My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie It wasn't much different each year - save for, perhaps, the type of beer he ordered, or his selection of sauces to go with his buffalo wings, or the brand of cigarettes he smoked outside while waiting for me to pay the check. Sometimes, on the drive downtown, he'd choose the radio station instead of me, or he'd hold off on using my cup holder as a makeshift ashtray until after we ate. Besides slight changes, it was always the same routine: Dinner at Langford's, before grabbing a six pack from the 5th Street Drugstore and making our way back to his condo. We were always pretty casual for Father's Day. We liked it that way. My father would have refused anything else. He was never a fancy guy, but that wasn't a bad thing; not everyone appreciates the formal shit. I sure as Hell didn't, so we fit right in at the corner booth close to the bar, ignoring the latest sportsball game while I had my typical Bleu cheese burger and my dad ordered hi...

Look above your head, and you will spot Sammy crawling across the ceiling again. She doesn't need the skills of Spiderman to do it - look, the skin on her hands naturally adheres to the plaster, but not too much, so she can move quickly. Try not to scream; this is normal in our household, and at least Sammy is never bored. It gives her poor mother a break.