Great Movies Revisited: Do It For Dad, Sam
“Shit,” Samuel L. Jackson muttered as he jumped down from the treehouse ladder and walked toward the house. The front door was open, letting the heat out. Mom and Dad were going to be pissed.
But really, what did it matter anymore? Still, he closed the front door behind him. Zig-zagging through toy cars and puddles of paint that covered the foyer floor, he could see his breath. Dammit.
He made his way through the living room. As he passed by a tousled table lamp, the couch cushions strewn in corners and ripped open, he wasn’t concerned. Crunching over a blanket of shattered ornaments that surrounded him, the room looked like a Kristallnacht of Christmas decor, though the small tree he had purchased remained in tact, the lights still on. It was a trophy of what he endured and he paused to admire it before pressing on. There wasn’t much time left.
When he entered the dining room, he felt a twang of annoyance. One of the holiday candles he had placed out before had gone out. As he walked alongside the long, elegant dinner table, he drew his fingers through the layer of pillow feathers that dressed the tabletop. At the end of the table he stopped at the extinguished candle, relighting it with the other. He then took the somewhat-crushed cigarette from behind his ear and leaned over the candle, inhaling deeply. He walked over to the nearby window, its glass shattered, and exhaled through it.
From the window, he noticed the macaroni and cheese he had microwaved himself earlier was still placed at the end of the table. He approached it, blowing feathers from the top. Poking at it with his fingers, he found it to be cold now, the cheese congealed and gelatinous, resembling a yellowy brain. Disgusting. Thankfully, he didn’t need it anymore. He put the cigarette between his lips as he picked up the milk-filled wine glass—the liquid was a bit room temperature at this point, but he preferred it that way. Everything had gone according to plan.
The ding of the oven went off and he guzzled the rest of the milk, placing the glass back onto the table heavily in a poof of feathers. Using a napkin to clean the milk from his mustache, he went into the kitchen. Cigarette still dangling precariously from his mouth, he took Mom’s flower-patterned oven mitt and opened the oven door, reaching in and drawing out the rack that held the foil-covered pan. It sizzled as he pulled the foil back, revealing what looked like the contours of ribs. Tearing a piece of the tender, light-colored meat, he placed it into his mouth, chewing slowly.
“My,” he chewed, “That is a tasty burglar!” He chortled a little, pulling off another piece of the meat from the bone, placing it in his mouth.
“Tasty burglar,” he repeated, laughing gleefully.
Then, suddenly, he was choking. He started to cough violently, trying to shake the meat loose. But it was too tough—overdone. He’d never cooked like this before, only seen Dad do it. Leaning over the stove, he tried to work the piece of meat out by pounding on his chest with his closed fist, but it was stubborn.
Struggling to breathe, he stumbled sideways a little, his eye on the goblet of milk that stood calmly on the dining room table, just steps away. A small bit was left at the bottom. In his haste he tripped over the oven door, which he had left open. He was losing air as quickly as the oven was losing heat, and he began to panic. He grabbed for the oven handle but it was just out of reach. Flopping around like a fish, he finally managed to get his hand far enough under the oven door to grasp the handle. With as much strength as he could muster, he pushed the oven door upward a little, but it fell back down, bouncing flat. He refused to relax yet, refused to let this be the way they found him.
“AaaaahhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHH!” he screamed with his last breath, pushing upward against the door with what strength he had left. It was enough. The door caught on its hinge and slammed shut.
Samuel L. Jackson collapsed back on the floor. As his pupils dilated and he began to drift out of consciousness for the last time, he listened to the tick of the oven’s pilot light reigniting. He closed his eyes, knowing the meat would soon be overdone, but at the very least Mom and Dad wouldn’t be mad.
