Monday, November 14, 2005

Chapter 15 Part 1 (21,465 words out of 50,000)


I think my mom’s excited to see me – I couldn’t tell, exactly, she cried the whole time I was on the phone with her before handing it off to my father. He asked me what I wanted, assuming the answer was money despite the fact that I’ve not only never asked him for a dime but that I also make about four times the amount of money he makes. He doesn’t understand that, though, he thinks I’m doing queer work. The devil’s work. Idle hands and all. I told my father I just wanted to come home – I haven’t seen them in close to a year and I miss them – I ask him about his health – I ask him how work’s going – I ask him about mom, if she’s been doing all right, if she’s still crying – I ask how the rest of the family is doing knowing full well that half of them don’t speak to him because he decided not to speak to the other half – my father isn’t the type you side with.

He asks me if I’ve found Jesus yet.

I tell him I found a girl.

He asks me if the girl’s found Jesus.

This is going to be so much fun I’m going to be shooting cum from my nostrils. You sometimes need to step back and admire your own persistence and imagination – your own determination and ability to get things done. What is Agatha going to do? She’s playing this “love me” card so hard that she needs to do the parent thing – she can’t handle this. She’s a fucking amateur. She’s fucking Fraggle Rock at this type of shit. These guys are going to break her down better than I ever could and I’ll be right there to put that shit back together the way I want it – this is the fucking killshot, the deathblow – this is the fucking David Caruso – I haven’t been this excited in years.

I’ve played it perfectly – I even told her my parent’s are abnormal, I fucking warned her so that she can get some prep time – so that she feels like she can come here with her “A” game. This way, when she fails – when they fucking break her – she’ll know that she’s a joke. She’ll know that this is my game she’s playing and she’s nothing but a fucking wheelbarrow – a fucking knife that gets placed in the library but wasn’t used to kill Professor Plumb – she’s a goddamn prop, a fucking red herring. And she’s standing right here, at the door, shifting – biting her lower lip, trying to smile at me but you can see the nerves getting to her, holding a fucking Junior’s Cheesecake and a bottle of shitty twenty-dollar merlot for my diabetic mother and her anti-alcohol husband and unsure of her abilities to pull this one off, honestly thinking that she has me in a position where I care about her, ready to bring it home and put the goddamn ham sandwich on me. I give her the reassuring smile she needs, she needs to think that she has me, that this isn’t a play, that I’m still under her control.

I wish I had a camera on me.

My father stares at her with one eye cocked, moving instantly to the wine, right back up to her nervous, smiling face. She looks at me, not sure what to say, wanting me to introduce her, but I just smile and nod, let her make her first move, throw her right to the fucking wolves. “Mr. Monaco – hi, I’m Agatha Williams – Agatha – I…” She waits for him to say something, waits for him to acknowledge her existence but all he does is stare, he’s measuring her up, looking her over, seeing what’s inside her, what makes her work.

“Hey, dad, is it ok if Agatha and I come in?” She smiles a little, realizing that I’m still with her, thinking that I’m still trying to make this easy for her. My father catches her nervous grin, however, and sees it as an insult – like he’s one to be laughed at – like Agatha feels superior to him.

“She has to leave the wine outside. I won’t have none of that in my house.”

This is going to be fucking perfect.



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