Page 26 of The Casting Couch

This was her pattern.Lead with the hillbilly family circus to soften me up.Then...the main event.

Sure enough, there was a pause.The kind where I could practically hear her gearing up for it.

“So listen, baby… I hate to ask, I really do, but...I’m a little short this month on the property taxes.If I don’t get it paid soon, the county’s gonna start sniffin’ around, and Lord knows I can’t lose this house.It’s all I got left since your daddy passed.”

There it was.The plea.The guilt marinade.

I felt my whole body go numb in the way it always did during these calls.Like someone flipped a switch inside me and suddenly I was floating above my head, detached and observing, like I wasn’t even there.

It wasn’t that I hated her.Not exactly.Hate takes too much energy.It’s more like… resignation with a dash of disgust.

We hadn’t seen each other since Dad’s funeral four years ago.Before that, I hadn’t laid eyes on either of them since the day they kicked me out.First for being gay.Then, for daring to say I didn’t believe in God.Double sin bonus round.I’d packed a garbage bag of clothes and hitchhiked out of Tifton before I was even legally old enough to vote.

And yet, every six months like clockwork…

Another call.Another crisis.And another dip into the Bank of Nico.

I opened my banking app while she kept talking, some rambling story about how the dryer broke and the neighbor’s dog had worms.I wasn’t listening.My fingers moved automatically as I completed the money transfer.

“How much?”I cut in.

She hesitated for a beat, like she knew pushing too far might make me hang up.“Couple hundred should do it.”

I sent three hundred just to shut her up faster.

“It’s on the way,” I said.

“Oh, bless you, baby.You’re a wonderful son.You really are…”

I hung up.

No goodbye.No “I love you.”And no fake small talk to wrap it in a bow.

Just...done.

For a few seconds, I sat there, staring at my silent phone like it might ring again just to mess with me.It didn’t.

I rubbed my face with both hands, exhaled slowly, and said out loud to nobody, “Jesus Christ...I need to get famous already.”

Because God knows, if I’m gonna keep funding the Tifton Poverty Olympics, I’d at least like to do it with Netflix money.

The phone buzzed again.

My stomach dropped like I’d just crested the top of a roller coaster I never wanted to ride.

For half a second, I froze, fully convinced it was her again.Maybe she forgot to say thank you.Or maybe she’d thought of some fresh crisis.Perhaps the roof was leaking, there was a raccoon in the attic, or spontaneous combustion, who the hell knew.

I glanced at the screen.

Laura.

Relief hit me so hard I almost laughed.

I answered on the first ring.“Hey, boss lady.Please tell me you’re calling to offer me an easy paycheck or a personality transplant.”

Laura’s voice came through casual and warm, like she hadn’t just rescued me from a spiral.“Neither.But I am offering alcohol.You busy?”

“God, no,” I said.“Not even a little.What’s the plan?”

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