Page 13 of Unhinged

She clears her throat. “I don’t know, Greg. I’m not privy to the man’s private life.”

“But that cop and vagrant are.”

My mother shakes her head and purses her lips, the prim and proper woman she is, despite birthing me. “What does that have to do with Jimmy Don?”

I shrug. “If not an oven, I guess he has a place to shove that cock.”

Mom sighs heavily, widening her eyes. “Where did I go wrong with you?”

“Are you serious? Did you meet your first child?” My humor falls, and seeing the pained look on my mom’s face, I know I went too far. I turn to get a glass from the cabinet and then nod to the TV. “Do you dick-bash with your patients like that too?”

Mom sighs again, probably relieved I veered from Eden. “I do no such thing, and language, please.”

“English isn’t good enough? Sorry. I only know the French and Spanish cuss words.”

My mother rolls her eyes, which is a rarity. She’s usually much more tactful and reserved than me. My dad doesn’t do it much either. Nope. I’m my own brand of profane. “I’m worried about you. Drinking, Greg?”

“That’s the accepted format for beverages.” I smirk as my mother’s frown twitches. “Maybe I’m celebrating being stuck at two loser jobs again while living with my psychotic mother and an ignorant fowl next door.”

I’m positive she regrets my dad using an expired condom that unfortunate May night. Happy birthday to him. Amid the gabbing on TV, my mother slams her empty coffee mug on the table. “I’m not playing games!”

“Good. I wasn’t into us playing naked Twister.”

“Sometimes, I could choke you.”

“Just not my chicken.” Hearing her groaning response, I giggle before taking a sip. However, the unexpected offensive taste of death sends me to the trash can.

As I spray the offending juice, my mother squawks, “What are you doing? You’re getting juice all over the wall and floor!”

“What the fresh hell is this shit?” I squeal, swiping the bitterness from my lips.

“It’s grapefruit juice! My clean floor! And it’s all over the cabinet!”

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

“The jug clearly says it’s grapefruit juice!”

Going to the sink, I run the water full-blast and bend to drink straight from the spigot, earning me more scolding and then more when I dry my mouth on a dishtowel.

“We didn’t raise you in a barn!”

“But you conceived me at a Best Western. Close enough.” My mom’s face reddens as she turns away to grab paper towels. Sometimes my dad’s pointless anecdotes work to my benefit.

Mom ignores me as I giggle but then mutter, “I drank too much because I saw the Grim Reaper Saturday night.”

She purses her lips. “I wish you’d stop calling Milt names. He’s a nice man. We graduated from high school together shortly after I moved here at seventeen. He’s had it rough.”

“You lost your V-card to him, didn’t you?” With her standard pursed lips, she glares at me, and I laugh, but internally hemorrhage from the possibility Mom rode Milt’s… No, thank you. I have a hard enough time with her riding my dad’s. “Yeah, rough. A rich preacher’s son. Instead of running with that, he dove head-first into a vat of shit laced with meth.” When my mother shakes her head, I sigh. “My old boss, Amos, finished sucking the souls out of Richmond. So, he expanded his horizons and waistline to curse my doorstep.”

She always crooks an eyebrow when psychoanalyzing me. “He can’t be all that bad. He escorted you home last night.”

“Are you kidding me? Please say you didn’t invite that douche canoe into the house.”

My mother slowly states, “He helped you to bed.”

“What the actual fuck, Mom?”

“Seriously? Tone it down. You don’t remember?”

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