Unless That Was A Groan

rough sea 3     The yin twin opened the front door and dropped her heavy bag.  Immediately, I was no longer able to remain preoccupied.  I forgot what I was thinking.  A thud was accompanied by a grunt.  Unless that was a groan.

The yang twin followed nearly in her footsteps.  He added what was supposed to be a bad word to the mix, but frankly, I did not give a fuck.  I could hear there was an engine still knocking outside. The disturbing noise didn’t go away as I concluded in my mind it should. What else was I to think but, uh-uh, no fucking way.  It was dark, but I knew the best way to skirt around the issue, or issues.  Make no move before it’s time.  Even if it’s too late. Even after it’s too late.  No matter what.  Or that’s what I would have said had I been able to admit that I was talking to myself again.

big mouth

The yin twin said, “Mom wants to talk to you.”

I said, “Uh-uh.”

The yang twin said, “I knew you’d say that.”

I said, “You can go out there and say I told you so.”

“She’ll call her mean lawyer.”

“The number is blocked.”

“You’ve tried that before.”


“It doesn’t work.”

“Your point?”

What more is there to do when you are about to do what you don’t want to do, when you believe you have no choice?  Just do it?  No fucking way.


I was not long ago returning from Hong Kong, unless that was Shanghai, at roughly thirty thousand feet above no known land mass near the Arctic Circle, sucking down some high fructose corn syrup mixed with a clear liquid depressant, while the mean lawyer was scheduling an emergency session for the next day before a Judge who I knew for an absolute not a relative fact to be an asshole with no redeeming value.   It was called an ex parte hearing.  That is Latin for, “Fuck you, Jack.  Yeah, you.”  The rules of engagement were clear on that point.  I was informed by pushing the wrong button on a machine that was supposed to be an advance in communication but was really another means to keep me marching in single file after I woke up too late the following morning.  Unless it was the morning after that.

The emergency turned out to be that the bleeding from my ass did not register sufficient redness on the colorfully blind spectrum of justice.  I think I ran out of gas short of the finish line.  Later, I was admonished after the unknown fact for my disregard of judicial decorum.  The mean lawyer had a meek lawyer for a partner who provided the written follow-through that arrived a week later in the mail. He was able to stoop low enough to kiss many of her uglier ass parts in public or private, no difference.  His writing displayed a distinctly slanted tendency.  I’m not sure he was able to stand up erect after the fact but that’s not his preferred position anyway. Outside the courtroom, the mean lawyer promised to wipe the smirk off of my face. Inside the courtroom I tried to explain it was more accurately a crooked grin but the irredeemable asshole wearing the scary dark robe told me she’d heard enough.

I thought, well, yeah, like…duh.


I try to bend before heavy lifting, waylay expectations, make up for multiple losses.  I often sprint hard at the finish line when it’s too late.  I would opt for a stay of execution any day. Some of the those days just happen to suck worse than others.


Both tween twins demonstrate on a regular basis that they know much of what I don’t but I rarely let that stop me.

I said, “Who wants a burrito grande?”

“Mom’s still out front.”

“That leaves the back.”

“You’re going to get into more trouble.”

“But not yet.”

The yin twin said, “Taqueria Vallarta.”

The yang twin said, “Taqueria Michoacan.”

I said, “No reason to get excited.  Why not both?  We have all the time in the world to get there.”

About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
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