Conversations At Dinner

The unhinged boy comes across the runway, across the street, and into my life afterwards.

The boy across the street always comes through the back door, never the front. Through the drive-in where the V-8 is and back behind the garage he knocks twice and there he is, standing in the doorway - the over sized slacks, the tight fitting white t-shirt and the constant nervous tick that is calmed down - the beast, he calls it - by playing with a variety of pens, thumb tacks and the occasionally chain of keys (when sitting at the kitchen table next to the sink and always around dinnertime, the time he always comes, just for the sense of family security and a nice hot meal, he constantly scratches the polished oak with the first key - the house key - on the chain and the nervous tick becomes more apparent once everyone has taken residence at their unofficial habitat - father is the first chair, the head of the table, across view of mom and me between the constant glares - few years before the divorce and three months before counseling with Silver Bremen, who got his degree on an online college that bellied up a few hours before the thirty-minute diploma in Advance Psychology, which meant he was useless and cheap, the claws of urban lower class psychiatry.

• The b*****d doesn't trust me, we've been married for thirty years, thirty years! and every time I go over to Margo’s he always says, ‘going over there to f**k your lover boy, huh?’ Always! He has never trusted me -

• How can I trust a w***e who f***s an Italian gigolo behind my back?

• Italian Gigolo? There is no Italian, there’s not even remains of a penis, Margo’s husband has been dead for thirty years. God Frank, the woman is eighty-years-old, she’s shriveled up!

• Cover story…

• Cover story? See what I live with.

The first ten minutes is always a constant silence - interrupted by the occasional cough or statement - until mother with a weary smile and polite eyes starts the conversation.

• So Kenny, how is your mother?

(Kenny speaks with a nervous stutter, which is a rod I will spare, along with the house key on the chain that is now making one visible straight thin line before mother finishes the question)

• M-m-mother is good. D-d-dad is dead. And little sister Maggie is under the tree behind the yard.

• Your kid sister is under a tree in your backyard? (Father.)

• Frank, don’t be so insensitive?

• Insensitive? Carolyn, I asked him a simple question, is his sister buried in their backyard? How’s that insensitive? It obviously shows I have some damn common interest in the kid’s life, this is pure selflessness in pursuit.

• Selflessness? Frank, you wouldn't know selflessness if it fucked you in the a*s!

• Oh, real mature, Carolyn. What is Kenny’s mother going to think when she hears what little Kenny has heard in this household?

• Mother stands up and screams: Tracey is an alcoholic, abusive s**t!

This is mother. Notice the change in perspective, notice the change in traits, just to one-up her despised husband. And now the key stops, the fine line is half finished and Kenny slowly looks up at me with tears in the corner of his eyes and he pushes his chair back and leaves the dining room, leaving the chain of keys behind.   

Reviews

[SleeplessVolcano]

i normally avoid "stories" due to time constraints, but this was a delightful read.....you should take it further.....it can be a novel.....I like the irony.....of broken Kenny seeking an experience of normal life in another dysfunctional family.........intriguing....:)