Reality Boy

As I near the kitchen hallway, I hear the familiar sound of Tasha getting nailed by Danny the hillbilly.

If I brought a girl home and did that to her that loud, my parents would kick me out. But if Tasha does it? We all have to pretend that it’s not actually happening. One time she was whinnying away down in the basement with Danny while Mom, Lisi, and I ate dinner. This was last year when Lisi still lived at home. Mom talked nonstop to block it out, as if the three of us would magically unhear what was going on. And did you see that Boscov’s is having a white sale this weekend? We could use new sheets and towels and I think I’ll go over on Saturday morning because the selection is always better early in the day and I really would love some that are blue to match the upstairs bathroom and last time I ended up with those red sheets and as much as I like them, they still seem too rough and they usually have nice flannel this time of year and I think it’s important to have flannel sheets in winter, you know? Blah blah blah blah blah.

I got about seven mouthfuls into a nice plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes and I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I went to the basement door, opened it, and screamed, “If you don’t stop planking my sister while I eat dinner, I’m going to come down there and kick your ass. Have some f**king respect!” and I slammed the door.

My mother stopped talking about towels and sheets and gave me that look she’d been giving everyone for as long as I could remember. It said Tasha can’t help it. It said We just can’t control what Tasha does.

Or, in Lisi’s words, “Tasha is out of control and for some reason our mother is totally fine with it. Don’t know why, don’t care, either. I’m getting as far from here as I can the minute I can.”

And she did. Lisi went all the way to Glasgow, Scotland, where she’s studying literature, psychology, and environmental science all at the same time while balancing a waitressing job and her years-long pot habit. She hasn’t called since she left. Not even once. She e-mailed Mom to let us know she got there okay, but she never calls. It’s been three months.

Anyway, Mom should have named Tasha “Trigger.” Not just because of the horse sounds she makes when she’s getting planked by the redneck, either.

She is my number one trigger.

That’s the term the anger management coach uses to describe why I get angry. It’s the self-controlled, acceptable word we use for shit that pisses me off. That’s called a trigger. I have spent the last four years identifying mine. And it’s Tasha.

At least on that night—the time we had the roast beef and Lisi was still home—Tasha and Danny shut up. Which was good, because I was completely serious. As I ate, I had my eye on the fireplace set in the living room, and I was wondering what kind of damage the iron fire poker could do to a human head. I pictured an exploding watermelon.

My anger coach would say Stay in the present, Gerald. But it’s hard when nothing ever changes. For sixteen years, eleven months, and two weeks, I’ve been drowning.

Dad arrives home. He’ll hear it, too, the minute he gets out of the car.

Basement sounds—especially Tasha’s whinnying—go to the garage first.

Giddyup.

I hear his dress shoes tip-tap on the cement floor and the door open… and he finds me standing in the dark like some freak. He gasps.

“Jesus, Ger!” he says. “Way to give your old man a stroke.”

I walk over to the living room doorway and switch on the main hall light. “Sorry. I just got in, too. Got distracted by the, uh—you know. Noise.”

He sighs.

“I wish she’d move out again,” I say.

“She doesn’t have anywhere to live.”

“So? Maybe she’ll learn how to get a job and not sponge off you guys if you kick her ass out.” I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s just raising my blood pressure. “She’s twenty-one.”

“You know how your mother is,” he says. You know how your mother is. This has been his party line since Lisi moved out.

We move into the living room, where it’s quieter. He mixes himself a drink and asks me if I want one. I usually say no. But tonight I say yes.

“I could use it. Busy night.”

“Hockey game?”

“Wrestling. Those people never stop eating,” I say.

“Heh,” he says.

“Is Lisi coming home for Christmas?” I ask. He shakes his head, so I add, “There’s no chance she’ll come back with Tasha in the house.”

He hands me a White Russian and flops himself on the couch. He’s still in the suit he wore to work this morning. It’s Saturday, and he worked at least twelve hours before he went out with his real estate group. He takes a sip from his drink.

“Those two never got along,” he says. Which is bullshit. Tasha never got along. With anyone. And it’s partially his fault, so he has these excuses. You know how your mother is. Those two never got along.

“Thinking about what you want for your birthday?” he asks.

“Not really.” This isn’t a lie. I haven’t been thinking about my birthday at all, even though it’s just over two weeks from now.

“I guess you have some time,” he says.

“Yeah.”

We look at each other for a moment, and he manages a little smile. “So what are your plans after next year? You gonna leave me here like Lisi did?”

I say, “My options are limited.”

He nods.

“There’s always jail.” I let a few seconds pass before I say, “But I think Roger has reasoned all of that out of me.” Roger is my anger management coach.

At first he looks shocked, and then he laughs. “Phew. I thought you were serious there for a sec.”

“About that? Who’d want to go to jail?”

Right then, Danny the hillbilly opens the basement door and tiptoes into the dark kitchen and grabs a bag of tortilla chips from the cupboard. He goes to the fridge and grabs the whole carton of iced tea. Dad and I notice that he is completely na**d only when the light from the fridge shines on his pecker.

“Maybe next time you steal from me, you could put on some clothes, son,” Dad says.

Danny runs back down the steps like a rat.

That’s what we have. We have rats in our basement. Sponger rats who steal our food and don’t offer us shit for it.

I’m still thinking about my last rhetorical question to Dad. Who’d want to go to jail? I thought about going nuts once and hitting the mental institution. We have one of those here, only a few miles down the road, too. But Roger said mental institutions aren’t really the way they used to be. No more playing basketball with the Chief like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.