-screwed-who and get to the point,” said Sinbad.

“Okay, this is gonna sound a little weird,” said Harwood, pulling back with a worried look. “So I want you to promise that you won’t hurt me. I’m fragile.”

“Stop wasting time and I won’t,” he said.

Harwood looked ready to sob into his fingerless gloves. “You’re really going to hate me for this,” he said. “It’s hard to say it.”

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous.” Sinbad started to walk away. “You’re clearly just a waste of my time. What, did Marc next door file a restraining order? You need a hobby.”

“Sinbad, please-”

“I don’t want to see you again at this point!”

“Fine, if you’re not going to play nice, I won’t either. I’m your dad!”

Sinbad shot him a cross look.

“What a load of baloney,” he said, in a low voice.

“Isn’t it a little obvious, though?” Harwood said. He pointed at his one exposed green eye. The bright hue did match Sinbad’s, like no one else’s did.

“You’re trolling me, aren’t you?”

“I’m not.”

“I bet you didn’t know my mother at all.”

Harwood finally snapped in full. “Her name was Emma Takasugi! She was raised in Delmarva and loved oatmeal stouts on the beach and she owned all of Stevie Nicks’ albums on vinyl. And yes, I dated her until 2000.”

“She was a monster! Where were you this whole time then?” Sinbad raged at the old man, stuck between a lie or near-criminal negligence. “Guess what could have gone better if you were there?”

“I want to make up for that!” Harwood said, flinching back. “Can’t you give me a chance?”

“No! I’d be content not seeing your gross old face again.”

Harwood pouted. “I know I’ve been a bad person. I really have been. But I can do anything. I promise I will.”

Sinbad crossed his arms.

“You’re so full of crap.”

Harwood opened the sliding door and skittered outside. Watching the old man leave in shame was the brightest moment of Sinbad’s day.

Of course, he knew a lot about Emma. She often would throw Bella Donna on her rickety old record player and crack open an oatmeal stout. And the more Sinbad thought about it, the more Harwood looked like what he’d imagine his father to look like. The nasolabial folds of his cheeks pinched in hard, much like Sinbad’s. And Emma had grey eyes, not green. That was an obvious outsider’s mark.

It was gross enough to make Sinbad want to shower again.

But father or not, he found Harwood’s remorse so laughable.

[Malley]

Glad to see you're back with another story, Trip! I shall be reading

[chetanhaobijam]

Great decadynasty story, @Trip. Good luck. Bookmarked and looking forward for next update.

[FrancescaFiori]

Well, you've already answered one burning question for me, anyway. The "Harwood, man, what is with that hair?" question. The explanation is much more tragic than anything I'd imagined, but I'm very glad to know.

As expected, your story and the pictures that go with it are captivating. I'm really, really enjoying it. Thank you so much for sharing it here. Can't wait for more!

[CeresIn]

A great and really interesting start!