Halfway through Sean Hannity’s hour-long display of political douchebaggery and self-interested bravado, I realized I’d had enough. It wasn’t just Hannity that did it, but he certainly exemplified everything I detested about my parents. My first year away at school unconsciously created a nearly palpable rift between my parents and me, as I became suddenly privy to the way their extremely right-winged political views molded their behavior towards me. So I packed my father’s stupid rolling suitcase with necessities (everything else would be provided by my boyfriend Bob’s family) and split. Well, not right away. As always, I felt like I needed to impart some profound message to increase the significance of my leaving, so I faced my blanching mother and speechlessly dissatisfied father and summoned up the only words that felt appropriate: “Goodbye’s too good a word, babe, so I’ll just say fare thee well. I ain’t saying you treated me unkind- you could have done better, but I don’t mind. You just kind of wasted my precious time, but don’t think twice, it’s all right.”
Bob was already waiting for me in the driveway as I nobly exited my front door for the last time. Even from about twenty feet away I could hear Wilco blasting from inside his car, where Bob thrashed his head violently in accordance. Wilco’s effect on Bob really symbolized what my new life living with his family would be like: carefree and liberal to an extent. I felt entirely satisfied with my decision to leave home, and comfortably sank into my seat, wordlessly kissed Bob on the cheek and fell asleep.
After what seemed like seconds, Bob goofily shook my shoulder to announce our imminent arrival at his house in Noblesville. I rolled down the window to take a breath of fresh air and prepare myself for a new life. When we finally pulled into the driveway, Bob’s parents were resting smilingly in a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch, anxiously fanning themselves in the evening swelter and awaiting our arrival. Chuckling to himself, Bob said to me, “Look at those fucking porch monkeys.” He was always making some sort of offhand comment about other people, but the manner in which he spoke betrayed nothing more than comedic, purposeful insensitivity, and in any case, I didn’t really care because I loved him and his red hair and his ignorant comments.
Bob ran inside with his mother, who said she needed some help setting the table for a late meal, which left his father and me alone on the porch. “Let me get that for you, Daisy,” offered Bob’s father, a humble minister from the South. I handed him my father’s suitcase just as a tall man walking his dog on the sidewalk cast a quizzical look sideways at us. Bob’s father continued, “Some of the people that live around here aren’t very trustworthy, and I’d hate to see them steal your things on your first day here.” As we ascended the stairs and entered the foyer, I could feel the rhythmic thud-thud of the stereo system of a low-riding car passing behind me, an image I could trace back to my home in St. Louis.
As the week progressed, I began to feel more and more at ease, secure in my decision to leave home. And Bob’s family was even more hospitable than I had imagined beforehand, and I particularly enjoyed gathering together for dinner each night, where there were always plenty of laughs. One night particular Friday evening, we carried out a massive order from KFC. As we sat down at our places at the table, Bob’s father motioned with his index finger in the air and said, “Alrighty boys, you know the drill.” At this, Bob and his brothers stripped down to their boxers (Bob’s bore the Confederate flag) and selected their favorite chicken parts, leaving their parents fully clothed and my mouth agape. Bob’s brother laughed and informed me that it was a custom in their house to eat fried chicken naked so as not to get grease all over their clothes. Luckily for me, I was exempt from this ritual, so the meal was much funnier to be a part of. However, I felt slightly unsettled when Bob’s mother leaned over to me, gave me a wink and muttered, “All that’s missing from this feast is a watermelon and an old uncle finger-picking his guitar.” But I figured this is where Bob’s off-color comments came from, and learned to appreciate the ridiculousness of the whole situation.
The following Sunday morning before Mass, I woke up early and decided to take a walk and contemplate all that had happened in the past couple weeks. Observing a pair of children pushing each other into a spouting spray of water from the fire hydrant, I felt as if I had aged incalculably; I could now see all the faults that lay in my parents and how unhappy I had been in St. Louis. I decided living with Bob’s family, though foreign at times and always hectic, was far superior to miserably being bound to the shackles of my parents’ narrow-mindedness.
I walked on in the lazy summer heat, exploring my surroundings and trying to memorize the layout of Bob’s- my- neighborhood. As I rounded the corner at the end of Bob’s block to head back home, I could feel a pair of eyes following me from behind. I nervously turned around and recognized the man I saw on my first night here, once again walking his dog. I anxiously picked up my pace to a quick jaunt and made no sign that I had seen him.
“Hey! Excuse me!” he shouted, quickening his pace as well. With only a few houses to go until I could reach Bob’s, the man caught up to me and I yelped, horrified as I cowered in his shadow. He extended his hand towards me, and instead of thrusting a gun into my abdomen, he held my coin purse in his wide palm. I realized I must have unconsciously dropped it while I tried to speed away from him previously, so I took the purse from him and thanked him for his services. He introduced himself as Wilson, and asked me if I was a relative of Bob’s family. I told him that I was Bob’s girlfriend and that I had moved out of my house to live with his family. Wilson told me that when he first moved into the neighborhood, he was once friends with Bob’s parents. But one night they were invited to dine at Wilson’s, and after meeting Wilson’s wife, Tasha, they made some excuse about having a family emergency and promptly left. They hadn’t talked to Wilson or Tasha since then. I looked across the street at Wilson’s porch, where his wife was watering flowers. The sun reflected itself beautifully on her moist, black skin and I remember thinking, I wish I was as gorgeous as her.
“So let me know if you ever find out why he hasn’t called back in a while,” Wilson implored of me. I promised him I would, and walked the last few yards back to Bob’s house, where everyone sat patiently in the living room, waiting for me. In a revelatory daze I stared at their watchful faces- the boys in their pressed khakis and neatly ironed white Oxfords, and at Bob’s mother who wore a dress with a blinding floral design of edelweiss, and finally at her husband, standing in a billowing white robe which he wore as minister of the Mass. Having just gotten out of the shower, he absentmindedly ruffled his wet, snow-white hair which now stood on end. He asked me if I was ready to go, and I thought to myself, “I guess growing up is tough everywhere.”
this is great, brendan. nice work.
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