Page 23 of Doozer

Trouble’s cheeks flushed.

“Sort of what?” I asked.

“You know… sweet.”

“Sweet? Aw, come on, man. Don’t say that,” I said, causing Trouble to break out in a full on smile.”

“What’s wrong with being sweet?” she asked.

“I’m wearing a kutte. Sweet isn’t exactly the vibe I’m going for,” I replied.

“Says the man with the mother of Jesus on his chest.”

“In case you didn’t notice, I also have tattoos of a Chinese dragon, a winged skull, and a demon wrestling an angel.”

“Which one’s winning?” Trouble asked.

“Maybe later you could take my shirt off and check.”

Trouble cleared her throat, before asking, “Do you get along with your family?”

I chuckled. “My sisters and I have always been pretty close, and I suppose my mother and I are as well, but my relationship with my pop complicates things between us sometimes.”

“You don’t get along with your dad?”

“More like he doesn’t get along with me,” I replied. “What about you? You tight with your folks?”

Trouble shook her head. “We’re pretty…fractured.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk about—”

“It’s okay. I’m the one who brought up family,” she said.

“The other night, you said you grew up on army bases, right?”

“One base. Fort Benning in Georgia until 2008,” Trouble said, sipping her coffee. “Dad was a sniper. Kind of a bad ass actually.”

“Was he ever deployed?”

Trouble nodded. “Yeah, he served two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan.”

“Wow. Being apart like that must have been rough on both of you. And your mom, too.”

“Me, yes. My mom. Not so much.”

“Ouch,” I said, sensing the tension between her and her mother.

“Yeah. My mom used my dad’s deployments to re-live her pre-married years, which of course meant her pre-motherhood years. She’d find some creative way to get rid of me for hours, days, and sometimes weeks while she shacked up with whatever dickhead of the month she could use and abuse, until they got sick of her, or my dad came back. Whichever came first.

“Did your dad know your mom was fucking around?”

“If he knew, he did the same thing I did, and pretended he didn’t.”

“Jesus,” I ran my hand down my face. “What a fucked-up situation to pin on a kid.”

“My mom wasn’t what you’d call ‘maternal,’” Trouble said, overemphasizing the use of air-quotes.

“Here’s to family,” I said, raising my coffee cup, and Trouble tipped hers to mine.

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