Thanks, I Guess
By Laura McHale Holland
I want to throw one of those huge Oxford-type dictionaries at him, iron his ears flat to his skull, shrink him to toy poodle size and throw him so hard against the patio door that the glass breaks and he tumbles bloody and broken to the slab outside.
Jeez! Did I really just say that? Man, I’m messed up.
The doorbell is ringing; I’m sure it’s for him. His half-eaten pizza has grown hard and cold on a TV tray, as usual. His papers are strewn all over his bedroom floor. His dirty underwear is balled up by the toilet. I could go on and on. Living with a 13-year-old boy sure isn’t easy.
I can’t believe he’s not even getting up to answer the door. Okay, okay, so it’s up to me to get the door just like it’s up to me to do everything else around here. That’s what a mom does, after all.
What? You’re here to deliver a package? Well, gosh thanks, I guess. So what are you standing … Oh, You want a tip? Sure, yeah, everybody wants something these days. Hold on a sec. I’ve got a couple dollars in my purse right here. … There you go.
Well, let’s see here. Man, this lid is tough, but I think I can pry it off. There now. What is that? A head? Somebody’s head? Oh, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. No, no, no, no. This looks like … What the?
Get in here right this minute, Sonny. Right now or I’m going to slap you to kingdom come. Right now, you mental case. Right this minute.
So, is this what I think it is? … But why did you kill him and why the fuck did you send me his head? … Oh, for Christ’s sake. I never meant all that shit I said about him. He was your father. Your father! I can’t believe it. You thought it would make me happy? Oh, you’re sorry, are you? Get out of my sight, you moron. Go to your room. Go, go, go. I need some time to think.
This is bad, really bad. The head I can just dump in the river, or something. But who’s going to take him off my hands on Wednesday nights and every other weekend now? Jeez. I’ll probably have to pay somebody to keep any eye on him, the little fucker.