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dampscribbler"Did you get the beer?" Hank pulled taco shells and salsa from the grocery bag and set them on the counter. Taco shells go in the pantry, salsa in the refrigerator. Is that so hard?
"The beer's still in the car," I said, creating an opening for him to get get it and, if I was lucky, maybe some other stuff.
No luck. He threw himself on the sofa and grabbed the remote. "Thanks, sis," he said.
Keith came in from the backyard. "Grill's fixed," he said, "did they have the pork?"
"Yep, pre-marinaded and all. It's in the cold stuff bag."
My perfect son found the cold stuff bag and started emptying it. Beef and chicken in the meat drawer, orange juice on the shelf. He put the pork on the stovetop to get it ready for grilling. I hope he doesn't start learning how to be a man from his uncle.
Hank didn't used to be a stereotype, but when Kate left him he decided to go "old school." He bought a rifle and started shooting on the weekends. He got a football injury. He started drinking Coors. It's weird.
"Hank, we need to talk about your identity crisis," I said when Keith took the pork outside to the grill. I could see the back of his head. The front of his head seemed to be staring at the golf course featured on my widescreen TV. "Hank, you're watching golf on TV." I may or may not have heard a grunt. Something ached in the pit of my stomach. Letting him into my house was supposed to keep this from happening.
I filled a glass with water and sat down at the table and started at the back of my brother's head and the TV. Behind me the screen door opened, hesitated, closed again. Keith threw away the pork wrappings and washed his hands. Grocery bags rattled as he emptied them. The water wasn't helping the ache in my stomach.
Keith folded the last grocery bag and tucked it behind the trash can under the sink, then went to the counter and grabbed something. "Hank, think fast," he said, and Hank turned, held up his hand, and perfectly caught the avocado my son had thrown. Keith looked at me, "you, too," and he chucked an avocado at me. I'm terrible at catch, but I was so surprised I snapped it from the air without effort. "Come on you two slackers," he said, "I'm gonna teach you to make guacamole."
"The beer's still in the car," I said, creating an opening for him to get get it and, if I was lucky, maybe some other stuff.
No luck. He threw himself on the sofa and grabbed the remote. "Thanks, sis," he said.
Keith came in from the backyard. "Grill's fixed," he said, "did they have the pork?"
"Yep, pre-marinaded and all. It's in the cold stuff bag."
My perfect son found the cold stuff bag and started emptying it. Beef and chicken in the meat drawer, orange juice on the shelf. He put the pork on the stovetop to get it ready for grilling. I hope he doesn't start learning how to be a man from his uncle.
Hank didn't used to be a stereotype, but when Kate left him he decided to go "old school." He bought a rifle and started shooting on the weekends. He got a football injury. He started drinking Coors. It's weird.
"Hank, we need to talk about your identity crisis," I said when Keith took the pork outside to the grill. I could see the back of his head. The front of his head seemed to be staring at the golf course featured on my widescreen TV. "Hank, you're watching golf on TV." I may or may not have heard a grunt. Something ached in the pit of my stomach. Letting him into my house was supposed to keep this from happening.
I filled a glass with water and sat down at the table and started at the back of my brother's head and the TV. Behind me the screen door opened, hesitated, closed again. Keith threw away the pork wrappings and washed his hands. Grocery bags rattled as he emptied them. The water wasn't helping the ache in my stomach.
Keith folded the last grocery bag and tucked it behind the trash can under the sink, then went to the counter and grabbed something. "Hank, think fast," he said, and Hank turned, held up his hand, and perfectly caught the avocado my son had thrown. Keith looked at me, "you, too," and he chucked an avocado at me. I'm terrible at catch, but I was so surprised I snapped it from the air without effort. "Come on you two slackers," he said, "I'm gonna teach you to make guacamole."
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