Shrimp Ramen

Shrimp Ramen
By: George Gonzalez

Some time after midnight, day after Thanksgiving:

Lights wash over the gray rectangular building sitting at 1405 Brushwick Avenue, its asphalt driveway covered in a brief blanket of white. Flurries of dark snow hang in the air, momentarily white by the onslaught of my headlights, and then black again, lost in the darkness.

I pull into the driveway running the length of the house and crawl into the parking area at the back. Stella shines black under the force of the halogen lights that erupt to life as I reach the detached garage.

We sit in her for a moment, watching steam rise from the trash cans in the neighbor’s yard, listening to Dust in the Wind by Kansas, neither of us in a hurry to climb the steps into reality.

“Weird night huh?” Brittany finally says, pulling out a pack of Camel Crushes and beating them against her thigh.

“Understatement,” I mumble, chewing the ends of my nails, a lock of blonde hair falling over my right eye. “You’re not smoking those in here by the way.”

“No one said I was. Shit. You and dad share the same level of courtesy ya know that? Fucking sociopaths.” The second time she’s called me that tonight.

My mind begins going backwards, a retrospection I’d like to hold off as long as possible.

“Where do you think she went? Does she have a girlfriend?” I ask no one really.

“Doubt it. Probably a park somewhere, freezing her ass off. Alone, sleeping under a newspaper, crying. Can you believe she’s lesbian? Not by choice I’m sure. It’s better we came home; we’ll never find her. Not tonight. “

“Fuck it!” I suddenly scream. “Fuck it all. Three months out the window and I don’t give a shit. I really really don’t.” I reach over, grab the pack out of her hand, wrench open the top and rip away the foil covering.

“Yeah, sure, of course you can have one, thanks for asking,” she spits as with shaking hands I light it and suck at the end, first trapping the smoke in my mouth, then sucking in air through my nose, finally letting it billow from my nostrils. I can feel the nectar invade my lungs every time I breathe in and waves of bliss settle over my mind.

“You’re supposed to crush the end, to mentholate it ya know?” she says after several seconds of silence.

“No thanks. Its bad enough I’ve started again. I don’t need holes in my lungs.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works-“

“Does it fucking matter Brittany?! Really? Is this the conversation we’re having right now? You understand I’m not smoking this for the fucking taste right?!”

“Okay, alright, Jesus Christ.” Another pause then, “You’re going to have to talk to him. Eventually. He can’t go on thinking Mom and you are…fuck…this whole thing is too fucked for words.”

I finish my cigarette and put it out in the pullout ashtray under my radio: a clean black surface, immaculate and reflective, until this moment of course. In it I see myself, covered in ash. The halogen lights above us finally turn off.

“Let’s go,” I whisper as I open the door into the billowing, freezing wasteland that is my parent’s backyard. Well…my dad’s backyard at least.

We quickly run up to the back door, our high heels piercing the silence with frantic clicks like the chomping of millions of beetles, where my sister, after a few seconds of cursing and fumbling in her two-shades-of-blue Dooney and Burke purse, finds her keys and opens the door.

A wall of music hits us full force: I can’t remember the name but I know it’s the famous song in the Pagliacci opera. After he kills his wife I think, you know, the one in all the Godfathers.

“Dad! What the fuck!” yells Brittany, her hands pressed firmly against her ears. We run towards the noise, thousands of decibels filling our eardrums with the misery of a clown, up the staircase sitting just beyond the kitchen and burst into my father’s study, where we find him struggling to put his head through a noose made out of a brown belt he’s tied to the little chandelier hanging above his desk. His crimson robe is open revealing nipples sagging within patches of curly white hair and a huge gut sitting uncomfortably on white and blue striped boxers. His face is purple with frustration as he tries to put his bald, sweat covered head through a hole that is much too small. On the desk, next to his bare feet, sits his wooden pipe, still smoking, two open bottles of Xanax and, beside that, an open, almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Dad no! What the hell are you doing! Stop that!”

Eyes blood red water behind brown spectacles when he stares at me, his mouth hanging open as if his misery has sucked the energy from his face leaving his jaw helpless to droop away. He stares at me for less than a second and then resumes forcing his head through the belt, the hole crowning bright pink.

I jump onto the desk, kicking over the bottle of Jack Daniels that pours a dark amber liquid thick like molasses that spreads across the oak desk and drips to the ground. I push him, a little too hard maybe, and he falls backwards, crashing into his chair, which heaves forward and lets him fall to the ground, finally landing on top of him.

I climb off the desk and lift the chair (a large, leather, winged monstrosity from Office Max) off of a weeping, middle aged, balding man.

“Girls! Hello! Is that you Shrimpy?” he asks squinting his eyes and lifting his right hand to his brow, as if trying to block out the sun to see better. The liquor warps his speech and his breath stinks of whiskey.

“Sure is! Well hot damn! Blood of my veins, fruit of my loins!” Here he laughs, still weeping— a horrible sound. “Fruit indeed! About as fruity as they get I’d say!” More laughter marred by grief.

There’s a vicious static in my head: thoughts lining up and screaming for attention. Behind me I can hear footsteps and then merciful quiet as Brittany turns off the radio. I pick up both bottles of pills and find them empty.

I bend over holding the bottles at eye level with my dad. “Where are the pills dad? Tell me! Where are the fucking pills?”

He stares back at me, eyes swimming and bloodshot, and lets out a monstrous burp that I can almost feel singe my freshly plucked eyebrows away.

I throw both bottles to the floor and grab his shoulders, shaking them.

“Where the fuck are they?! Did you eat em? Huh! Did you fucking eat all those pills dad? Answer me goddammit!”

Nothing but a vacuous stare underlined by a painful smile. The urge to punch him in the mouth over and over again till his teeth stick out jaggedly from each of my knuckles I’m barely able to suppress.

All the while Brittany stands at the door to the study, her mouth hanging open, snow melting off her jacket and dripping to the floor.

“Stop fingering yourself and call the fucking cops will ya?!” I scream, not even looking back at her.

“Wait!” he suddenly yells, a look of understanding bursting from his bright green eyes. “I know what you’re looking for!”

He opens a drawer near the bottom of the desk on my right and pulls out a large, black vibrator, holding it above his head triumphantly.

“Da da da daaaa!” he sings, a vicious smile covering his face from ear to ear.

“Here you go honey,” he says, turning it on and thrusting it into my face where I watch the bearings whirr to life through the clear, silicon window near the tip. I take it from him and place it on the desk behind me, where it stands, undulating wildly.

“Now don’t you go spending it all in one place. You’ll get a tummy ache doncha know.” He begins laughing again, bringing in his legs against his chest and rocking back and forth.

“It’s all, all of it’s, bullshit ya know. They say ‘You make your own destiny’ and ‘Fate is in your hands’ and ‘If you swim after eating you’ll get cramps’ but it’s all bullshit. Fate does what it wants Shrimpy. Don’t you ever forget that.”

I hear frantic footsteps as Brittany makes her way back into the room, her face wild with expression, something I’ve never seen before.

“They’re on their way.” She looks at my dad, this pathetic creature rocking on the wooden floor before us, and quickly looks away.

“Can I get you something? Cook something maybe? I can make…um…” Her eyes look downward and dart back and forth frantically searching the rolodex of her mind. Within mine I search for an image of Brittany cooking; I draw a blank.

“Ramen?” she finally says shame clouding her features.

And at this he stops laughing for only a moment, staring right at her, his face contorting with agony. Then he bellows laughter, sweat pouring down his forehead, tears running in rivers down his cheeks.

“Fucking shrimp ramen,” he ejaculates, “I shoulda known.”

I stand up and walk around him. I wrap him in my arms and follow his rocking, all the while whispering, “It’s going to be okay. I promise, it’ll all be alright dad. It’ll all be alright it’ll-“

I chant this over and over, watching the vibrator whirr and whirr, locked in the grip of memory, knowing nothing would ever be the same.

Around Six P.M, Thanksgiving Day

The wind drunkenly slides its hands down the front of my dark black wool jacket, feeling me up with icy fingers as I emerge from Stella, her black paint glossy and freshly waxed. I draw my gray scarf tighter around my neck and walk across the asphalt parking area; my high heels (Jimmy Chu’s I almost knocked this Mexican bitch’s head off for) click clacking across its surface, my dark black satin skirt rustling at my ankles.

The Campbell house is a modest one: large and perfectly box shaped, three stories tall, with four rows of windows neatly lined up and surrounded by gray trim. Its yards are typical Southern New Jersey asphalt, not a blade of tedious, temperamental, taxing grass in sight. Christmas lights line the gutters and side wood paneling a haunting red and green I know to be remnants of a Christmas in which I still wore diapers. My dad is one of few words and even fewer actions, the dilapidated, mold covered Santa at the top right corner of the roof a constant testament to this.

I breathe in deep as I make my way to the back door, letting the icy air fill my lungs with an invigoration I’ve missed. When I reach the doorknob it turns easily in one black, leather gloved hand.

I walk into the kitchen where a million different scents bully their way into my nostrils, jostling about, none more distinct than the rest. My stomach rumbles and mouth instantly begins to salivate—I’m hungrier than I thought.

A square of nicotine gum should fix that, I think as I quickly pop a square in my mouth and begin to chew.

The door opens into a well-sized kitchen; with a large black and white marble sink leaning a few feet in front of me against the wall on my left. Across from it there’s a little black and white island riddled with shelves, also made of wonderful, glittering Peruvian Marble, and, across from that, jutting from the wall to my right, a large black stove sitting on a large black oven. Above the sink and stove are four cabinets; all made of what I’m guessing is red oak.

Above the sink to my left there’s a large rectangle cut out of the wall revealing a large living room with red and orange jungle printed loveseats, one against each wall, and, between the two, a giant red and orange leopard print couch. The loveseats I can almost deal with. The couch is utterly grotesque. Before all of these, against the far wall affording a wonderful, grandiose even view from the sink is my father’s 52-inch Vizio flat screen.

“Nice hat.” Carrie, my twin sister, rises from the couch in the middle of the living room.

I reach up and feel the smooth ball sitting at the peak of my head, momentarily confused, until I remember the dark black beret I’m wearing. Beret. Not a hat.

Stupid uncultured bitch would think it’s just a hat, I think, a vile taste filling my mouth. I bend over in front of the sink and open its little red oak doors spitting my nicotine gum into the trashcan underneath.

Glaring at her, I say, “Thanks. Nice…um…” but I find it hard to find anything on her commendable. She’s wearing an outfit straight out of Dykes Digest: a dark maroon, almost flannel I shit you not, button up shirt over baggy, faded blue jeans. Her hair is pulled up into a large bun and she’s put what looks like a trucker’s hat over the entire gut wrenching ensemble: a turd cherry on a shit storm sundae.

Instead I try to compliment her features but here, once again, I find myself at a loss.

Thank god I don’t look anything like her, I think, smiling on the inside. Sure we both have the same high set cheek bones, small scrunched up Rene Zellwegereske nose (not her eyes though thank the lord) but my eyes shine a shade of green unattainable by most mortals while hers are a dull, redundant hazel and my hair, well I’m not sure what my original hair color is anymore but it isn’t a frayed woefully boring shade of brunette. Also her face is covered in an unsightly mass of acne blanketing her features like a victim of mass herpes, whereas my face is an immaculate canvas.

“Where is everyone?” I finally ask, giving up on the compliment all together. I make my way around the kitchen and into the living room, meeting her behind the couch, taking off my jacket, gloves and beret as I walk.

“Dad’s in his study, Brittany’s in her room I think and Mom went to get Uncle Bobby,” she says taking the lot to the coat closet on our left. The weird taste comes back when I hear her refer to Judy as Mom. Fucking traitor.

“She doesn’t still live here, does she?” I ask as I sit on the couch and briefly catch what it is Carrie was watching before I arrived. On the screen are Asian men (Japanese maybe) running a series of obstacles. Ninja Warrior I think it’s called, but who knows—television’s such a waste of time anyways.

“Yeah,” she answers sitting down next to me and bringing her bare, ashy, dirt covered feet up to the cushion and tucking them under her butt. “She lives in the guest bedroom. It’s not so bad between them anymore ya know. Sure they never talk but it’s better than…well better than before.”

“I’m sure,” I mumble searching through my bag for some strawberry lip-gloss. “What they need to do is say to hell with it. They’re basically separated as it is.”

“Seventeen years is a lot to give up.”

We sit in silence as I apply the goo to my lips with a long wand, watching countless men fall from obstacle after obstacle into the muddy water below.

To the left of the television, against the far right wall, the mantle above our white tile fireplace grins back at me through a million different faces. One in particular catches my eye: two little girls both in long blue dresses, both with their hair tied back, their arms around each other, grinning stupid, exaggerated, naive smiles that make their green eyes sparkle with innocence.


The poor bastards, I think, not knowing it’s all so fleeting. A monster of shame sits in my throat, clawing frantically to get out, but I swallow it immediately and feel it constrict against my heart. The fringes of a panic attack in grasp, I count back from a hundred in multiples of three-a technique survived from weaker times.

“Do you ever think of her?” I hear myself say.

“Who?” she asks though her eyes flutter to the mantle instantly. They fall on a picture silhouetted in the ethereal glow of a setting sun: a woman in her late twenties, her dimples cavernous and blue eyes half-lidded, almost sensual, encased forever in memory.

I roll my eyes and sigh, suddenly exhausted. “Never mind.”

After a few seconds she says: “I hear her sometimes you know?”

“You hear...our dead mother...talk to you...sometimes?” Why the hell did I bring this up? “Okayyy...” I look away from her and whistle the theme from Twilight Zone.

“See this is why I can’t talk to you. No one can! You take nothing seriously. Here I am trying to tell you how much mom helps me...persist...and you have to make jokes!”

“I’m sorry, alright, jeeze. Look let’s just forget we ever brought this up.”

“That’s just it Caroline that’s all you do! Forget forget forget! Well maybe I want to remember?! Huh? We can’t avoid it forever!”

“Alright, okay, let’s remember, go, talk about her. I’m listening,” her hysterics make me extremely uncomfortable, I squirm in my seat and try not to meet her eyes. All this emotion is turning my stomach.

“No. Forget it. I’m done.”

I think I might feel guilty. Tears glitter in Carrie’s eyes as she stares at the television, expressionless. Several more minutes of uncomfortable silence and I can’t take it anymore.

“She was beautiful wasn’t she? Nothing like Judy Horseface.”

“Dad says you look just like her,” Carrie whispers, her eyes glued to the television. My heart inflates with pride that I’m sure bubbles forth from my eyes like so much effervescent arrogance. I look back at the mantle and can’t help but smile. I bet he never said that about Carrie, I think.

“It’s funny you know. He never says things like that about me.”

“What do you mean?” I ask trying to retract my smile but failing miserably, “Identical twins remember? It’s implied.” I sit back, content that I’m able to pull off a compliment after all. It’s Caroline, Super Sister to the rescue! Feeling insecure? Unwanted? Just plain ugly? Caroline’s always there to help you bear! Caroliiine!

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Oh come on. At least you’re not some ugly twat parasite. You could have been Judy’s daughter ya know. Have to live with acid for blood and shit for brains like Brittany.”

“You know it really bothers me when you say things like that.”

“Since when?”

“Always. They’re family. Mother and sister. Just try to have a little more respect.”

“Respect!? Are you fucking kidding me?” My face burns hot with indignation as I struggle to keep my voice from quivering with rage. “After that slimy bitch convinces Dad to kick me out three years ago?! After all the shit she’s put him through?! Fuck off Carrie! What respect does that cunt deserve?!”

“Alright, see, now you’re yelling. This is why we can never talk. You take things too far. And besides you had it coming Caroline. You punched her in the mouth! Knocked out two of her teeth remember?”

“She called me a dirty whore! What’d you think I’d just take that lying down?!”

“She caught you…you know…with your cheerleading instructor.”

“So fucking what? I was eighteen!”

“He was married Caroline! He had two kids! You ruined his entire life!”

“Yeah…well…she shouldn’t have called me a whore. She had no goddamn right. She's not my mother, or yours for that matter. Nothing but a fucking impostor! Bitch walks around like she owns the place! This is dad’s house not hers! You know what she is?! Do you want to know what Judy Campbell Mega-Bitch Extradonaire really is?”

Carrie sighs and sits back her hands resting on that disgusting pooch she calls a stomach. “No Caroline. I really really don’t.”

“Well I’m going to tell you anyways. She’s a fucking parasite. Did you hear about that new bug found off the coast of Jersey Island? It bites off the tongues of fish and then lives in their mouth in its place and goes on to live the rest of its life eating what the fish eats. That’s Judy. An ugly tongue parasite. Just sucking the life out of this family little by little until we all die soul-less, miserable, agonizing, gut-wrenching, excruciating-“

“Are you done Caroline? I mean seriously what’s gotten into you? You don’t like Judy. Okay, I get it. Have a cigarette or something. Calm down, Jesus.”

“I can’t,” I whisper, thoroughly wiped out, “I quit three months ago.” I sigh and pop another nicotine gum into my mouth, wishing the metallic taste filling my mouth would take a flying leap off the closest mountain, preferably into rapidly whirling helicopter blades.

“Well, that’s good I guess. Those things will kill ya, ya know?”

“No shit Sherlock.” Carrie: Queen of Well Duh!

We sit in silence again, neither of us wanting to delve back into the disgusting, shit filled sewer that is our family. But, once again, the silence eats away at me gnashing its jaws around my guts until I’m forced to sink into mindless chatter once more.

“What’s new in you’re life then huh? How’s BCC?” I ask, half joking.

The intense shift in mood she presents catches me off guard. Her face blossoms into smugness I’ve never seen before, her eyes twinkling.

“I’ve got news,” she says, practically pissing herself I shit you not.

“Yeah?” I offer, hooking an eyebrow. “Well let’s hear it then. No need for suspense among buddies right?” I give her a playful punch on the shoulder.

“Nope. You’ll find out at dinner, like everyone else.”

It infuriates me how curious I am. I shouldn’t give a shit, yet it burns within me: an inflammation of the curious muscle—the very same thing that gave Curious George chlamydia. I must watch this.

“Okay. Fine. What do I care?”

“Okay,” she says, that maddening smile widening.

Dinner can’t come quick enough.

Dinner

I stare at her, dumbstruck, over torrents of sweet potatoes, hurricanes of mashed potatoes, landslides of baked potatoes, and a whirlpool of Mac and cheese. My father, a moustached walrus wearing a black and blue striped cashmere sweater, smoking a pipe he’d spit into the gravy mere moments ago, brown drips from the end and down his sweater, stares forward, a vacuous look in his eyes, his hands clenched in fists. He sits at the far end of the table, facing me, the two of us bookends trying to hold together textbooks twice our size. To his right sits Carrie, beside her Brittany, to his left Uncle Bobby and beside him Judy.

“Dad, can I borrow the car?” asks my bitch of a half-sister, bored as usual. She flakes off a piece of turkey skin off the mutilated catastrophe that mars her plate (she’d picked at it all night tearing off pieces and then reassembling them into different pictures, the last I can remember before the mind shattering decree of a few moments ago a corpulent man with a moustache with what looked like wings) and flicks it at Carrie where it sticks to her neck.

I wish I was in a laughing mood.

“Dad?”

He blinks twice and takes a long drag off the pipe again.

“Yes sweetie?”

“The car? Tonight? Can I borrow it is the question.”

I turn on her, suddenly infuriated.

“”Not the time Brittany you wart!” I hiss through clenched teeth.

“But I have a date! Not everyone has to be miserable like the rest of you fucking sociopaths!” These words spew out haphazardly and I wonder why people are given the ability to talk before the age of eighteen. Why some get it at all. Why it isn’t an earned privilege denied to those with only stupidity flowing through their mind like decrepit sludge.

“Not the time!” I repeat, “The family’s having a crisis god knows if Dad’s even still breathing over there! Dad!”

He jumps and turns his eyes on me for the first time since the announcement, puffs twice on his pipe and whispers, “Pass the Jack please Caroline.”

“Alcohol won’t solve a damn thing! What the hell is wrong with you people?!”

I’ve descended into a circle of hell Dante forgot, where everyone speaks nonsense and pretends the world is at its right. Where apathy reigns supreme, a mask devoid of the crushing agony spewing forth within. I think I might have an ulcer. I know I’m breathing heavily, I know the turkey in front of me sits uneaten and yet still my stomach shakes and sputters violently, sick though I’ve starved myself to make room for this meal.

“Caroline don’t speak like that to your father. Now apologize and let’s try to have our meal in peace,” chimes in Judy, sitting to my right, wearing a long bright orange dress with fishes adorned about it, red high heels and red-orange hoop earrings.

“Is anyone really surprised she’s a dyke? I mean seriously, look at her!” says Brittany pointing to Carrie’s apparel. Of course Judy says nothing to that, god forbid her little princess ever do anything wrong.

“Carrie, are you alright? You’ve hardly touched your potatoes,” says Judy, aptly playing the role of the caring mother.

“Not really in the mood for potatoes,” she whispers, staring down at her plate, not daring to meet any of our eyes.

“Well…then…what do you want?” Judy’s trying to keep the acidy disdain out of her voice and failing, obviously irked by Carrie’s rejection of her many potatoes.

“I don’t know. Do we have any ramen? Shrimp flavored maybe?”

There’s a crash as my father’s cup slips from his hand and falls to the table, over turning and spilling into his lap. His eyes are open wide, obviously disturbed.

“Oh Virgil! Watch what you’re doing!” Judy shrieks as she runs into the kitchen for a towel.

“Dad?” I ask, concerned. “Are you okay?”

It takes a few moments but he finally answers: “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…reminded me of something.”

We sit in silence for a few seconds and I’ve never welcomed it more.

“Dad!” screams Brittany, the intolerable bitch, “The car? Please?”

He tosses the keys and they land in the mashed potatoes which explode into Judy’s face.

My father, ever stoic, begins to laugh raucously, his enormous belly heaving once, two, three times in quick succession, and these outbursts of mirth are quickly overtaken with a guttural, vicious coughing fit, though a smile still sits on his face and, as soon as the retching subsides, replaces the pipe back in his mouth.

Brittany grabs the keys, oblivious to the scene unfolding before her, and turns to leave but before she can my dad stops her with a single sentence, “This date of yours. He is…a…boy…correct?”

She turns around slowly to look at him, studying his face, maybe trying to see if he’s joking, but he sits back, the pipe billowing away, his arms crossed over his stained sweater.

Finally, I think, maybe we’ll get a reaction. Maybe reality will seep in. Maybe the world, now black and gray, will explode with color and someone will address what Carrie recently spouted at us. Her recent descents, I shudder as I think of that word as a euphemism, into lesbianism.

She shrugs, the coy slut, and says, “I think so. Maybe tonight I’ll find out. Don’t wait up.” Turns around and walks out of the room

“Well goddamn Judy these sweet potatoes are extremely delicious, what is it you said you put in them, that secret recipe you shared with me on the way over?” asks Uncle Bobby, King of useless conversation.

Judy merely stares at him, potato gently sliding down her face.

I put my head into my hands, my forehead burning, and pray for death.
Bedroom, several minutes later
Afternoon Delight washes over me as I attempt to rocket out of the atmosphere, riding on the back of Chocolate Thunda, the only sounds that of my heavy breathing and the whirr of the vibrator.

Multitudes of men, all shirtless, gaze down at me: Matthew Mcconaughey holding a long blue surfboard covering my right wall is slapping my ass, telling me what a dirty bitch I am, thrusting viciously from behind as Eminem, covering the wall directly in front of me right above my dresser, sucks my tits and tells Matthew to back the fuck off.

The pressure builds, I find myself on the edge of a cliff about to dive into the bright, clear waters of oblivion, when there’s a knock on my door followed by Judy’s nauseating voice: “Caroline? Are you in there?”

I’m too close now; nothing can stop me, not the end of the world, not an alien invasion, not a nuclear holocaust. Mine first, Armageddon can wait. So I don’t reply and continue to sink Thunda into me, massaging my clit, humping the air, when I hear her unlocking the door from the other side. Something I’ve forgotten: the door is easily accessible from the other side, my father’s way of insuring there are never any locked doors in his house, a mantra he’s held true to since I can remember. A fingernail is all it takes, or the edge of a coin for that matter, and there goes privacy.

I have no time to think; maybe it was because, in my rush to leave the world in an orgasmic supernova, I’d taken off my pants and left them on the floor right in front of the door. Or it could be because my mattress is devoid of sheets or for that matter anything that can be used to cover my shame, but my first thought is to hide under the bed, which I do just as the door opens.

“Shh,” whispers Judy, giggling like a schoolgirl. “A quick one and that’s it okay? Oh shit I love this song.” The first time I’ve ever heard Judy cuss, it almost makes me forget that I’m bottomless under my own bed with a vibrator in my hand.

“Are you sure he won’t find out?” My heart freezes and stomach clenches, the disgusting, metallic taste filling my mouth once more.

The voice belongs to my Uncle Bobby.

“Does it matter?” she asks in a seductive voice I’ve never heard before. “We’re broken up, you know that. I can do whatever I want. Who’s he to stop us from being happy huh?”

“He’s my bro-“ but that’s as far as he gets before his words are drowned out by vicious smacking sounds. I hum to myself and hold my vibrator, still whirring away, to my ear, anything to mask out the noises.

Within a few moments she’s moaning and I watch as the bed begins to shake above me, coming down and then popping up repeatedly, her moans, while barely a whisper, are easily audible and they begin to race and grow with intensity.

Thank you oh fortuitous gods burning in the depths of hell for making me privy to this atrocity, I think, wishing this could all be over.

I think the saying is: “Be careful what you wish for.”

“Caroline? You in there sweetie?” It’s my dad on the other side of the door, working the doorknob, wanting to get in.

“Oh shit!” I hear Judy whisper. “It’s Virgil! Quick go to the closet. Now Bobby go! And take your clothes!” Creaks as weight is shifted on the bed and then a small squeak of the hinges as my closet door is slowly shut. This can’t be happening, I think, Oh god almighty, lord in heaven I beseech thee please just let him leave. Please, please, please-

“Hey! What did I say about locked doors in this house?”

As he jimmies open the door I can hear Judy frantically moving above me, putting on her clothes I hope.

A second later the door opens and all movement stops, I can hardly breathe, a heart attack seems imminent.

“What…what’s going on here Judy?”

A pause that stretches into eternity in which the stupid cunt says nothing.

“Is someone in here with you?” I hear his footsteps make their way around my bed. I imagine the look on my dad’s face as he opens that door, the betrayal he must feel. He can’t find out, I decide, not like this.

“It’s just me dad,” I announce, pulling myself out from under the bed. They both stare at me, eyes wide, my dad wearing a new cashmere sweater, this one yellow and green, Judy wearing half her dress, her breasts hanging out (wrinkly bags practically oozing off of her chest I shit you not) her hair completely frazzled. Her hands fly to her bosom as she notices me, a violated, shameful look drawing her face downwards.

He stares from me to her, his face dropping and turning a dark purple, a vein throbbing in his forehead I’ve never noticed before. Only now do I realize that I’m still holding the vibrator.

“It’s…it’s not what you think,” I begin but that’s where my words fall short. How does one explain this?

Beads of sweat erupt from his forehead, he tries to speak but all that comes out is a horrible clicking noise.

“Now, honey, we can talk about this,” Judy says, finally finding her voice.

“I fucking knew that wasn’t shrimp ramen I tasted,” is all he says before ripping the vibrator out of my hand and turning towards the door. “I’m confiscating this,” he whispers and walks out.

“What was I supposed to do?” Judy screams after him, pulling her dress over her antiquated rack.

“You never touch me any more Virgil! You barely even give me the time of day! The last year you barely even look at me! What the fuck did I do to deserve this?! Huh? Tell me what I did!”

She looks back at me once, tears glittering in her eyes, and then runs off in a huff, almost crashing into Carrie, who’s standing at the door, staring at me.

“You couldn’t even let me have this could you? You’re a selfish, egotistical snob and I loved you for that. I never yelled at you when you made fun of me in high school, never raised my voice when you fucked Geoffrey even though I told you we were going to prom together, never so much as considered hurting you. And yet, here we are, you shitting all over me, same ole Caroline. Different day.” Hearing her curse is another first for me and it burns my ears like vials of acid. She stares at me a moment longer, as I dumbly attempt to string together a comprehensible sentence, expressionless. I almost wish she was crying or shaking with anger; anything to play off of would be a relief.

She turns to leave and as she walks away all I manage is a feeble, “It’s not what it looks like,” before she disappears into the hallway.

One year earlier, Thanksgiving Day

I stand at the sink washing away the last of many stubborn strands clinging for dear life to the edges of a sterling silver pot, watching, mesmerized, as they disappear into the garbage disposal, their ends wiggling as they submerge, bidding their final goodbyes. I look up in time to see my father and Judy kissing in the living room, and it works to twist my stomach into hundreds of nauseous knots.

When they pull apart I notice the look on my dad’s face and it vindicates me with a rush I hadn’t felt all day: his eyes are scrunched tight, his mouth sucked in as if he’d just bitten into something extremely sour, his features perfectly mirroring the repulsion I feel within. He licks his lips and scowls.

“Something wrong honey?” Judy asks, concern clouding her features.

“Uh…its just…you taste like….what is that? Did you eat something?”

She looks confused and then understanding draws a smile to her face, “Oh that’s just shrimp ramen baby. I got a little hungry waiting for Bobby to get here. I made a batch for Caroline and me. Why? Can’t be that bad can it?”

He’s still grimacing, licking his lips, not liking at all the way it tastes.

“Are you sure…it tastes like…well it doesn’t matter I guess. Is everything set up?”

“Mhm, just need to put some glasses of wine out and we’re all set.” She walks away then, enters the kitchen, shoots me an empty smile, grabs a bottle of cabernet and some wine glasses, and walks into the dining room.

I turn back around and almost jump when I find my father right next to me, searching the sink for something.

“Did you and Judy eat some…shrimp ramen?” he asks, looking doubtful.

“Yep, just finished cleaning the pot now. Turns out she can cook after all! At least her ramen is better than her fucking potatoes.”

The scowl remains as he presses his fingers against his temples, massaging them gently, as if trying to decide something. “Are you sure? You didn’t…see a woman…here earlier did you? Someone come over to see your mom maybe?”

His face is flushed a dark red, an expression on it I haven’t seen since Mom died. A year from today I’ll stand over his bed, silhouetted by miles of fluorescents, and watch as three male nurses hold him down and a flustered female nurse attempts to put in a cathadir. “Stop it you raping fucks! Leave me alone,” he’ll scream as the nurse yells, “What did you take sir? Tell us! What did you take? We need to know!” Miles of plastic tubing jammed into his piss hole, he finally whispers, “Xanax! Just stop please I took Xanax!” A year from today I’ll hold his hand as a clear plastic tube is forced up his right nostril and down his throat. Black liquid pours into him— charcoal they call it. A year from today I’ll take a screaming ride from one end of Columbus Hospital to the next, my father throwing up greenish black liquid all over himself at steady intervals, Coherency now too drunk and restless to stick around, wiping away his blackened cheeks and neck and staring out the back windows as the tires of the ambulance displace the snow and leave muddy, brown tracks stretching into oblivion.

Back in the kitchen I reply, “Nope, no one. Are you alright Dad? You don’t look so good.”

“Huh?” he asks, blinking a few times, awake for the first time since the kiss.

“Yeah, sure, I’m fine,” he mumbles shooting me a tractable grin. We stand there uncomfortably by the sink, watching some talk show about slutty teens or some other mindless garbage on the Vizio flat screen, until I finally say: “Can you believe we have to sit through another one of these fucking things? Slit my wrists now please, I think it would hurt less than what’s about to ensue that’s for sure.”

My dad smiles, ruffling my hair in a way I hate, and says, “Nah, it can’t be all bad. I have a feeling this year’s going to be A-okay.”
Austin, Tx
November 8th 2009-November 11 2009