Walking into the house, I find the front door unlocked and the faint sounds of feminine giggles and masculine laughter coming from down the hall. I don’t even have to go look to know Jeremy’s door is closed. Pausing in the entry, I consider my options. I could storm down the hall and stop whatever’s going on, but it’s not really my job. I mean, I guess it is in a way. He’s almost eighteen, though, and he doesn’t really listen to a thing I say anyway. It wouldn’t do any good.
Frustration builds, and I decide to just give up on the idea of being a parental figure for the evening. Walking into the kitchen, which is coincidentally the room farthest away from Jeremy’s room, I set my purse down and take a look around. Years back, before my mother left and then Dad got locked up, this used to be my favorite room in the house. It’s not all that big, but the large window over the sink lets in a lot of natural light. The countertop forms an L-shape and curves around the outside corner of the house with the sink, range, and refrigerator forming a triangle. It wasn’t like this when Dad bought the house. I was barely five then, but I can remember clearly when my mother said that the placement was all wrong.
Back in those days, I idolized the men who came by on Harleys. They were always around, and they were funny and nice. Every once in a while they’d babysit me and Jeremy, and sometimes we would hang out with their families. I remember Barbara, Chief’s wife, the most. She was always there. That was long before I realized what those cuts really mean and what happens when things go sideways and not everybody comes out whole.
My mother, Sheryl, had just hooked up with the man who became my dad a few years prior and had Jeremy. We left Oakland for this place. Our first few months in town were spent in the trailer park right off of Highway 20, but then Dad bought the house because the little lady insisted if they were going to be a proper family, they needed a proper home, and a trailer park couldn’t possibly be a proper home—that stupid bitch wouldn’t know a proper home if it hit her on her ass.
The once trendy bright blue laminate countertop is so worn and faded in spots that its color is almost unrecognizable. She used to spend hours cooking in it while Jeremy would rock out with a wooden spoon on an upside down pot on the floor. He was such a noisy kid. It never seemed to matter how messy the house got or how loud we were, Dad would come home—often with a few of his brothers in tow—and he’d sit down on the kitchen floor—usually drunk off his ass—and show Jeremy how to really play the bottom of a pot. It used to drive mom nuts. My mother loved this kitchen once; then again, she loved us once, too.
“It’s probably why she left,” I mutter and kick off the door frame. Memories are annoying as fuck. As much as you want to hold onto the good ones, the trade-off is that you have to hold onto the bad ones as well. On the far wall is a small desk that’s overcrowded with an aging desktop computer and countless bills that have been tossed on the keyboard to be looked at later. I sit down at the desk and boot the computer up while casually looking through the bills. The water and garbage bills are past due, so those will be the first to be paid. The mortgage is—surprisingly—less than a month behind, so that can wait. My car insurance is up for renewal again next month, so here’s hoping I can make enough in tips to cover at least half of that bill. I’d probably make more sucking dick for a living than I do at Universal Grounds, but I have to maintain some self-respect. It’s one of the few things I have left.
Once the computer boots up, I open the web browser from hell. Unfortunately, something’s wrong with the computer, so I can’t download another browser to use. I locate the search bar on screen and type in MANCUSO. Doubtful that anything is going to come up, I sort the bills according to what’s most important. The bill for the newspaper that the little wilderness scout talked me into a few months back goes on the bottom. The Gazette can just cut off the service. It’s not like we read the fucking thing anyway.