Duh. I already did. Hey, what do I smell? Mexican food? Score!
She zips straight toward the kitchen.
Syrah moves at two velocities:
freeway speed limit or stoned.
I trail her, feeling no jealous stab at all as I watch her retreating form.
Monica has curves, but they’re carved.
She’s granite. Syrah’s soft outside and in. It’s the inside that counts, and that’s why I like her, though you wouldn’t know how decent
she is if you only listened to her talk.
Sometimes she’s got an obnoxious mouth. Sometimes I do, too, courtesy of my ex-military dad, who uses every awful word in the book anytime
he gets a little wasted. C’est la vie.
By the Time
I reach the kitchen, Syrah
has already helped herself
to two tamales, leaving
the last three in the pan.
“Should we finish those
now, or save them for later?”
Better save ’em, says Syrah.
We might get the munchies.
I know your birthday’s not till tomorrow, but I brought you a present. Two, in fact.
She reaches into her purse
and, like magic, a full bottle
of vodka appears, along with
a couple of rolled cigarettes.
“I don’t suppose that’s tobacco.”
Syrah laughs. It’s a lot pricier.
But I swiped these from my crack-brained brother. I’ll catch hell for it later, but I don’t give a shit.
And that’s why we love you.
Monica takes her plate over
to the sink, opens the vodka,
and sniffs. Pee-yew. You stole this, too, I’m guessing. Yeah?
Let’s just call it borrowing, not that I’ll give it back, but who cares? My mom stocks up on this stuff five bottles at a time. She was halfway to blitzed when I left. She’ll never miss it.
We finish eating and I take
the time to wash the dishes.
The last thing I want is to
invite one of Dad’s ugly scenes.
He despises a dirty kitchen.
A dirty anything, really, except
maybe Zelda. Ooh. Ugly thought.
Got any OJ? Syrah pokes her head into the fridge, withdraws
with a carton of orange juice.
Aw, come on. You don’t like vodka straight? But Monica says it with a smile. Does
anyone like vodka straight?
I take three tumblers from
the cupboard, hand them to
Syrah. “We have to go outside.
I really don’t need my dad
to smell booze, let alone weed.”
We Pull Chairs
To the far side of the house,
away from the road. Luckily,
the manufactured homes in
this area sit on large lots.
We barely know our neighbors,
but then we never do.
Dad insists we keep our distance, that we not invite
people living nearby
to borrow stuff or peek
in our windows. Okay by me.
Who needs a next-door spy,
especially when my girls
and I are sitting outside,
enjoying a toke or two?
Early October, the evening
is still really warm, made awesome by little puffs of westerly breeze.
Said wind makes lighting the joint something of a challenge, but one Syrah is most definitely up to.
Got it. She takes a big drag, holds it a very long time.
She passes the blunt, finally
exhales. So where’s your dad?
He won’t be home soon, will he?
Dad almost caught us the last time we indulged, and while
he isn’t above maintaining
bad habits, he would not be
good with my having any.
“He went out dancing
with Zelda. They’ll definitely be out late, unless they have
an argument or something.”
That’s not out of the question, which reminds me to remain
alert to the possibility.
Zelda. Who in the actual fuck names their kid Zelda?
Considering my own thoughts
earlier, both the question and her colorful phrasing make me smile.
Monica snorts. Could be the kind of mom who names her kids Syrah and Chardonnay?
First of all, as you well know, I pronounce my name SEER-uh, not sir-AH. And second, so happens Mom didn’t name us. Dad did.
First of all, just because you mispronounce your name doesn’t mean it isn’t actually sir-AH, any more than your sister calling herself char-DON-eye would make her not Chardonnay.
And second, really? Your dad?
I thought your mom was the lush.
First off . . . Syrah raises her hand for a high five. Touché, bitch. And second, my dad used to drink, same as Mom. After they split up, he went all AA because he fell for a churchy straight-edge vegan chick who never touched a damn drop of booze in her life. Not only that, but he married her! Fucking unreal.
See, One Thing
About Freak Club membership,
no one’s feelings are easily hurt.
We’ve all erected force fields
to keep the haters from our truths.
When it’s just us we can lower
the barriers, allow our demons
a safe place to socialize, especially when we’re partying, too.
We pass the weed, chug down
our screwdrivers, listen to crickets, a dog yapping in the distance. “How come you don’t you live with your dad?”
Syrah gives me one of those Are you effing out of your mind? looks.
My mom would never let that happen.
Dad actually pays child support.
Anyway, we see him all the time, and it’s not like he’s nicer sober.