He was a rebel who lived low, spending most of his hours in the living room of his Mother’s house, the holo-v set to blast as his sister hibernated in the basement growing mushrooms and recovering from ceremonial eye surgery. She was a newbie, and he wasn’t sure or not how she felt about the whole affair. His mother rustled back and forth from the kitchen to the study, from roast fatbeaver to Anxless, oblivious to his shrinking presence on the couch, yet aware enough to chastise him when he cleaned his glasses on an ancient handkerchief or even adjusted them on his slick nose. The Ed Dwarkish Experience was on, it was getting late, and he simply didn’t know his next move, whether it be forward or backward, outer space or earth. He was very afraid, although quite adept at covering it up with a smooth intellectual temperament and a false-positive attitude that others fortunately bought into. Even his own mother sometimes believed it, and she emerged victoriously from the kitchen’s postmodern angular saloon doors with her famous boneless fatbeaver bites pyramided on a tray, replete with honey mustard and brussel sprout dips.
“A late-night snack,” she said, placing them on the wooden floaty and squeezing in beside him. He adjusted a little but made no move to show any interest in the food, though her fatbeaver was legendary in the neighborhood. She was still for a moment, gazing at Dwarkish interviewing some teenage actress with ridiculously large breast implants, even for this day and age. When he still hadn’t made a move to the plate she sighed and asked him quietly (she only spoke that way when loaded on Anxless) what was wrong.
Now he leaned forward, pinching a golf ball sized portion of meat between his middle finger and thumb. He spoke slowly, wanting to choose his words with deliberation. He’d worked up his nerve for months on how to explain himself to his mother, unveil his shadowy depression and unrest, maybe even unburden himself of a private fear or two.
“Mom, I have. . .”
“Take off your glasses,” she interrupted.
He deflated a little and dropped the fatbeaver back on the plate. Don’t start leaking now, he thought. He removed his glasses and hung them from his shirt pocket. She stared at him with an uncomfortable blankness, a look that never failed to unsettle him. She seemed ready to explode into murderous frenzy, but she never did, and he never expected her to.
“Mom, I have to tell you things. Lots of things. Will you turn off the holo-v and listen?”
“I am listening,” she said, snapping her fingers, sending the image quickly vortexing into it’s base, which dinged pleasantly to announce it’s successful and temporary demise.
“Can you even stay for a minute?” he asked.
“Well,” she scanned the room and peered obtusely into the study, “a few, I guess.”
“This conversation is really important to me, Mom.”
“Okay, okay.” She waved her hand to indicate her reluctant subservience to his confession.
He sucked in some quick air and set in to tell her about his Grand Vision.