Fish and Pain

"Did you come to see us or did you come to stay on the Internet?"

My mother asks over my shoulder as I am hunched over my laptop. Huh? Yeah, you're right. I hop up and go into the Situation Room where everyone is sitting around the television. As I join them I wonder, what did I come here for? To stay on the Internet or to watch television with my folks? It's odd, it really is. Three adults sitting in chairs or lying on sofa's watching the television. "God you're a big man, son," my father finally gasps. "You're not fooling anyone into believing that you were homeless." I don't reply to this. I just continue to stare at the television. "You sure you were homeless?" He chuckles. "He's got to push that dinner plate from him sooner," my mother chimes in. "You've got to say no to that extra helping." I think it's the drugs, I finally say to them. "Drugs my ass," my mother continues. She doesn't know when to stop. My father has already turned his attention back to the television. Wolf Blitzer is on with his own version of crises in the Situation Room.

My father's mode of humor is caustic. He picks on the celebrities on television, passing mean comments that are, in fact, quite funny. Tom Cruise, Will Smith, Sarah Palin, they all get a good hosing down with his acid spray of jest which causes my mother and I to laugh. Mom also tries to imitate his brand of humor to a lesser extent. My father can put Chris Rock to shame. His humor is like a rusty chainsaw, with biting sarcasm, and knuckle busting jokes, tempered by decades of watching the absurdities in life.

We go through this until, he stands abruptly and heads for the door, "I'm leaving, it's time for my soaps." We watch him leave, and then my mother stands. "I'm going to take a nap. You can stay here and watch television." Watch television?? If I never see television again it will be too soon. I head back into the dining room and get behind my baby, jacking back in and rushing with the creative ebb and flow of the many 1's and 0's that I digest daily. You know that I can stay on the Internet all fucking day, without talking to anyone. Good riddance cruel world.

As time rolls on my father appears in the kitchen. "Do you like Burger King?" He asks. No pop. I don't eat that kind of food. It's all plastic. "McDonalds?" Nahh. He nods and then leaves the kitchen. I return to my laptop, pounding away until my mother walks in. "Do you like fish?" Yeah, sure. "Alright, we're going out to pick up some fish for dinner." Sure. "You coming?" Yeah, of course. I wrap it up at the laptop and go to get my jacket from the bedroom. My father walks past me in the hall, shaking his head. "Damn did you get big." Gee thanks.

We pile in the car with me in the backseat. My father cruises down to the Golden Skillet in one of his Cadillacs. He is proud of his cars, keeping them clean and well polished, although the fog and drizzle knocked the shine off the vehicles earlier today. My mother and I walk into the Golden Skillet, and we are greeted with North Carolina's version of fast food. Everyone speaks with a Southern Twang. A young girl addresses us from behind the counter. Her mouth running like a motor just before, and takes our order. Then she goes into the back where they are doing the cooking and rambles on, talking her fool ass off. I wonder if she gets any work done, or if she allows anyone else to? Shortly she comes back with our order and a huge smile. I smile back.

So what was wrong with that, you might say? Nothing, nothing at all, but it infuriated me. I was pissed at her, but no, I realized something, I was pissed long before I got to Golden Skillet. I was just redirecting it. Staying with my parents is going to cause me to return to drinking. Lord I am so happy that I only planned for three days with them.

Don't get me wrong, I love my folks dearly. They can't help it if they're a pair of porcupines. You can only get so close. I need to be perfect to get past them with any approval. I thought that my being homeless would be the 'problem' this visit, but no, it's my weight.

For some reason, I just had to sit in the Situation Room with them. They would have it no other way. I do so reluctantly. I know the torture chamber now when I see it. I sit down and the three of us enjoy our plates of fried trout, french fries, hush puppies and Mac and Cheese. My mother finishes half of her's, closes her Styrofoam container and rises to take it to the kitchen. Shortly, my father does the same. Now I'm left with mine and I finish my plate. I pop the last hush puppy in my mouth and call it an evening. "Damn, going to show us how a big guy eats, huh?" My dad asks.

I nod. Here we go. "That's the problem, you EAT too much." My mother adds. Yeah, I guess so. Not that I had breakfast and lunch like they did. But that's alright. Now I see why I had to eat before them. That's dinner at the Hobo house. I get up, throw away my plate and slip behind my laptop. About three hours later I see my parents, one by one entering the kitchen, firstly getting and finishing their fish dinners, then eating snacks. Maybe that's that right way to eat? Many small, meals instead of one full meal. Tomorrow I'll do more than just drink coffee.

My father comes back into the kitchen, his third trip yet. "I'm just trying to get fat like you are," he says with a level of glee. Yeah, that's right.

Self image, self loathing...all that shit's a bitch isn't it??

Hobobob