Sunday, August 27, 2006
'From the looks of it,' I pointed to Mom's belly, 'Dad didn't know you at all.' I was deciding between calling my mother a 'bitch' and calling her a 'fucking bitch' when she chucked the rest of her ice cream cone at the side of my face. The ice cream splattered against my hair and cheek. The wafer cone landed on the side of my leg. I picked it up and threw it back at her. I pulled the top of my own ice cream off of its cone and aimed for Mom's chest. She shrieked, swerving the car and throwing back at me whatever clumps of ice cream she could pull from her cleavage. We each lost sense of our target, hurling any ice cream slop we could get hold of. The rental car's green cloth upholstery and side windows clouded over in sticky, cherry-flavored film. Chocolate ice cream melted in streams down Mom's chest. The black velvet letters on my Victim T-shirt soaked up my dessert. Mom drove and swore. She called me ungrateful and threatened to leave me right there on the spine of Devil's Backbone. Mom didn't notice the bend in the road. She screamed in confusion as our rental car lurched through a very real white picket fence, careening down a hill and into an orchard. She pumped and locked the brakes just in time for us to hit a patch of peach trees.
...
'That's it. I'm through. And you can be damned sure I'm not taking you to Yorba Linda. There's no fucking way I'm visiting Nixon.'
...
'That's it. I'm through. And you can be damned sure I'm not taking you to Yorba Linda. There's no fucking way I'm visiting Nixon.'
Amber Dermont
"Lyndon"
¶ 11:56 AM "Lyndon"
