Uninvited Guest –

9:06 p.m.— A caller said a band was playing too loud at a home on Sparrow Lane and Hantley and “the band is not very good.”
I don’t care if they didn’t invite me. I don’t! It would be boring, and stupid party, and totally not even worth my time. But they should have given me the chance to turn them down. Stuck up! They were all so stuck up!

Boy Genius –

Jan. 15, 4:56 p.m. — A man on the 23600 block of Marble Road said someone kicked in his front door and threw a can of Dr. Pepper into the house.

He’s very high-spirited, Randy’s mother liked to say. Hank’s mouth would faithfully twist into what he used to hope was agreement, but long ago, his expression reflected his true feelings: loathing.

“He’s a spoiled rotten brat, Rina, ” he’d long ago stopped telling his wife. “He’s too old for this.” She was still convinced that her 17-year old son was simply very imaginative and exuberant. When he was nine, she once even toyed with the word “genius.” She had permanently refused to acknowledge, much less control his out-of-control behavior. “I won’t be blamed for dampening his creativity,” she’d say. It was no secret that Rina considered her only child to be “gifted.” She would have been thrilled to call him a wunderkind if she’d known what it meant.

But now, Hank ignored Rina’s familiar monolog, a long-running list of Randy’s better, albeit imagined, qualities. She used to pause only for breath, but after so much practice, she could finish without a break.

“Since the day he was born, I have always said that he needs to be encouraged, not held up to society’s so-called double standards! God forbid he turn out like his father, a lump with no imagination or ambition. No offense, dear.”

Hank would shrug. He ain’t my kid, he’d tell only himself, having learned that Rina’s failed first marriage was something she hated to be reminded of.

Rina’s unshakable, though completely unfounded belief in her son’s undiscovered potential could be admired. Some might call her steadfast and unwavering, and loyal to a fault. However, Hank thought she was blind and stupid. The boy was a constant, consistent headache. He was trouble, all right. Nothing but trouble. But Hank smiled, this time with real pleasure. He knew that soon Rina’s miserable little boy genius would finally get what he deserved.

Jan 28, 1:10 p.m. — A man on the 23600 block of Marble Road reported that his stepson stole $40 from his wallet.

Feb 10, 2:15 p.m. — A man on the 23600 block of Marble Road said his stepson punched a hole in his wall and stole a Nintendo game from his home.

April 6, 8:19 a.m. — A woman on the 23600 block of Marble Road said she needed advice about having her adult son evicted.

The Package –

8:09 a.m.— A woman on the 21900 block of Mill Flat Road said a package intended for her was delivered to the wrong address and now the neighbor kids are wearing clothes belonging to the caller’s children.

“Arrrrrck! Arrrrck!” Janice clutched her chest and yelled again “Arrrrck!” She paused in kitchen, angrily shocked, for Ned had not heeded her cries. “Arrrrck!” she squawked again, this time directing her cries to the staircase. No response. She marched to the foot of the stairs, cupped her hands to her mouth and yelped again.

Ned, mid-shave, nearly sliced off his nose. With calm resignation, he padded toward the direction of his wife’s cries. “For God’s sake Janice, what is it?”

Janice would use Ned’s momentary indifference as proof: his slow response meant didn’t love her or the children enough. Punishment would be administered, but only after he salvaged the clothing.

The Old Somebody –

I used to be somebody. Oh yes, I used to be a big somebody. Do you remember how I regaled the poms, giving them a dose of the true epitome of millinery couture? Royal Ascot has never been the same. Do you remember? Do you? That hat! Yes, the magnificent pink sinamay with the peacock feathers. Of course it was I. What do you mean, “was that you?” Yes, a much younger I, but I all the same. Beautiful then, wasn’t I? Look at my photo there. Men worshipped my legs. Important men. Wealthy men. Remember the Baron?

I used to be somebody. Do you remember the night we dined with the Chancellor of the Exchequer – what was his name? Never mind. I said to him, my dear man you are simply a combustible tax machine doing your filthy work under the banner of modern socialism. Speechless! I rendered him speechless. He forever begged me to become his secret lover. Bouche cousue, I’ll never tell. But let me tell you, he loved me until the day he died. They all did! Wasn’t my nimble repartee well sought after then? Invitations to the preeminent supper clubs and society cotillions and luxury homes, where women were lit like chandeliers, bourgeois society at its most excellent—who could keep up with so many requests for my presence? They adored me then. Adored! I was on a first-name basis with the surnames on shoes most of them could ill-afford. When did it all change? When did my name become passé?

Now, look at me. Too many lovers have kneaded my flesh; it’s old pâte à choux. Dough bitter with age, stale with the stench of yesterday’s No. 5 and a thousand too many Gauloise. No, don’t deny the truth. Unlike you, mirrors refuse to lie.

Now, the skinny hobbledehoys eye me with only a dismissive flick—rude, unaware of my great history. I’d tell the striplings a thing or two about life, but eh…they don’t know what doesn’t come from television. Television! Their eyes see a fat old woman with nothing but crazy hats and a persistent memory… are you leaving? So soon? D’accord, d’accord. Will you come again? Don’t try, try is for failures. Do. Come again? À quoi bon? What does it matter? I used to be somebody. And now I live in Townsville.

Can’t Deny That –

Pink sponge curlers unravel. Housecoat stiff and new, never washed. Virginia Slims smoked halfway then bent like a knee. Get out the hose to water the asphalt.

Humidity shining up my face today, stealing my smile. It wasn’t always like this day. Down in New Orleans we had parties. We choked on laughter and liquor, we surely did. Too hot to sleep, open another beer. No, pour me instead a bourbon, lagniappe. Never went uptown, but they don’t mind not seeing my kind. It was the liquor that did it. Can’t deny that. Eatin’ oysters with the whiskey, that’s what it was. Oysters with whiskey.