It was the kid standing in my backyard chugging a Coke and eating a bag of gummies at 9 o'clock, who finally did me in last night."Go away" I said, before he could get any closer.
"Can Jack go..." he began.
"No," I interrupted sweetly, "Fuck off, summer's over."
"But someone's picking us up here..." he said, risking his life... "We're going swimming." he continued.
"I don't care where you are going. It's a school night. The little bastard's had all summer to swim, and now summer is over – so scoot, run along, go to bed." I said, sweating like a pig in pajamas.
"Can I just stand here until my ride picks me up?" he said, chugging back more Coke.
"No!" I screamed sweetly, "Fuck off! It's September! You – and dozens of others like you – have to get your sweaty asses off of my sofa and get a haircut, drink some milk, clip your homeless-looking toenails, read a book, clean your ears, find your parents, and get your individual shits together because I've HAD IT!" I took a deep breath of hot air. "Other mothers get to dress up and go to work and sit in air-conditioned offices and take paid summer vacations and stuff.... but oh no, not me. I get to sit in my frumpy elastic-waist shorts, and try to work, while dozens of puberty-blinded zit machines with no shirts on, scream at wrestlers and shoot each other on XBox, ten feet away from where I am trying to make a living... so, go bloody-well home." I said politely.
But I wasn't finished. And he wasn't moving.
"Do I have to send a text message to get through to you?" I said, perspiration flying off my dewy upper lip. "Go place empty chocolate milk containers in someone elses fridge. Don't flush your own toilet. Drop Twinkies behind the snot-encrusted furniture in your own home. Lose your own beach towels, swimming trunks, ice cream money... because we are OUT. In fact, we're out of chips, ten dollar bills, toilet paper, wine, Gatorade, KD and gas, because I've driven your sweat-covered asses to the mall, the movies, the lake, the rink, the gym, the Golden Arches, the emergency room, and the driving range. It may not feel like summer's over, but it is SO OVER – so get the hell out of here or Hurricane Earl will seem like a bad blow job compared to what's in store if you don't back up and get out of my yard." I went on, pointing. "Inside that filthy oven of a house, you won't find one school supply – not even a new backpack, and my kid will be going to school with a coffee filter and a golf pencil, but you know what? I don't care! Summer's over, and parents around the globe will have Schmirnoff in their orange juice in the morning – rejoicing because it's OVER! It's finally fucking over!"
"So, is it ok if I use your bathroom?" he said.
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
Thornbloom's annual furniture SALE is on! Toss your summer-worn sofa on the curb and get a new one.
