My dad hobbles in from the garage. Clutching his right leg, blood all over his clothes dripping into the kitchen. I didn’t scream.
“Could you lower the volume? That’s why I wanted you to spot me.”
(Justification #1 = I wasn’t just running around the house dancing to music. I was inside doing the dishes and cleaning! It’s just that there is no one else home!)
“What did you do?!”
“I fell off the roof – he (our neighbor) warned me not to do it alone.”
We patched him up, band aids, gauze, tape… he’s bleeding less now. He may have been hurt but I think it was mostly his ego. Then… he got right back on the roof. Just so you know, this isn’t just because he likes to hang out on the roof – we lost some shingles and he was replacing them.

I didn’t even hear him fall!

With a lame leg, I don’t even know how he got through the garage. It’s a fuck’n mess and there is a mattress blocking the door. He started comparing himself to superheroes.
“I’m not Superman, I can’t bounce back like I used to!”
“Yah, you could have flown down.”
“Or that Demon boy jumping on and off,” (we just watched Hellboy so I’m pretty sure that’s who he meant.
“Or Spiderman – just crawl up and down.”

My dad’s a character. He’s always reminded me of Bruce Willis, John Travolta, and Tim Allen stuck in the body of one man. One super man!