Graduation Night

Graduation Night

“Nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee!” chimed Mrs. Smith cheerfully as she washed the dishes. It was almost time. She giggled.

“That’s GARBAGE!” screamed Heather Smith, manifesting suddenly behind, putting the last pin in her hair. “I HATE Sara Lee!”

Mrs. Smith lost it, slammed down the washrag, and yelled back. “Nobody hates Sara Lee! Just because you had the one bad experience-!”

“It’s not that!” Heather gripped the back of the chair like it was a throat. “You can’t imagine what it’s like, hearing that same damn jungle over and over and over! Like I’m just supposed to swallow it and go out and start buying pound cakes?”

“That’s such a cop-out and you know it!” Mrs. Smith raged back, wringing the washrag like a limb. “That jingle hasn’t changed in 50 years! I grew up with it too! Why can’t you just accept it?”

“ACCEPT it?” Heather heaved through an incredulous half-laugh.

“That’s right!” mom roared. “It only hurts when you struggle! Besides, who doesn’t like pound cake? What kind of a twisted sicko turns her privileged nose up at golden dessert deliciousness?”

“Twisted sicko?!” Heather’s disbelief screamed through her eyes, disturbing the two hours’ worth of makeup. “Really? Are you for real right now?”

Mom’s white-knuckle fingers tore holes in the rag. “I carried you for ten months, I fed you and put clothes on your back and raised you to be a good citizen-!”

Heather threw her hands up. “Oh, here we go with THIS again!”

Tears forced their way onto mom’s cheeks. “-I paid for your school books and bought you a phone! It’s time you assumed responsibility for your role in this house and your role in this world-!”

“I’m not gonna listen to this garbage!” Heather fumed, fleeing the kitchen.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” mom shrieked, throwing the rag at her.

“I’m not going to eat your stinky old pound cake! You can’t make me!”

“Sara Lee makes more than just pound cake, you ignorant little brat! They make donuts! They make bread!”

“Probably out of your precious capitalist POUND CAKE BATTER!” Heather stormed up the stairs.

Mom grabbed a vodka bottle and chased after her, unscrewing it along the way. “You know what? I’ve had just about enough of your attitude!”

“Yeah? Why don’t you go sit in the corner and cry about it? With some POUND CAKE!” Heather slammed the door to her room. Click.

“You vicious little pig!” mom exploded, grabbing the door handle. “You open this door right now!”

Muffled: “You’re going to have to POUND the door down! Get it? HA HA!”

“I swear to god, when I get my hands on you-!” Mom took massive swigs from the bottle and kicked the door.

Muffled: “I hate you! I’ll never be like you! Go back to the kitchen! Go back to your CRIB! HA HA!”

Mom reared back and threw the bottle at the door, sending splinters and alcohol across the hallway. “You just wait, little missy! I’ll teach you to show respect to this country!”

Muffled: “DONUT make me laugh! Hey, if I’m a little pig, what does that make YOU?”

Mom disappeared like an earthquake of crimson elephants down the stairs.

Heather popped the door open just enough to stick her head out. “I’ll never eat that old-fashioned grandmother garbage! AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!”

“The hell I can’t!” Mom’s reemergence was lividity personified. She materialized at the base of the stairs wielding the gleaming dormant teeth of a chainsaw. “Nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee, you brainless nightmare!”

“You’re pathetic! Look at you, using FORCE and THREATS to get your way trying to uphold some ancient political cult! No wonder YOUR generation ruined MY planet!”

Mom started up the stairs, repeatedly yanking on the cord.

“You can’t get your way with violence! It’s not 1958 anymore! Hell, it’s not even 1998!” With one hand Heather threw a dry cleaned dress over her shoulder; the other brandished a smartphone.

Mom was still yanking on the starter when she arrived at the top of the stairs. “I’ll teach you to badmouth the doughy decadence of a smooth-as-silk, three layer red velvet American treat!”

“Yeah, teach me mom, teach me! Teach me with barbarism and 20^th century torture tactics!” Heather faced her mother with the phone’s camera running. “Go ahead, make me famous! I’ll get ten thousand hits before your handcuffs get warm!”

“You don’t get it, do you?” The chainsaw engaged, and with a godless roar the teeth were alive and biting. “We have rules for a reason! You cannot hope to upend generations of tradition without sacrificing your own liberty in the process!”

“Yeah, that’s it! Cut me up! Cut me up like your precious POUND CAKE!”

“Yaaaaaahh!!” Mom attacked, charging, eyes glazed, menace and mayhem scarring her snarling hellish visage.

Heather backed up onto her bed, keeping the phone steady. “Watch, everybody! World Star! World Star!”

Mom stepped on glass and it pierced her foot. The chainsaw nicked the doorknob and a spark flew from it, igniting the vodka. The hallway instantly filled with flames.

“Way to go, CRONE! Who taught you how to use a chainsaw? SARA LEE?”

Mrs. Smith gritted her teeth, drinking the sweet, sweet pain. "Looks like I'm going to have to teach you what the schools never could!"

The graduation ceremony was uneventful, and the party went on as planned. No pound cake was served.

Heather assumed responsibility for her own phone bill, paying for it with the money she got from the video.

Their love for each other continues to transcend all politics, recipes, and acts of crime. <3

Reviews

[Brian Shepard]

This is very real sir. I feel like I've been witness to these conversations. Well written, succinct- a proper life nugget. I hope to read more of your writing in the future. Well done.

[Otimbeaux]

Thank you!