R&R

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At the end of a long day -- the stressful morning commute, the exhausting hours of work, the mad rush-hour struggle to get home -- Bob did not, he felt, ask for much. Dinner on the table, and not burnt. A half-hour with his pipe in the alcove of the living room that he called his den. A quiet, relaxing evening in front of the TV.

He didn't feel that these were too much to ask for, and so felt himself justified in becoming angry when they were not provided.

"I'm sorry," Cheryl repeated tiredly. She kept her hair dyed blonde at his insistence, but hadn't touched it up in a while, and the brown roots were showing. The sloppiness only added to his irritation. "I didn't mean to have dinner late, but I didn't get Lynn back from the doctor until three-thirty, and then there were still the other kids to pick up from school..."

"Then you should've made them walk home," Bob snapped, even though it had been he who decided that Cheryl should take their school-aged children to and from school in the first place. "Maybe then they wouldn't have the energy to whine all through dinner. And for Christ's sake, could you maybe put some damn salt in the meatloaf next time? It was like trying to eat shoe leather." From somewhere down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, three-year-old Lynn started crying again. "For Christ's sake," Bob repeated in disgust.

"The doctor said you needed to cut back on your salt," Cheryl murmured, but he could tell she wouldn't try to pull that health-foot shit again.

Bob shifted position on the couch. "Now hand me the remote and shut that kid up, will ya?" he grunted.

"Oh, but before you get too into your show," Cheryl began.

"But nothing." She handed him the remote, and he shook it at her. "I've been working my ass off all day to make money for you to spend, Cher; I need to relax now, and you are going to let me relax."

She retreated quickly down the hall. He heard her talking to Lynn, but softly, as though she was afraid to make too much noise and thus incur his wrath. Well, fine. It was nice to be shown a little respect for once. Maybe she could even get the kid to quit whining. Hadn't the doctor prescribed any damned pills?

Maybe five minutes passed; in the kids' room Cheryl tried to soothe the pain of their toddler's ear infection, and on the couch Bob flicked idly through the channels. He had just about decided which of the two currently-playing episodes of CSI to watch when his son advanced cautiously into the room.

"Uh, hey, dad?" Terry's voice was just starting to change, and the words came out in a sort of squeak. The boy cleared his throat and tried again. "Dad? Can I, uh, have the TV now?"

"What the hell is wrong with you people?!" Bob snarled. "Can't you see that I work all damn day for you, and that the least I ask is to have some peace and quiet when I finally come home?!" He glared at Terry. "Get out of here before I really lose my temper."

Cheryl emerged from the hallway just as Terry tried to disappear down it. "Honey, that's what I was trying to tell you." She made a helpless little gesture. "Terry has to watch that special on PBS tonight for his honors English class."

"The hell he does!" Bob roared. "Terry, you're grounded for a week and don't you dare tell me any more lies." The boy pelted out of the room, and Bob turned his attention to Cheryl. "I knew you were stupid, but falling for a twelve-year-old's lies? Christ, woman. Christ."

Lynn began wailing in pain again, and Bob winced. "And now I've got a headache. Great job, Cheryl. Way to ruin my evening, again." Then his voice dropped. "I ought to just strike you," he muttered, glaring at her. "God knows there's no other way of getting any sense in your head."

Cheryl took a step backwards, and he noticed that. Terry, listening from just outside the room, clenched his fists and then held them to his mouth to stifle a sob. Fortunately for him, Bob didn't notice that.



This one's for you, dad. Are you dead yet? I honestly have no idea. If so, how's the weather down there?

Sometimes I wish you'd beaten up on us kids, instead of just always telling us we were worthless, and screaming at us if we were ever in the living room/bathroom/kitchen/wherever when you Needed To Be There, and regularly threatening to hurt mom while being just crazy-crafty enough to not actually do it. Maybe if I'd shown up to school with my eyes blackened and my teeth knocked out when I was eight, then you wouldn't've still been around to make our house a place of fear when I was eighteen.


For the record, this scene never happened, and Terry isn't me. The scene just kind of popped into my head when I saw how happy that bear was to have his R&R.

*adds the 'sidetrack' tag*

High Gas Prices

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The Pilot was a few exits up the highway, but Jake figured he'd make it. Even though the needle was pointing to E, he should still have at least a dozen miles before the car stalled; even then, he wouldn't have to worry much. Markson Consulting had the ol' triple-A for all their company vehicles. Let them do the towing. It was a fine spring day, perfect for sitting on the hood of the car and smoking a cigarette. You'd have to be some kind of moron to be stuck driving two hundred miles on a day like this, though not as much of a moron as the "professionals" on site who couldn't figure out a simple database installation. Idiots.

Jake caught himself reaching for his smokes, and returned his hand to the steering wheel. Not in the company car; not after his buddy Harry had gotten chewed out for lighting up while on the road. Apparently the smell was hell to get out of the upholstery. Oh, well. He could get out at the Pilot, stretch his legs, take care of a few personal needs. There was the sign on the right. Gas, food, and a handful of crummy stores, next exit.

He followed the route to the gas station almost subconsciously; this was at least the sixth time this client had needed a tech to come out and help them, and he had been the one tapped to go five of those times. It would have been infuriating if it were his own car going through all this wear and tear, but as things stood it was mainly boring. Two hundred miles of midwest terrain got old after a half-dozen repetitions. By this point he was more or less making the trip without thinking about it, right down to the refueling at the Pilot.

He couldn't help smirking as he pulled up to the pump. He always made sure to get premium gas on these trips, and he usually made sure to avoid the cheaper gas stations, too. Oh, sure, it added up to rather a lot more that way. And, of course, all his travel costs were always reimbursed by the client, as per company policy. But then, that was why he'd started doing it this way, along about the third time he had to come out there.

Jake figured they deserved the extra touch.

Leftovers

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"Oog," Greg remarked.

Brian shook his head in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how long some of that stuff was in there?!" he exclaimed.

With some difficulty, Greg raised his head to look at his roommate. "Naw, man, I mean... I recognized most of it from the last week or two, except for the salad..."

Brian blinked. "Salad?"

"...and I figured hey, it's just lettuce and whatever, sure it looks a little funny but it's probably still good..."

"Um." Brian rubbed absently at the back of his head. "Dude, there wasn't any salad in there. Do you mean that green stuff way at the back? That used to be macaroni and cheese."

Greg groaned and hid his face in one of the couch cushions.

"No wonder you're sick, man, you probably ate three new species and a thriving civilization. Hell, I bet we could've found some biology grad students to pay us for what we had growing in there."

"Dude..." Greg said from behind the cushion.

Brian rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll lay off until you're not sick anymore," he replied. "But next time... I'll clean the damn fridge, okay? At least I know better than to eat everything that's in there."

Dunking

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The diner was mostly empty at this hour, which was the normal state of things. Even at its busiest it seldom had more than a half-dozen customers at a time, most of them sitting alone and nursing cups of coffee or slices of Edie's homemade pie; now, though, it was just old Wallace in the back corner, Herbie up at the front, and Edie herself behind the counter. Herb looked up as her shadow fell across the newspaper he had spread out in front of him.

She gestured with the coffee pot. "Top you off, hon?"

"Uh, no, I'm good," he replied. "How's your day so far?"

Edie shrugged. "Not bad, not bad. Mainly waiting on Joe to show up." She checked her watch, then went on, "Third time this week he's been late with the morning deliveries. He's a good kid, and I know his family's on hard times lately, but if he keeps this up I'm going to have to fire him. I can't run a business like this."

"I was wondering what happened to my morning dunking exercise," Herbie chuckled.

"See, that's just what I'm talking about! Louis was already here today before going over to the plant, I guess he has to be there early to make sure the parking lot's plowed, and since Joe's not brought the things from the bakery..." Edie tsked. "I really don't want to have to fire him, not with his mama in the hospital. But I can't be running a restaurant this way."

"No, I guess not," Herbie agreed. He pulled out his wallet and deposited two dollars on the table. "Looks like I'll have to pass on the donut for today, Edie. You have a good day, though, y'hear?"

She nodded, but her eyes were focused on some distant point past the diner wall. "You too, hon. Don't work too hard."

Herbie grinned. "Never have yet." He took one last sip of his coffee, then exited.

Bachelor

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Marcus knew that it was ridiculous to get so flustered over his mother's coming to visit. It wasn't like he was still a teenager, living in her house and subject to utter embarrassment every time she came into his room while he had friends over. He was a perfectly respectable 32-year-old middle-manager, with his own apartment and a dependable late-model sedan. Still, the thought of having mom over for dinner brought him back to his childhood all too well. Didn't help that he wasn't used to it; usually, he came to visit her.

He did one last check of the bedroom, picking up a stray dirty sock that had managed to miss the laundry hamper. As he turned his attention to the living room, he decided that it would have helped if his apartment wasn't so sparse. He didn't have much, really: a bed, a desk, and a bookcase in the bedroom; a small couch and a single upright lamp in the living room; a smattering of dishes in the kitchen cabinets. A few random other items. Not a lot; certainly not enough to really make the place feel lived-in. He'd had mom over once not long after he moved in, and she had hinted strongly that the place could use the much-vaunted "woman's touch". Well, all that would have been nice, presumably, but in the interim he'd had to deal with what was rather than what he would have liked to be.

In the kitchen Marcus noticed the remains of his lunch by the sink. He threw away the empty box of "Mac'n Cheez" quickly, almost guiltily, and dumped the saucepan into the dishwasher without dealing with its congealed contents. Thing was heavy-duty; might as well put it through its paces. He surveyed the kitchen again, then nodded to himself. He might be unused to entertaining, but he could still put on a respectable enough showing. Maybe he'd even avoid being asked again when he was going to meet "some nice girl". Certainly he had already spent more than enough time asking it of himself.

No-Brainer

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When Dale came home that night, he could immediately tell that something was wrong. It wasn't any one thing that told him; more a combination of the odd quietness of the kids, the strained quality of his wife's words. It took him a few minutes, though, to realize that he was to blame.

He came into the kitchen, lugging along his cooler. "Look, honey, I know I said I'd mow the lawn today..."

"Yes, you did," Joyce replied tersely, not looking up from the vegetables she was chopping.

"And I realize it could really use a mowing..."

She glanced at him briefly. "Rained four days in the last week. I'd sure say it could use a mowing, before it gets high enough to lose children in."

"But," Dale went on, "today was the only day this month that Larry could get free to go fishing. He's my only brother, Joyce, and I don't get to see him all that much, and..."

Joyce looked up at him again, one eyebrow raised. "And?"

"And... to be honest, all the rain lately meant that the fish were biting like crazy," he finished sheepishly.

She glared at him, then went back to chopping, not saying anything. Finally he sighed, picked up the cooler full of fish, and quietly exited the scene.