Mrs. Averagemom stood and stretched, pinwheeling her arms to work out the nerveburn. She just finished a 1000 word blog post about how her cat’s face looks exactly the same upside down as it does right side up, with 10 slightly out of focus pictures to back up her claim. The sun was throwing slats of light onto the carpet. It was pretty quiet for a suburban summer Tuesday; two of her two-and-a-half kids were busy, either at friend’s houses or at the local arcade using recreational drugs without her consent.
It was the third child—the half—that she was concerned with. Seven year old Timmybilly was somewhere in the house, enjoying a summer vacation. It had taken her about an hour and a half to bang out those 1000 words, but she knew it had been about three hours since she had heard any noise in the house. She felt a flutter of anxiety harpsichord across her spine. She should have heard the sounds of rape and murder on Timmybilly’s Boxstation 15.3, but it was quiet.
Too quiet, a bad narrator said in her mind.
Dangerously quiet, the hack repeated.
She slunk down the hall towards Timmybilly’s bedroom. The door was open. She saw short, skinny legs hanging over the edge of the bed from the hall. One foot was lazily kicking the other, which was comforting, because enthusiastically kicking one foot with the other was a sure sign of schizophrenia, or at least that’s what the webMD thought.
She knocked on his doorframe—Timmybilly would get a door to his room when he turned twelve, but for now he didn’t get a door, because he hadn’t earned enough chore points to get one. With the way his room looked he’d be doorless until college.
He was laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He wore a red shirt and blue pants, but both were murky, as if he was a painting by Monet. Mrs. Averagemom realized she was still wearing her blogging glasses, and quickly slipped them off and tipped them into a pocket. She was 32 but her eyes were 65.
“Hi Timmybilly, I thought you’d be elbow deep in rape and bad driving on that Murderspree Autolarceny game you love so much.”
“Nah,” he said, still staring at the ceiling.
“Did you beat it?”
“No, just bored.”
Mrs. Averagemom didn’t like the tone in his voice. It was listless, with a slight Charlie Brown quality, like a butterfly that suddenly realized its best days would be when it was dead and pinned to a wall.
“I know someone who has a birthday coming up soon. Any thoughts on what you’d like?”
He sat up on his elbows. He was a blonde child with pink skin that burned under the light of a flashlight. “Well…”
She took a seat beside him. “You only turn 8 once you know. Unless you’re reincarnated of course, but we’re Presbyterian and don’t believe in that. What do you want for your birthday?”
“Well…I’d really like a Gamecock.” he said, turning his blue eyes up to her.
Mrs. Averagemom’s tongue rolled back into her throat and played freeze tag with her uvula for a half-second before uncurling. “I’m sorry, what was that?” She asked, blinking hard enough to muss his hair.
“Gamecock. My friend Hubert showed me his, and now I want one.”
Mrs. Averagemom opened her mouth and then closed it, then opened it and closed it, looking exactly like the clown at the local putt-putt. If Timmybilly had a club and a small orange ball he might be able to knock one in.
“And I think Janet said her brother Golgotha had one. She said he chased her around with it, pretending to hit her with it.”
Mrs. Averagemom was no doctor (although she owned the complete series set of ER) yet was pretty sure the word for what was occurring in her brain was “Grand Mal.” at the very least, this full-body numbness was definitely something medical.
“I haven’t been able to think about anything but Gamecock ever since Hubert showed me his.” Timmybilly said. He shrugged those tiny, thin shoulders. “I think if I could have anything for my birthday, it would be Gamecock.”
Mrs. Averagemom pulled herself together and spread her lips in a grin. Her brain was running fast and furious. She was experiencing Tokyo drift also, but she was fast forwarding to the crashes.
“I’ll talk to your dad about it,” she said through gritted teeth. “Say, are you hungry for lunch?”
“I sure am!” he said, his spirits buoyed, lifted and viagraed.
“Ok, I’ll fix us a couple of PBBP&Js.” That was peanut butter, banana, pickles and jelly. Timmybilly’s digestive tract was very fond of eating things that were hard to say five times fast.
Mrs. Averagemom managed to make it through lunch, and the rest of the day was less completely disturbing. Seemingly satisfied, Timmybilly went straight from lunch to his Gameboxsuperhappyfunsploitation 5000 and began straight pimpin’ his rows of hoes on his second favorite game “Bitches B. Dollabills.” While they were in the wash right now, Timmybilly spent 6 out of seven nights sleeping on official Bitches B. Dollabills sheets, with an official pillowcase featuring a thousand dollar bill with Bitches B. Dollabills’ likeness in place of a dead president.
The afternoon was much more pleasant, punctuated by Timmybilly occasionally shouting “WHEREMYMONEY?”
Finally, Mr. Averagedad came home. He opened the door on a stern face. Immediately apologizing (she was fluffing up the carpet behind the door) and offering to get an ice pack for her nose, he dropped his suitcase and picked up on the scent of expectation in the air. He made a break for the door but she caught him.
“Wait until you hear what your son wants for his birthday,” she said.
“Do I need a drink first?”
She ignored him. “He wants a Gamecock.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not drunk enough to hear this.”
“A Gamecock, Very!” (His full name was Very Averagedad. It was quite progressive of Mrs. Averagemom to keep her own name.) “He said his friend Hubert showed him his.”
“Is it too late to pretend I had to stay late at work?”
“Get in there and have a talk with your son.” Mrs. Averagemom said.
So he disappeared into his son’s room. He stayed in there for about fifteen minutes and, because this is running long, came out with a big grin on his face.
“Well?”
“Oh, Quite,” Her full name was Quite Averagemom. “Gamecock is just an action figure. A Marvel Legend, in fact. From the Captain America Infinite Wave. He comes with Armadillo’s left leg. From what he said, it’s the Greatest Toy Never Made. Now fix my dinner, you silly slut.”
She laughed and made a mental note to blog about this.
