The fortuitous Kiwi

The following is an excerpt from part one:

Being an only child, and a “mistake” at that (the understatement of the millennium,) is the reason that he is so demanding. It also explains why he has developed the infuriating habit of steadfastly speaking to himself. It is not subdued in the least; the volume is the same as in the heated debates with his elderly parents, both around eighty.

When he is not engaged in a full-fledged conversation, alone, he is engaged in some sort of stage act. Undoubtedly, the performance is as much for my viewing pleasure as that of the imaginary American Idol audience. Judging from the tireless nods, bows, and grins following each act, the standing ovations must be endless, the crowds mystified. All except for me: I am rapidly becoming delusional and suicidal.

Dave’s self-indulgent demands for conveniences are unlimited. I am repeatedly assured that I will not go uncompensated—he will place a store order and reinstate everything. Better yet, when he gets out he can “send a check.” Regardless, to keep the peace, I pamper him with stamps, daily snacks, and gallons of shampoo. I even provide toothpaste. He has a tube of prison-issued Elmer’s but he is “not crazy about it.” His order arrives. Ooops, he forgot to order my stuff. He continues with the variety show performances but now, munching contentedly on bags of health mix. That must be the preferred snack of coke and nicotine addicts. He offers me not so much as a dried banana chip.

After the fifth dreadful day of madness, the dimwit goes to court. I am on barbs and spikes, fearing the worst: he might come back. I spend the day praying for mercy. It is the day before my birthday. I am a disaster, wondering if hell’s torment will be returning to throw me a surprise party. If he does not, I will become the grateful heir to his notepad, envelopes, and bottle of VO-5 conditioner. It is the perfect bequest for a man with a head of hair like a kiwi.