I’m more of a mediocre son. The kind who’s busy and already running behind. Which seems to be my constant state. Either late or on time, never early. Mostly late. A detour to the living room to assure my mom I’m still alive isn’t on today’s schedule. It’s been nine hours since she last saw me. Very little opportunity for me to die. Or even get sick.
“Hey, Mom. I gotta get going.”
“Could you help me? It’ll just take a few minutes.”
I wince. The secret phrase that’ll get me to do anything. “Sure.” I can’t turn down a request for help. Then I’d be demoted to terrible son. As the youngest and perpetual screw-up, I need any chance I can get for bonus points.
I check the time on my phone. At this rate, I’ll be so late I might as well not go.
Nope, I pull the brakes on that train of thought. That’s what old me would do. New me, or at least newer me, shows up no matter what. Even late.
When I get to the living room, my mom’s on the couch surrounded by stacks of books. “What’re you doing?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want the answer.
“I’m going through our books to donate the ones we don’t need to the church yard sale next month. I forgot how heavy they are.” She makes her point, heaving a stack of books a whole two inches away from her.
Yes, encyclopedias are, in fact, very heavy. And useless. No one will want these, no matter how needy they might be.
I bite my lips and start hauling books from the stacks around the couch back to the shelves. It’s not worth arguing. If I get them out of the way, maybe I can find the time to organize them later.
“Those over there are for donation.” She waves herhands towards a few small piles, which suspiciously don’t contain the encyclopedias. Good thing, too. I’ll still be able to look up forty-year-old information about the USSR during a power outage.
“Where do you want them?” I grab one of the smaller stacks.
“Maybe the dining room? Somewhere close to the wall where we won’t trip over them.”
Sure, after carting heavy loads of lumber and rock around all day, what’s a hundred pounds of books?I keep my sarcastic comments to myself, also part of the new me. They don’t help the situation. Ask me how I know.
I make a few trips into the dining room, stacking the books near the far window. We only eat in here on Thanksgiving and Christmas, so if they’re gone by then, no one will notice.
Of course, the fact that no one will notice means we’ll walk in here on Thanksgiving morning to find that they were never donated. Then we’ll be stuck with a copy ofMaking Windows 98 Work for Youon our shelf for another year.
I excuse myself once all the books have been put in the dining room or back on the shelf. If I hurry, I can at least change clothes. A shower would be better, but there’s no time.
“One more thing,” my mom starts.
“Mom, I have to go. Can this wait until I get back?”
“But it’s always so late when you get home.”
“You can leave me a note,” I offer, eyeing the stairs down to the basement apartment where I live. Apartment is a strong word for it, but it sounds better than telling people I live in what used to be the playroom.
“Fine,” she says in a voice that tells me it absolutelyis notfine. I don’t have time for theatrics, though, so I make my escape.
I swap my work pants and t-shirt for jeans and aHenleyand take a moment to apply extra deodorant. Hopefully, I don’t smell too bad. Sweat is a constant side effect of manual labor. I don’t mind or notice it anymore, but I’m sure my classmates do. I check the mirror before grabbing the backpack and ball cap next to my desk, and I run back up the stairs.
“Bye, Mom.” I holler as I pull the front door closed. And okay, I sound like a teenager. I hate it. It’s hard to break those old habits, especially now that I’m living at home.Again.
I hop in myHonda Fit, Squeezy, and drive toward the community college. If I hit every green light on the way there, I’ll only be ten minutes late to class. Not great, but at least I’ll be there. That’s my motto these days. Just show up. It’s a low bar, but I spent most of my life ducking under it. Repeatedly.
My phone rings halfway through the drive. My mom can argue with me via voicemail. As I go to decline the call, I spot my boss’s name on the Caller ID. His calls come with overtime or extra shifts, which means extra cash.
“Hey, Sam, what’s up?” I put it on speakerphone so I can drive while talking. Squeezy isn’t fancy enough for a Bluetooth connection. She’s a beautiful, limited-edition lemon color, so I love her anyway. Maybe I can save up for a newer model sometime in the next five years.
Okay, ten years.
“Hey, Frank. Matthias, the owner of the yard we’re working on, called me after you left today.” I cringe. I knew that guy would be trouble. I can tell by looking at the house. Everything’s a little too pristineand tidy. “I’m sure it’s fine, but I promised I’d ask you guys to keep the site as clean as possible.”
“There’s an assload of material. Where does he think we’re going to put it?” I spent eight hours today hauling wood, rocks, and gravel from the front of the house to the back of the house. Every muscle in my body is screaming from the experience, and tomorrow’s going to be worse.
