Cold Harbor

Rick Broadhurst:
Since when do you give a damn to someone other then yourself?

Roger Broadhurst:
At least I can feel sorry for my dead father.

Rick Broadhurst:
You're drunk.

Roger Broadhurst:
I am drinking to the memory of father.

Rick Broadhurst:
Then your memory is better then mine.

Roger Broadhurst:
What's that supposed to mean?

[pause]

Roger Broadhurst:
Dad was a good man who never had the kind of life he was looking for.

Rick Broadhurst:
Dad was a drunk! When sober, he was a selfish, overgrown child who never had the stability to take care of himself or his own children.

Roger Broadhurst:
You're just saying that because you never liked him. You always hated him.

Rick Broadhurst:
He hated me, Roger! He hated me for quitting football, and not doing what he ordered. At best, he resented me for being a laid back free thinker, not an obedient lap dog like you! You always took his abuse and crap without question. All right, you want to talk about a memory? Let's talk about a memory! Let's talk about the night that Dad left! The night that he walked out on our troubled and weak mother and leaving her all alone to raise four teen and pre-teen sons all by herself! You remember that night?

Roger Broadhurst:
No, I don't. They don't need to hear this.

Rick Broadhurst:
Yes, they do! Bobby, get in here! Tom, sit down.

Rick Broadhurst:
Let's talk about when Dad left us. It was one night, over 20 years ago. Dad had been out on one of his many binges with his lawyer buddies or fishing buddies or bowling buddies or whatever. He came home stinking drunk. I mean sh*t-faced. It was about one in the morning. Both of you were asleep, but me and Roger were woken up by the sounds of his drinking buddies dropping him off at our house. Our mother would always tell us, "Dad's home. Go lock yourselves in your room and don't come out no matter what you hear". But me and Roger sneaked out of our room anyway to see what was going on. The old man was in a particular foul mood for no reason. He always was whenever he got drunk. So, while she went to the kitchen to boil some hot water to make coffee or tea for him to mellow him out, he began fondling her... wanting to fool around. She soon had enough, so she told him to sleep on the couch.

Roger Broadhurst:
[growing concered and agitated] Stop it.

Rick Broadhurst:
[ignoring Roger] Now this really got the old man in a fury. I mean the great lord and master... the king, the tyrant of the house being told by his wife to sleep on the couch in his own castle.

Roger Broadhurst:
That's enough!

Rick Broadhurst:
No! I haven't gotten to the best part! Now, any normal alcoholic would have shouted a few obscenities and then sleep it off on the living room couch, but not Dad! He hit her! Then he decided to go down to the basement and get an axe! He comes up the basement stairs with the axe in his hands and cornered our weak and frightened mother in the kitchen with the axe raised, screaming curses and other misogynist slurs at her. And only God knows what would have happened next had it not been for Roger here... 16-year-old Roger Junior who charged into the kitchen, knocked drunk Dad on his ass, grabbed the axe out of his hands, and threw it and him out the back door into our yard. That was the night that Dad left! He came back into the house through the front door a few minutes later, went to the bedroom, packed a suitcase, got into his car, drove away and that was that. He never came back for the rest of his stuff and that was the last time we ever saw him until his funeral. Now, I don't know why you deny that memory Roger, but it was the best goddamn moment you ever had of standing up to that old drunk!

Roger Broadhurst:
[sorrowly] You didn't have to do that.

Rick Broadhurst:
Yeah, Roger. I did. I had to tell them.

Roger Broadhurst:
Why?

Rick Broadhurst:
Because I hate revisionist history, and I despise self-deception!