Under normal circumstances, Frank wouldn't really pry into his children's money.
Of course, I said that's under normal circumstances.
And for Frank—normal circumstances are special circumstances, and special circumstances are normal circumstances.
Let's rewind the time a little bit.
Back when Shane was still bitterly cleaning up the warehouse, Frank was experiencing a small but desperate "special circumstance" in his life.
Reasonably speaking, as long as that check belonging to Ginger was in hand, if he drank a bit sparingly, he could steadily drag it out until the end of the month.
Once the disability subsidy arrived at the end of the month, he could lie down with peace of mind until the middle of the next month, waiting for the new welfare check to be safely in his pocket.
During this period, he only needed to occasionally fish two mouthfuls of leftover wine from other people's cups, and go home from time to time to swipe some less conspicuous food from the refrigerator, and he could maintain a healthy level of drunkenness every day.
Such a life, for Frank, was a kind of sustainable hedonism full of wisdom.
As long as he wasn't sober for too long, his life wasn't too bad.
However, all this started with that bag of "good stuff."
That day, the sunshine could barely be considered nice.
Frank, holding the thin paper carrying this month's hope, strode towards his sanctuary like a general returning in triumph.
The Alibi Room.
The process was fixed: first curse the US government three times as usual, then curse capitalism twice, and incidentally give these "rat people" in the bar an impromptu speech on "Social Welfare is the Blood and Sweat of the People."
"Vampires! Bureaucratic scum! Turning my hard-earned blood and sweat money (though his last proper job might have been in the last century) into these pathetic pieces of paper!"
When he got emotional, he would slap the bar counter and roar indignantly: "Every drop of wine you drink is an accusation against the system!"
Then, he would push the check to Kevin, asking him to save a part of it as tab money according to the old rules.
That day, he rarely felt a trace of responsibility. In front of Kevin, he solemnly announced:
"Kevin, my friend, my brother, this time, I intend to make a change."
Frank's tone was solemn, his finger pressing on the check, as if signing some historic treaty.
"I want to quit my impulsive spending. I want to divide the money into three parts—one for the tab, one to invest in the future..."
Speaking of this, he almost laughed himself. "Of course, the most important part is to be saved for my truly important drinking moments."
Kevin rolled his eyes. He had heard this kind of opening too many times, but he still did it.
A few drunken cheers rang out sparsely in the bar. Frank nodded with satisfaction and exchanged the first round of drink money.
According to the script, he should drink until slightly tipsy, then find a place to lie down, and continue at night.
But that day was different.
That day he had bills in his pocket, his mood was too good, and the whole world looked much softer.
The lights carried warmth, and even Sheila's (waitress) fat face looked a few degrees kinder.
Frank was immersed in a hallucination of self-improvement until he felt his bladder swell and had to stand up unsteadily.
The toilet was full, and peeing on the wall would get him chased and beaten by Sheila, so he could only turn to the back alley of the bar, planning to open the floodgates while "inspecting" his street territory.
He staggered out of the bar and saw a few familiar faces huddled in the corner of another alley. One of them, a black man as thin as a clothes hanger, waved at him, grinning to reveal a mouthful of yellow teeth.
"Come here, come quick! Try this, Old Frank."
The man handed a small plastic bag to his hand. "New stuff. The first taste is on me, celebrating your extracting food from the teeth of the system once again."
According to Frank's usual principles, he should have left after trying the free first taste.
Usually, he had a bottom line: never spend money if he could get it for free, never buy his own if he could drink others'.
Even if he really wanted to play something else, it had to be others paying, and he would go over to mooch two mouthfuls so he wouldn't lose out.
But that day was different.
He had just cashed part of the check with Kevin, had cash in his pocket, and his brain was full of grand blueprints for investing in the future.
Frank said to himself in his heart: "Just one last taste to refresh myself, also as a little personal compensation for this terrible world."
Then there was no such thing as the last taste.
Frank got high right near the Alibi.
He felt his thinking had never been so agile, his understanding of the world never so profound.
He felt the money in his pocket beginning to "change"; it was no longer a piece of paper, but energy, power, a symbol of infinite possibilities.
Principles?
Planning?
Divide into three parts?
Fck it.
Before long, Frank staggered back to the Alibi Room and continued pouring alcohol into his mouth.
Alcohol mixed with chemical substances set off a never-ending carnival party in his brain.
He stood on the table to give a public speech, covering topics from alien life to the necessity of municipal sewer system maintenance. The logic was chaotic, but the momentum was majestic.
He generously treated everyone around him to drinks, even though these people were "rat people" in his mouth ten minutes ago.
Memory also began to become intermittent here.
After Frank was completely wasted, he didn't remember how many glasses he drank, nor whom he treated. He only vaguely remembered that he seemed to have roared at the bar counter:
"Kevin! Cash out my pitiful future investment—yes, that tab money—too! I need to maintain a very, very stable alcohol concentration today!"
Then, memory turned into a paste.
In a trance, Frank saw a blurred smiling face approach, putting an arm around his shoulder.
"Old man, in such good shape, not going to relax? I know a small place, play two rounds, pure entertainment. With your wisdom, you can win even with your eyes closed."
He remembered slapping his chest loudly, his words full of contempt for probability theory and opponent's IQ:
"I will lose? I will lose to a bunch of idiots who can't even figure out the basic principles of the social security system? Lead the way!"
He remembered throwing that wallet, which had already become light, onto a green felt table with heroic spirit.
Then, there was a flash of white light, the smell of alcohol layering up until dawn.
Frank was kicked awake from a broken sofa by a stranger, the springs underneath hurting his back.
When he opened his eyes and finally recovered a bit of consciousness, the first thing he did was touch his pocket.
The plastic bag was empty.
The wallet was also empty.
Those few sacred bills had vanished without a trace.
Frank touched all over his body again, leaving only a straw and a bunch of keys touched from who-knows-where.
"Alright..."
He sighed, sat on that sofa emitting the smell of aged body odor, and shrugged.
What was this?
For him, this could at best be considered a very normal Wednesday morning (or maybe Thursday, who cares).
Frank's life was a cycle composed of countless bankruptcies and rebirths.
Money gone?
Check gone?
Stuff gone?
Small matter. Life, one must always learn to get along with loss.
He was even in the mood to weigh that bunch of keys.
"Maybe it's for some good car, or the door key to some rich woman's apartment."
What really made him desperate was what happened next.
He staggered back to the Alibi Room, planning to use the tab money for a drink to keep himself drunk until tomorrow.
"Kevin, my good brother," he held the bar counter, his voice still carrying a hangover nasal tone.
"Give me the cheapest beer, use my tab money. I need a little... a little liquid to wake up my brain."
Kevin looked at him, his expression full of schadenfreude. "Frank, that little bit of tab money you saved was already swiped clean last night."
He added a finishing blow: "And, you still owe me two drinks now."
At that moment, it was as if a bucket of ice water, mixed with Chicago's most biting winter wind, poured over Frank from head to toe.
He felt an unprecedented despair.
Not despair about life.
But despair that for the next ten days or so, he might have to spend more than a dozen relatively sober days and nights.
Without the numbness of alcohol, Frank would have to face the ugly face of this world directly, have to feel the real passage of time every minute and every second, experience hunger, cold, and the annoyance when those creditors and people he scammed came to the door.
For him, this was a million times more terrible than squatting in detention, going to prison, or even getting a severe flu.
Sobriety was Frank Gallagher's true hell.
No money meant no alcohol.
There was still a long window period until the end of the month.
In this moment of despair, his brain, long soaked in alcohol and chemicals, restarted like a rusty radar, creaking and turning, finally locking onto a clear target.
A place that was always open to him (though extremely reluctantly) and could always be squeezed for some oil.
——Home.
More specifically, the Gallagher home, where the quality of life had suddenly improved by several levels recently.
The vegetables in the fridge were fresh, bills no longer piled up into a small mountain, and diapers started to be moved home by the box.
In Frank's dictionary, this had only one meaning:
The family had recently come into big money.
And thinking that the family had come into big money, he was refilled with vitality like being recharged.
This was why, a few minutes ago, Frank lightly pushed open the front door, first confirmed no one was home, then narrowed his eyes, revealing that kind of smile that was both shrewd and wretched.