Oskar's Fish Heads

"Oskar's 'as th' best shiat," Jar said, wiping the dust from the top of the tin can. "Gimme tha' fork behin' ye," he bellowed to the woman behind the counter. She was a stone faced woman, not much older than Jar. They were probably 68. Both of them. "M' wife," Jar said, explaining to me, "She's don' hear well... def I thingk." I hated Jar. I hated his toothless grin, and the way he ate his Oskar fish heads. He was my father, though, and I had just met him. I had to be nice. That's right old man, eat up. How do you explain to your dead beat dad the fish heads he eats every day come from the ship yard of his exwife... my mother. I'm Oskar. My mother named her fish head company after me. Look at him stuffing his fat face with the fish heads his son chopped up. By the look of it, I'd probably held those same fish heads in my greasy little hands fifteen years before. The can looked that old. Everything about "dad's" new life looked old.This was the great escape he came to. It made me happy to know he liked Oskars. Not because we were somehow connected. Nothing that sentimental. No, it merely validated my satisfaction for pissing all over those damn fish heads. Every day. Every fish head. A little Oskar special sauce. Take that old man. Take that as a Christmas present, you sick son of a bitch. From Oskar.