Page 51 of 10,000 Hours With A Rich Menace

He nodded letting me know he appreciated my apologies. I watched as he looked through the containers and then over at me. “I’m about to put somebody in a fucking grave because why they put the fucking barbeque sauce on my fucking chicken?”

He was disgusted as he held the plastic bowl in his hand. “What kind of chicken did you order?” I scooted closer to him and took the container from him.

“Barbeque chicken.”

I stopped and had to run the conversation back in my head, so I didn’t sound stupid. Maybe I missed something in the conversation. “You wanted barbeque chicken, no?”

“Yeah.”

“Mitchell, they gave you what you asked for.” I shook the container with the chicken in it, and he looked at me like I was the one talking foolish.

“I don’t eat sauce on my food, Wonder… don’t like that shit. I’d rather eat the chicken with the sauce on the side.”

While he continued to look through the bag to make sure everything was good, I opened the chicken and looked at the goodness. The smell alone had my mouth watering as I looked at him.

“It wouldn’t be so bad to try a piece.”

“Nah.”

I used the plastic fork and knife, and cut into the chicken, taking a bite. “Yumm, it’s so good… wow, so moist.”

He watched me as I continued to make the chicken sound way more appealing than it was. “I’m not three, and you not about to trick me to try something I don’t like.”

“How do you not like it when you wanted the same thing, only with the sauce on the side… why do you eat the way that you do?”

“Why do you talk to yourself?”

I cut into the chicken and popped a piece into my mouth. “I’m an only child, so I spent a lot of time alone.”

“What about Skyler?”

“She didn’t always live in New York. We only saw each other during the holidays or funerals. My mother didn’t come around my father’s family as much when they divorced.”

“Hmm.”

There was a time when all I remember was my parents screaming at each other. I couldn’t recall one conversation whenthey didn’t scream or tell each other they hated one another. It always ended with the door slamming, and my mother crying because she was so tired and frustrated with my father.

“My mother enrolled me in art classes at our local community center when she and my father divorced. I guess she thought it was a distraction from all the mess that went on in our home.”

“Is that why you do nails?”

I smiled. “You sure know a lot about me.”

“You’re living under the same roof as me, I have to know a lot about you.”

I looked down at my food. “I do nails because they pay the bills. It’s a way to express my art while making money. Being an artist doesn’t pay the bills, so I paint to escape.”

“I haven’t seen you paint.”

“In your home? I already drive Skyler crazy with my paint, I don’t even want to set you off. I draw on Skyler’s iPad… she brought it when she came to visit me… I know she wants it back, but I’ve been complaining about it being boring, so she’s letting me rock out with it,” I snickered.

“I have OCD and ADHD,” he revealed and watched me, as our eyes both met. “I obsessively count when I’m stressed or anxious… shit always has to have an order with me. It’s something I can control.”

“I have ADHD.”

“I know.”

Laughing, I gasped acting like I was offended. “Did you look up my medical conditions or something?”

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