and pulled his hair tie out. He flipped his
head around until his stringy, black hair hung loosely over his
shoulders. Tommy stomped across the room and punched the wall next
to his vintage Black Sabbath poster. His fist went through the
drywall with a dull thud and he growled like a rabid pit bull on a
playground.
Julio was such a smarmy piece of shit.
Who did he think he was, using the mailroom as his own personal
meat market? Fuck him.
Fuck Barry too. That fat bastard had
been a prick from the beginning, eyeballing Tommy every morning
like he was a drug dealer or mass murderer or something, always
inspecting his ID badge intently like he had never seen it before.
Well, Barry had the ID now and he could shove it up his ass for all
Tommy cared.
Tommy pulled his fist out of the wall
and inspected the damage; he would have to rearrange his posters
again, before the next property management inspection. Tommy shook
his head and plodded off towards the kitchen.
“Thomas, there’s lunch on the stove,”
his mother told him as he crossed through the living room, “I know
you don’t like tomato soup, but it goes so well with grilled
cheese. If you eat it all, I’ll give you a treat.”
It was 9:53 according to
the clock next to the microwave; too early for lunch. Tommy could
hear Neil Patrick Harris trading witty banter with Kelly Ripa on
his mother’s old Zenith. Regis was gone now, why they hadn’t
changed the name yet Tommy couldn’t say. If they planned to keep
the name, they might as well change it back to Regis and Cathy Lee .
There was no lunch on the stove, Tommy
knew. The old bat was living in some obscure day in the distant
past. There couldn’t be lunch waiting for him because, before he
had left the apartment that morning, he had pulled the stove out
and jerked the large, three prong plug from the wall. In her state
of mind, she couldn’t be trusted to use the stove, the oven, or
even the microwave.
Tommy couldn’t remember a time when she
had actually made him tomato soup and grilled cheese, but it must
have been an important day for his mother, she re-lived it about
three days a week. Usually she informed him of the meal when he was
helping her into her nightgown or getting her bath
ready.
Tommy kicked his stepping stool across
the linoleum floor. He slid it up against the fridge with one foot
and stood up on his toes to reach the cupboard above the
refrigerator. He found his little cigar box with his finger tips
and pulled it down. After transferring it to his free hand, he
carefully extracted his bong.
At the small kitchen table,
Tommy flipped open the box and began to sort through its contents.
Under the Zig-Zag rolling papers, he found his three small
roaches. Not nearly
enough , he thought, I’ll have to get Grinder to front me some
more .
Tommy jammed the little, scorched
leftovers into the bowl of his water pipe and sparked up his Bic.
His bong gargled and he sucked in the sweet smoke, holding it until
his face was red and he thought his eyes might pop.
Celie, from The Color Purple , was
spewing her gibberish in a deep baritone from the Zenith. The View was next in his
mother’s daytime programming.
Tommy exhaled with a huffing cough and
leaned back in the tattered, vinyl covered chair. He huffed again
and used a toothpick to poke at the ashes in the bowl, it was
spent.
“You shouldn’t smoke in the house,
John,” his mother said from the recliner parked in front of the TV,
“we have the baby now. It’s not good for the baby.”
John was the piece of crap, junky,
guitar player who had knocked Tommy’s mother up. He had skipped
town with his band when Tommy was three. John C. Taylor thought
that one day he would make it big and play for sold out crowds. In
the tradition of all the Rock and Roll legends, he delved deep into
drugs, looking for his inspiration and his own unique
sound.
The problem was, Johnny C. was far
better at cooking a hit of heroin and finding a vein that he
head around until his stringy, black hair hung loosely over his
shoulders. Tommy stomped across the room and punched the wall next
to his vintage Black Sabbath poster. His fist went through the
drywall with a dull thud and he growled like a rabid pit bull on a
playground.
Julio was such a smarmy piece of shit.
Who did he think he was, using the mailroom as his own personal
meat market? Fuck him.
Fuck Barry too. That fat bastard had
been a prick from the beginning, eyeballing Tommy every morning
like he was a drug dealer or mass murderer or something, always
inspecting his ID badge intently like he had never seen it before.
Well, Barry had the ID now and he could shove it up his ass for all
Tommy cared.
Tommy pulled his fist out of the wall
and inspected the damage; he would have to rearrange his posters
again, before the next property management inspection. Tommy shook
his head and plodded off towards the kitchen.
“Thomas, there’s lunch on the stove,”
his mother told him as he crossed through the living room, “I know
you don’t like tomato soup, but it goes so well with grilled
cheese. If you eat it all, I’ll give you a treat.”
It was 9:53 according to
the clock next to the microwave; too early for lunch. Tommy could
hear Neil Patrick Harris trading witty banter with Kelly Ripa on
his mother’s old Zenith. Regis was gone now, why they hadn’t
changed the name yet Tommy couldn’t say. If they planned to keep
the name, they might as well change it back to Regis and Cathy Lee .
There was no lunch on the stove, Tommy
knew. The old bat was living in some obscure day in the distant
past. There couldn’t be lunch waiting for him because, before he
had left the apartment that morning, he had pulled the stove out
and jerked the large, three prong plug from the wall. In her state
of mind, she couldn’t be trusted to use the stove, the oven, or
even the microwave.
Tommy couldn’t remember a time when she
had actually made him tomato soup and grilled cheese, but it must
have been an important day for his mother, she re-lived it about
three days a week. Usually she informed him of the meal when he was
helping her into her nightgown or getting her bath
ready.
Tommy kicked his stepping stool across
the linoleum floor. He slid it up against the fridge with one foot
and stood up on his toes to reach the cupboard above the
refrigerator. He found his little cigar box with his finger tips
and pulled it down. After transferring it to his free hand, he
carefully extracted his bong.
At the small kitchen table,
Tommy flipped open the box and began to sort through its contents.
Under the Zig-Zag rolling papers, he found his three small
roaches. Not nearly
enough , he thought, I’ll have to get Grinder to front me some
more .
Tommy jammed the little, scorched
leftovers into the bowl of his water pipe and sparked up his Bic.
His bong gargled and he sucked in the sweet smoke, holding it until
his face was red and he thought his eyes might pop.
Celie, from The Color Purple , was
spewing her gibberish in a deep baritone from the Zenith. The View was next in his
mother’s daytime programming.
Tommy exhaled with a huffing cough and
leaned back in the tattered, vinyl covered chair. He huffed again
and used a toothpick to poke at the ashes in the bowl, it was
spent.
“You shouldn’t smoke in the house,
John,” his mother said from the recliner parked in front of the TV,
“we have the baby now. It’s not good for the baby.”
John was the piece of crap, junky,
guitar player who had knocked Tommy’s mother up. He had skipped
town with his band when Tommy was three. John C. Taylor thought
that one day he would make it big and play for sold out crowds. In
the tradition of all the Rock and Roll legends, he delved deep into
drugs, looking for his inspiration and his own unique
sound.
The problem was, Johnny C. was far
better at cooking a hit of heroin and finding a vein that he
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