P is for . . .
My mom has two faces: stupid and worried. Today, when she returned from an errand, she wore her worried face. She walked into the house, plopped her fat ass on the couch and said, “We need to talk.” With a bottle of barley pop in one hand and a bag of corn chips in another, I pretty much ignored her.
Thought:If I knock over the 24-hour liquor store on Austin St., I’d have more than enough cash for a few bags of coke and a hooker.
Mom cleared her throat and continued, “I went to see Dr. Levil this morning. He wanted to discuss your test results.”
Thought:Once I take the money out of the register, I’m gonna shove my Glock right into Old Man Nico’s mouth and squeeze the trigger. I want to see chunky bits of his brain plastered on the wall.
Huh! What the hell is she staring at? Dumb bitch can’t even keep house. No wonder dad left.
Thought:Hmm. What about Laura? She puts out like a good, little slut, but I’m tired of her shit. Always hassling me. I need some fresh — .
“What!” I said, irritated by the interruption.
“Dr. Levil said . . .” Her face went blank changing into stupid. “Well, he said you’re a psychopath.” I looked long at her. The room got silent. Mom’s dopey eyes watered. I released a LOUD burp. Her head jerked back and she blinked; I gave her the finger. She blinked again. Then her eyes dried up.
“News flash: You’re a psychopath, too. And while we’re on the subject, who the hell cares what that freakin’ couch doctor has to say. At the end of the day, I’m still a man”. She didn’t blink this time.
“Hey mom, can we have lunch now?”