The screaming match begins

The following is an excerpt from part two:

Helen’s two sons have been groomed to the same way of thinking. They are no longer “only kids,” except in their immature behavior. The police officer son is furious when he hears that he needs to tend to his own pet while Mom is at work. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In a work of fiction it would be difficult to invent so preposterous a situation. We do not know whom to call when the domestic abuse complaint is provoked by the police.

The younger son, recently of legal age, moved out then returned with a girlfriend. They live rent-free for upwards of a year. Well, not entirely free. The girlfriend gives her $30 share of food stamps from the family who claim her as a dependent. She contributes that to buy snacks for herself and her sponge of a companion. When income tax time comes around, the sponge insists that his mother will not be claiming him as a dependent—he wants the $1,000 refund on his own return. Doors slam, objects fly, the screaming match begins. In the end, the blood-sucking couple has their tidy little nest egg. It serves as the deposit on an abuse-haven they can call their own.

Helen parks in handicapped-designated areas. She does not possess a disability placard. The first time she does it, when I am in the car, I mention that the fines have been increased. “Oh, I’m not worried. My son, the police officer, will take care of it.” She goes out drinking for the night and calls her son, the police officer, for an escort home. She swerves and sways down the road with the cruiser on her tail. It matters not whose rights are infringed upon. Endangering lives is a trivial affair. I want my way.

South Beached-Whale

The following is an excerpt from part two:

As I have always done, I send cookies down. She snarls, “I’m on a diet.” (Not, “No thank you, I’m on a diet.”) A couple of days later I knock and ask if she needs anything at the market. She has two whopping zits on her face, dripping with puss—it looks like she has an extra set of noses. I ask, “Whoa, what happened?” “I ate too many French fries.” She must be on that new South Beached-Whale Diet.

A few days later Helen informs Sid, “I’m hurt.” Sid asks her what happened, assuming that she was injured at work again. “I’m hurt that you refuse to take care of Puppy, after everything I’ve done for you.” Everything like what—rent us the shit box that has been vacant for over a year? We have always had a one-way relationship: we give, she takes. Sid explains that he is simply not willing to put himself at risk. “Ray is going for a hip restoration. Who’s gonna take care of him if that dog chews me up?”

“Well, I want you to know that you hurt my feelings. I was counting on you.” She walks off and slams the door. The following Monday, one week since Sid imparted the dreadful news about the dog, we get a notice in the mail from Helen. “Due to increased maintenance costs, the rent will be increased by 20% beginning July 1.” Not taken into account is that we have been the ones who have been providing free maintenance.

“my son, the police officer”

The following is an excerpt from part two:

Helen goes on a trip. The poor dog is locked in the apartment for four days. As usual, Sid lets him out and takes him for walks. He feeds him and changes the water. The dog is angry to have been abandoned in the sweltering apartment. He messes all over and tears through the trash; Sid cleans it up. By the third day, the dog is irate. He growls ferociously when Sid goes down to get him. The dog pounces and Sid leaps behind the door, barely escaping attack.

The ten-year-old dog has a history of maiming people and pets. No action is taken because Helen proclaims, “He’s registered to my son, the police officer.” The insurance examiner tells her they cannot continue the homeowner policy because of the nature of the creature that is housed here.

“Oh, but he’s registered to my son, the police officer. The dog doesn’t stay here. The dog run in the back yard is for my parents when they come. They set up their chairs out there so they can be in the shade.” I want my way. When she returns from her Memorial Day long weekend, Sid informs her that he can no longer take care of the dog. She says, “I know how he is. He does that with me sometimes, too, but you’re a big man. You should be able to handle him.” Now she is furious. Now we must be punished.

When she goes to the store, she no longer checks to see if we need something. No more bringing in our mail if she gets there first. We get the ice-block shoulder when passing in the hall. This is a fifty-one-year-old “adult!”