Page 40 of Hot Mess Express
She makes a fun, energetic gesture when she says “side hustle”. I don’t know why I’m always reminded of participation trophies I got as a kid and the sound of my mom’s overdramatic applause at every little thing I did. She had high hopes for me back then. But with every passing year, I can hear the disappointment pushing itself between all her words more and more, her growing deflation at how I’ve turned out, all her hopes for my future wasting away.
She’s all but given up completely on my sorry ass, no matter what she insists. She and dad let me do whatever. It’s no longer a priority, wish, or goal to see me succeed at anything.
My failures aren’t surprises anymore. They’re expected.Try better next time, sweetie—but she doesn’t hold her breath anymore.
She’ll never admit this out loud. She loves me too much.
“Yeah. Got a … a side hustle thing today.” I shrug. “A little job. In half an hour, actually, so … I can’t stay long.”
“Don’t forget you promised your father you’d go door-to-door tomorrow. He wants to see you more involved, so you can …” She peeks back down at her phone, distracted. “Always takes so dang long to make his moves, whoever this is. Probably an eleven-year-old overachievin’ spellin’ bee brat.”
I wonder if that eleven-year-old has parents who still believe in them and say they’ll grow up to do amazing things.
Like beat a forty-seven-year-old woman at online Scrabble.
Let’s see you putthaton your college résumé, kid.
Just then, the front door swings open. Other than the pool of light that splashes over me from behind, the first thing I hearis his heavy breaths and the crinkling of a bag hanging in his hand. When I turn around and lock eyes with my dad, he stops in place, and whatever good mood he might’ve been in a second ago is gone the next instant.
Yeah, I’m used to it.
“Look who finally graced us with his presence,” he grunts at me as he shuts the front door, then makes his way to the kitchen. “Is he here to eat our donuts? Ask us for money?”
“Oh, he’s here to help me with my Scrabble,” says my mother, always keeping things a joke, light and easy, even shooting me a little wink like she’s on my team or something.
I’m not fooled. No one in this house is on my team. “Finished up some late work at the church last night,” I tell him. “Just came home to take a quick shower and get some things, won’t be long.”
“Late work at the church,” echoes my dad with a huff. “When are you going to get a real job? Bring in some actual money?”
“Honey, what can I make with a T, a J, three I’s, an F—”
“If you don’t want to be part of the family business,” my dad goes on, steamrolling over my mom’s second attempt to lighten things, “then you’ve gotta have a plan of your own.”
“Jifwith one F ain’t a word,” she explains.
“And comin’ and goin’ as you please, using our house like a free motel, that ain’t gonna work out for you much longer.”
“I could connect a T and an I to this L and makelit, but that’s just a sad amount of points, and I wanna use this triple space …”
I turn on my dad. “I said I would help tomorrow. I’ll pass out your flyers and get people to sign up, I already told you I’d help.”
“See? The pronoun you use?Yourflyers, the way you said it. It is afamilybusiness. Those flyers are just as muchoursas they aremineoryours.” He sighs as he faces me, a glazed donut pinched so hard between his fingers, it’s practically folded. “When’s my son gonna clean up his damned act? I’m not jokinghere, Anthony.”
“Rupert,” says my mom, sounding serious for the first time.
“We’re sick of watchin’ you piss your life down the drain,” he goes on, “stayin’ up all hours of the night … partying, drinking …”
“I’m not pissin’ anything down any drain,” I retort, starting to lose my temper. “Why don’t you cut me some damned slack, Dad? I work my ass off all week, looking for gigs.”
“Gigs?” He goes to take a bite of his donut, then stops. “Boy, I’ve shown you so much patience. Too much. I’m up toherewith patience. I don’t see improving. Don’t see progress. I see you goin’ downhill, all the way down the hill, to the bottom. We’re still recouping our losses from your veterinarian dream. How am I—How are your motherorI supposed to—”
Then it snaps. “Why’s it that you and Mom get a do-over, after all the bad stuff you two did to each other my whole childhood, makin’ my home life hell, and now here I am, your messed-up son, and you get to, like, berate me every day of my life?”
“It’s called accountability, son.”
“I don’t want any of your stupid donuts,” I blurt out. My mom says something soft I don’t hear, likely to herself, sounding sad. “I just want to take a shower and … and get to my next job today.”
There is no job today.
