Tipping the Balance by Christopher Koehler Page A

his tendency to sweat like a racehorse, he came home from work, showered, and then scrounged for dinner while he decided how to avoid his family for the rest of the evening.
     
    Friday evening. At home. How pathetic was that? A few short months before, Friday meant parties. Now it meant boxers, beer, and television. It was yet another sign college was over, and being an adult sucked.
     
    “Can you not put some clothing on, Bradley?” Randall said, making a face as he entered the kitchen where Brad stood at the counter, pouring cereal into a bowl.
     
    “Boxers are clothing,” Brad said sullenly.
     
    “Street-legal clothing, Bradley. That’s not asking too much, is it?” Randall replied.
     
    Brad shrugged. “It might be.”
     
    “Hmmm, chest hair in Cap’n Crunch. How appetizing,” Philip said. “Keep eating that and you’ll get fat right quick. In fact, is that a tummy you’re building? College athletics are over, you know. You’re going to have grow up sooner or later.”
     
    “Fuck you,” Brad said, milk dripping from the corner of his mouth.
     
    “Nice manners. Were you raised in a barnyard?” Philip asked.
     
    “Yep,” Brad said. “And college athletics isn’t over. I got an e-mail from the crew’s alumni oversight committee. They want me to join, since I just rowed and since we won that big regatta.”
     
    “They just want Dad’s money. He should never have given them that boat when you graduated,” Philip said, shaking his head.
     
    “So?” Brad shrugged. “He asked what I wanted for graduation. That was what I wanted. What’d you care?”
     
    Randall watched the exchange with amusement. “Actually, I was impressed with his request, Philip. I half-expected him to ask for some booze-filled trip to Cancun. Instead it was something that will only benefit other people. Are you going to accept?”
     
    “I dunno. I might,” Brad said.
     
    “I think you should, Bradley,” Randall said, “because then you can do something about that fag coach.” Brad clenched his teeth at that, but Randall didn’t see. “Philip, I’ve got two tickets to the ball game tomorrow night that I can’t use. Do you want them? They’re great seats. A client gave them to me.”
     
    Philip shook his head. “Nope, I’ve got a date, and Angie hates baseball or any other kind of sport.”
     
    “Hmmm, shame, that. I’d hate for them to go to waste,” Randall said, considering the matter.
     
    If this sort of thing weren’t standard operating procedure, Brad would’ve been floored. He was right in front of his dad, after all. “I’ll take them, Dad.”
     
    “What’ll you do with them?” Randall demanded.
     
    “Uh… find someone to go to the game with?” Brad said.
     
    “I suppose it can’t do any harm,” Randall said. He handed Brad an envelope.
     
    Brad tucked it into the waistband of his boxers with a cheeky grin. “Thanks, Randall. I’ll try not to wear my Sundstrom Homes T-shirt and scratch my butt in public or anything.”
     
    “You’re an ass, Bradley,” Randall said. “Thank God your mother can’t see how you’ve turned out.”
     
    Maybe if Mom was still here, I wouldn’t have turned out like this , Brad thought. Baiting his dad might be petty, but most days, it was all he had.
     
    “I’m going to shower. Try to be dressed by the time I get out,” Randall demanded as he headed to the stairs and his own suite on the house’s second floor.
     
    “Thanks for the tickets!” Brad called. He belched thunderously. “I’ll try not to embarrass you anymore than I already do!”
     
    Philip shook his head. “That was childish.”
     
    “So? That’s how he treats me, that’s how I act,” Brad said. He hunched his shoulders as if that would ward off his brother’s accusation.
     
    “Maybe he treats you that way you because that’s how you act,” Philip pointed out.
     
    “Whatever. Shouldn’t you be upstairs spit-shining his shoes or something?” Brad