It was so great to read one of my friend’s response today after reading “Playing Footsie Under the Table”. She said that I inspire her to write. I felt honored. So, in honor of her encouraging words and the winter-astic weather we’re having right now, I decided to post another fiction piece I wrote one night. It’s weather-related. It’s not perfect but every time I would go to edit it, I couldn’t bring myself to add anything to it. It’s like it kept screaming for me to leave it alone. So I did.
I snazzied it up with some pictures, for visual interest. Since our generation is slowly getting away from text, and all.
It’s cloudy with a chance of angry. The weather girl winks as the old man gets into a house where the dinner isn’t ready and the tv room looks like the scene of a recent tornado. Like wildfire, his anger spread across the house, reaching his target, your mother. And words do hurt, because the waterworks have already started to flow. You’ll look away. You’ll allow her to save face this time. You’ll allow the man to transfer the yelling his boss has done for the past 14 hours towards him to your mother. It’s the middle manager’s way of releasing the stress caused by his ex-wife. HIs workers dreaded when they’d be picked as the target of the day.
And soon, the next victims will be the small children fighting in the bedroom over the yellow plastic bike. You’ll step in. He knows you’ll step in. He always said “a man should face his responsibilities head on…like a man”. And he knows you listen even when you pretend that your video games are the only things worthy of your attention.
And the heavy blows will fall like heavy raindrops. This is no time to play hero. Cowerdown and protect your head and your face. Escape to a happy place, like the sunny beaches they always show in those commercials, where the heavy-bosomed women lay on the beach, laughing as their chest heave up and down, and up and down. And they’re calling your name, “Michael! Michael!”, No, it’s just Katie clutching her tattered bear, looking down at your bloodied shirt. You love the little grunt, though you’ll never say it.
Through the curtains, you can see Mr. Onassis in his recliner. You wonder if he could hear and see it all. But he had already turned his TV up to drown out the noise. Tonight is Jeopardy Night. The only voice he’ll hear is Alex Trebek’s. He knows too much. But, you also know about Mr. Onassis’ drinking and Mrs. Onassis’ fling with the various bag boys. You’d try to unknow. You’ve tried to unknow things for the past 16 years. You’ve realized that it didn’t work. So, you quit trying.
Jay and James have watched you drag yourself up the stairs, one too many times, you think to yourself. “How many more years till the happy days?”, you ask yourself. “How many more years till the man turn into the old man, unable to hit, unable to strike, unable to reach you in your happy place. You won’t be like him. There’s no way you’ll be like him. You’ll be on that beach. You’ll slap on the SPF 15 and join the heavy-bosomed girls. They’ll laugh at your jokes, in the way that they do, up and down and up and down.
But for now, you’ll focus on setting the dinner table one more time. Fork.Spoon.Knife. Fork.Spoon.Knife.