Chapter 35 – Alan's Mockery
Sean sat on the couch in front of the TV, cradling a cup of cinnamon-flavored coffee Alan had just poured him.
He took a small sip; his brows twitched almost imperceptibly—both the lukewarm temperature and the stale taste told him exactly what he was drinking.
It was the pot Alan had brewed last night, a lone "survivor" that had sat in the coffee maker the whole night through.
On the screen, garishly colorful cartoon characters acted out slapstick Sean couldn't identify, the blaring soundtrack jarring in the empty living room.
Sean glanced at the Cartoon Network show that had popped up the moment the TV was switched on and knew instantly:
Jake must have been the last one commanding the couch and remote deep into the night.
Alan would never waste an evening on cartoons; had the set landed on Cinemax after hours, Sean would have known it was Alan's doing.
Right now Sean was savoring this brief, stale-coffee-flavored "peace," while Alan bustled in the open kitchen behind him.
Alan held a crumpled grocery bag, rustling as he stuffed leftover game-day snacks, spare napkins, and a barely touched Gatorade into an already-overflowing cabinet.
At that moment, a shuffling, unsteady tread echoed from upstairs, accompanied by a groan of misery.
Charlie Harper—who had stayed out all night and slept away nearly the entire day—finally appeared at the top of the stairs.
One hand kneaded his throbbing temples; the other gripped the banister as he swayed like he was on a boat.
His trademark brown hair stuck up like he'd been electrocuted; his robe hung half-open, revealing silk pajamas beneath.
Though his steps were feeble and his gaze still foggy with hangover, he was at least coherent enough not to tumble head-first down the spiral staircase.
Charlie staggered across the living room, passing near the sliding glass door that led to the deck.
Suddenly he caught a whiff of something awful; his face went from pale to a sickly green, and an ominous gurgling rose in his throat.
He slapped a hand over his mouth, terror and raw nausea replacing his formerly vacant stare, and lurched at full speed toward the stainless-steel kitchen sink.
Under Sean's raised eyebrows and Alan's "here we go again" look, Charlie bent double and unleashed a thunderous bout of vomiting into the basin.
Alan's unruffled expression said this hangover ritual had played out many times before.
"Blegh—ugh…"
The retching echoed through the beach house, mingling with the rush of running water.
After a long while the heaving subsided. Charlie leaned weakly on the sink, gasping, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and exhaled a long, relieved "Ahh…" as if a weight had lifted, muttering,
"Finally… feel human again…"
His bleary gaze swept the room; only then, like a computer rebooting, did he register Sean on the couch and the all-too-familiar figure by the cabinets.
He shook his heavy head, trying to focus, his voice hoarse and bewildered:
"Uh… wait…"
He pointed at the still-bright sky outside framing the sunset: "Jake's game… it's over?"
By the cabinets, Alan froze mid-motion.
He still held the half-empty chip bag, turning slowly, the corner of his mouth curling into a scathing arc, brows sky-high, eyes broadcasting 'Are you serious right now?'
Taking in Charlie's hungover, bedhead disaster and suspiciously stained robe, Alan fired back without mercy, words rattling like a machine gun:
"Wow! Charlie, your timing is truly… 'impressive'!"
He flung his arms wide for effect, the chip bag crinkling.
"The game? That was almost eight hours ago! If your royal highness could only grant yourself another few hours of beauty sleep…"
He dragged the last syllable, stepping closer until he was nearly in Charlie's face:
"you might've come downstairs just in time to see Jake in a cap and gown, waving a high school diploma: 'See ya later, Uncle Charlie!'"
Alan's sharp sarcasm was, to Charlie, like white noise—he was used to it, and it even helped wake him up a bit.
Charlie merely shrugged lazily and drawled,
"Feisty this morning, little bro. But are you sure Jake's report card can actually get him into any college?"
Charlie worked the espresso machine like a seasoned barista, pouring himself a huge cup of the dark, day-old brew that smelled richly of cinnamon. Only now did he feel fully awake.
Fully revived, Charlie plopped onto the sofa and asked Sean beside him,
"How about we head out now for some good Scotch and a plate of nachos? My stomach's playing a full drum solo."
To Charlie's suggestion Sean had no objection; sipping yesterday's coffee he said calmly,
"Once Jake finishes his shower we can leave. But since you bailed on today's game, tonight's tab is on you."
The moment Sean spoke, Alan was already smirking inside:
Looks like I won't have to pay tonight and then beg Charlie for reimbursement!
Charlie waved a hand, words dripping generosity:
"No problem—tonight's expenses are on me!"
A jingle composer and lifelong bachelor, Charlie had royalty checks deposited to his account every month by advertising agencies.
Coupled with his live-for-today philosophy, Charlie didn't resist spending the way Alan did.
On "recreational expenses"—women and gambling—Charlie could blow eighty grand a year, almost what Alan paid Judith in alimony over the course of a year and nine months in the show's timeline.
He even hired a gardener for the two potted plants on his deck and kept his own accountant—no small expense.
But cash crunches happened; this Malibu beach house had already been mortgaged twice.
In net terms Sean was actually wealthier—he owned assets with zero debt.
Jake emerged from the bathroom, brown hair dripping, wearing a red Lakers T-shirt and matching red-and-black pajama pants.
Feeling guilty about missing the game, Charlie set down his coffee and greeted Jake with an enthusiastic high-five:
"Hey! How'd the game go?"
Jake, thinking his Uncle Charlie was the coolest, slapped palms back and grinned,
"Pretty good—the final score was twelve to two."
Jake's food-obsessed brain was so fixated on the coming feast that even the memory of a crushing defeat felt insignificant.
"Wow! Twelve goals in one game—what a shame I missed it!"
Charlie feigned regret, assuming his nephew's team had dominated.
Hearing Charlie misread the score, Sean, coffee in hand on the sofa, nearly did a spit-take.
A don't-laugh challenge? This is gold.
Starving, Jake headed for the garage to wait, calling back over his shoulder,
"Nope—we were the ones who got twelve goals scored against us, haha!"
Without another glance he bounded toward the garage, leaving Charlie dumbfounded.
Watching the kid celebrate a blowout loss, Charlie stared after him and muttered to Alan,
"Alan, is there something wrong with your son's brain? He's happy about losing by ten goals? You should get him checked out."
Charlie couldn't grasp how a defeated kid could look happier than a champion.
Either the boy had serious issues or he'd completely lost perspective on sports.
In the end, Charlie simply underestimated the power food held over Jake's priorities.
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