For fans of Tom Perrotta, Maria Semple, and Elinor Lipman, a dark comedy about family dysfunction fueled by bitter Tr*mp-era politics, vodka, and a reluctant daughter’s guilt.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Louie on the Rocks by Meredith O’Brien, which is out February 4th 2025.
Set against a backdrop of bitterly partisan Facebook feuds and a Tr*mp flag set aflame in a driveway, Louie on the Rocks follows the disintegration of the Francis family six months after the premature death of their matriarch, Helen. In his wife’s absence, retired MAGA patriarch Louie descends into an alcoholic spiral and his liberal, queer, bookseller daughter Lulu responds, in a clumsy attempt to save her father from himself, by taking him to court to seize control over his finances.
Told by Louie, Lulu, and Helen—who is watching in horror from the great beyond—this is the tale of a trio with very different takes on the messy events of 2019.
Lulu Francis,
February 15, 2019
The ringing cell phone jolts me out of a peaceful, happy, post-Valentine’s Day slumber. It’s 1:19 a.m. When I see Louie’s name, I panic. Even though my dad and I have been warring, even though he’s a homophobic, racist, sexist, MAGA idiot, I don’t want him to die. In an instant, I imagine he’s been tao? Taken to the hospital in an ambulance, that he’s had a heart attack or a drunk driving accident. My stomach clenches. I think I might throw up.
“Hello? Dad?”
Instead of a greeting, I hear him moaning. Loudly.
“Oh my God! Ohhhh!!!! My God!”
He isn’t moaning in pleasure. He’s moaning in pain, almost screeching. I’ve never heard him make this kind of a sound.
“Dad?! Dad? Are you okay? What’s happening?” I’m now standing beside the bed and shouting into the phone.
Julia, irritated, sits up, rips her yellow kerchief off her head, and yells, “What’s going on?” I wave her off and put an index finger in my open ear while the other is pressed to the cell phone.
Louie doesn’t appear to hear me. He just keeps moaning. “Ah!! Ouch!! Owwww-chhhh!”
“Dad!!!”
These sounds go on for only two minutes but it feels like twenty. Then the line goes dead.
I call back immediately.
“What’s happening?” Julia shouts, eyes wide.
“That was my dad.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know that was your dad. But why was he calling?”
“He was moaning.”
She pauses. “You mean, moaning? Like with that dog walker chick, Cristall?”
I shake my head no. My father could be seriously injured. Is he having a heart attack? “Moaning like ‘I’m in pain’ moaning.”
His phone rings and rings and then goes to the automated voicemail message.
“Damn it!” I say. I hang up and redial his number. “He let it go to voicemail. He’s not picking up.”
“So, he’s hurt?” Julia asks, rubbing her eyes and smearing her mascara across her face.
“I have no idea. He was shouting in pain. And I heard talking.”
The second call also goes to voicemail. As does the third and the fourth.
“What should I do? Should I call the police? Should I go over there?
“Are you okay to drive?”
“What?”
“We split that delicious bottle of wine.”
“Oh, that.” I pause for a beat. “I’m fine.
I pull on sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and some boots, grab my coat off its hook.
“Keys! Keys! Where are my keys?”
“Check your coat pockets.”
I shake my coat and I hear the telltale jingling. “Oh, okay. Thanks Jules.”
I quickly kiss her on the forehead, grab my phone, and run to my care, my on-its-last-legs MINI Cooper, praying it has enough gas to get to Hudson. It’s bitterly cold and I’m praying there’s no black ice. I hate winter driving. Scares me. I once skidded into an intersection and almost got hit on the driver’s side. Ever since then, I drive like a senior citizen when there’s ice out there. Of course, that’s not helping me any right now, trying to drive quickly yet being wary of the ice, to see if my estranged father has seriously injured himself.
I keep hitting Redial–I know! I shouldn’t be calling while driving. I know!–and it keeps going to voicemail. I fret over whether I should call the police. I’d feel so guilty if something happened and I was too afraid to call the police.
In thirty minutes, I pull into the driveway of 47 Sycamore Terrace. The place is dark. I pound on the front door and ring the doorbell over and over. No one answers, but Pumpkin is going berserk. I can hear what sounds like muffled conversation I fish my key chain out of my coat pocket and pray that Louie hasn’t changed the locks and the house key Mom gave me still works.
The door opens and I’m met with a wall of stale stink.
I exhale long and strong, almost as a self-defense mechanism, to push away the odor of urine and alcohol for as long as I can before I have to breathe in again. I’ve never walked in here before and noticed such a bad smell. Check that, stench. The better word is stench. I’ve never smelled a stench like this one here.
As I flip on the lights in the open-design kitchen and living room, I notice that the hardwood floors have about five pee pads scattered about. Several of those pads are saturated with pee and there’s what looks to be a fresh dump of poo on the one in the middle of the kitchen floor, next to a paper bag filled with at least six or eight 750 milliliter empties that once contained vodka. And not the cheap kind. The countertops–Mom always wanted to replace the Formica countertops with granite–are covered by everything from a mass of disorganized mail to sticky take-out food containers. Pumpkin, who is whining with pleasure as she dances around my feet, follows me as I head down the dark hall to my parents’ bedroom.
Louie is on his back, sprawled atop a half-made bed which also happens to be crooked. It looks like the frame has broken and the mattress is at an angle. Louie’s lying on the edge of the mattress, horizontal with the floor. The gray sheets are all tangled up. They look like they may have gotten caught in the busted bed frame. Louie’s snoring with his mouth open so wide I can see the metal fillings in his back molars. He’s fully dressed in his “uniform,” stained blue jeans that hang off his thin frame, and a red and black flannel shirt, most likely from L.L.Bean, his favorite brand. Mom would buy him a new one every Christmas and, weeks later, for his January birthday. Other than the stink of booze coming out of Louie’s various orifices, he appears to be okay. Nothing is bleeding. There do not appear to be any head contusions. Just a drunk idiot on a broken bed. Arsenic and Old Lace is playing on a classic movie TV channel he likes.
I spy his cell phone pinned between his back and an unsightly mattress stain. “Well, that explains the butt-dialing,” I mutter, wondering what the hell was up with the screaming and moaning.
I shake Louie’s shoulder and he doesn’t respond. Maybe I am a little too timid. I’ve never been very physical with Louie. Not much hugging between us unless Mom insisted. Mom and me, however, hugs galore, hand-holding, the works. She and I were tight. Louie always seemed more like a distant, disappointed uncle.
I put my hand on his right shoulder again and give it a hard push. His blue eyes shoot open wide with fear. He directs a frightened gaze at me and then, as his eyebrows drop from their upside-down U-shape of surprise to their knitted position of anger, Louie starts coughing to clear his throat.
“What the hell are you doin’ here?”
