To read more from Shea Zellweger, check out his blog.
Mickey
had been dreading this visit to his parents' since... well, since the sense of
relief had worn off after the last visit. Through much experimentation he had
finally landed on a formula which permitted him to visit them as little as
possible, while still seeing them frequently enough to avoid the wheedling that
always started when they felt it had been too long since they'd last seen him.
The trick was to pile into the car every seventeen and a half weeks, arrive at
the house around 8 PM one day, and depart at 8 AM two days later, pleading
traffic in both directions. That way it gave the air of spontaneity, and showed
up on paper as a 3 day visit, despite being only 36 hours. Heaven forbid they should ever be the ones to travel, he grumbled silently to himself.
It wasn't that Mickey disliked his parents- quite the opposite, actually. They were some of his favorite people in the world. It's just that ever since they had retired, they had very particular ideas about how they were supposed to live, and felt that everybody else should follow suit. It started with the move to that gated community in the snootiest part of southern Florida. Then they discovered the glory of the early bird specials which were offered to senior citizens. Pretty soon his dad was playing golf, his mom had taken up several new forms of gossip which she called 'book club,' 'bridge,' and 'volunteering.' None of these things were bad in and of themselves, but everything was on a very strict schedule, any departure from which was a capital offense. The very idea that Mickey and his girlfriend would wait until the late hour of 5 PM to have dinner was disturbing enough when they did it in Ohio, but when Mickey dared to suggest he wasn't hungry at 3 while in Florida, the reaction was as if he'd been using an American flag as kindling for sacrificing a puppy to Karl Marx on an altar fashioned out of Bibles. Their attitude about retired life was very similar to the attitude of a recent religious convert, who has suddenly seen the light and now cannot comprehend why those around them are as of yet blind to it.
Oh, and then there was Frenchy. The toy poodle was the meanest thing this side of Miami-Dade County, and had a nasty habit of biting. Hard. He'd mentioned it to his mother on several occasions, but her answer was always the same tired joke. 'Oh, did da eedy beedy puppy huhrt da big stwong man wiv her widdle teef?' she would intone in a baby voice which was either intended for him or the dog, although he could never tell which, and he wasn't sure which was more offensive.
"Where are we?" groaned Stacy from the passenger seat, interrupting his sour musings. She was in the habit of dozing during these long drives, waking up only periodically to request a rest stop, inquire as to their location, or change the song (she could sleep through anything, but as soon as the first chords of the White Stripes came through the speakers, she would bolt awake, change the station, and fall immediately back to sleep).
"Turning onto Sycamore now. Brace yourself," he responded. The house was in sight. They smiled weakly at one another in anticipation of what was coming. The script was set, and they knew the faster they got through it, the sooner they would be able to claim fatigue and excuse themselves for the evening.
Well hey son, how was the trip?
Great.
Any traffic?
Some here and there. Nothing too bad.
I don't know how you two can make those long drives. Why don't you just fly?
Flights are expensive, Mom.
Oh, I guess so. Stacy, you look lovely.
Thanks, Mrs. Thornton. I like what you've done with your hair.
How many times have I told you to call me Janet? Frenchy!! Come here girl. Come say hi to your brother and his fiancé!
We're not engaged, Mom.
Still?
That's my boy! Keeping his options open!
Dad, she's standing right there.
Ah, Stacy, you know I love ya. Don't worry, Mickey'll make an honest woman out of you, yet.
Yeah, uh... look, we've been driving all day, I think we're gonna hit the hay.
Alright, I've made up the guest rooms for you. Stacy, you're first door on the right, and Mickey,
We know the rooms, Mom. Thanks. See you in the morning.
It was rehearsed, it was familiar, and it was even comfortable in its own way. But then the unthinkable
happened; his dad went off script.