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.