latest version of Product of Tweek

By Rachelle King

“Hey, remember when you tried to sniff sand up your nose with a straw when you were like two?” Will announced sardonically as if they were discussing the weather.

This usual repertoire was unfortunately familiar to her, though. Marie’s brother Will always brought up memories of being reared by addicts.

“Uncle Jesse found you at the park across the street from mom’s old place. He said you even put the sand into lines. Damn, they started fucking us up early, huh?” he continued.

Two decades later, Marie thought this memory mildly amusing as she listened to her brother snicker between words. Sometimes, though, she thought her brother spent too much time blaming the past for his own mistakes.

“Jacob! Put that stick outside where you got it and come say hi to your Aunt Marie. Now, Jacob!”

Marie squinted her eyes, holding the phone back from her ear as it was violently passed from adult to child. Nasal breathing transmitted through the phone into Marie’s ear. She couldn’t understand why he always made Jacob say hello-he never did.

“Hey-a, Jacob. What are you doin?” Marie inquired anyhow, knowing full well he wouldn’t answer back.

A loud thud responded to her seemingly rhetorical question, followed by faint maniacal laughter and scurried footsteps.

Will hollered after him: “Jacob, did you say hello to Aunt Marie?”

Marie wondered why her brother even attempted to be firm. His son was a spoiled brat. She couldn’t ever really blame Will. Marie and her brother had both been raised the same way.

“Yeah, Will. He said hi,” she disgorged, already irritated by her brother’s impatience. Hearing her brother shout for the last few minutes of their conversation was more then she could stand.

“The doctor said he might have A.D.D,” he explained. Sounding a bit overwhelmed by this evaluation of his son, he continued on with rebuttal. “But I think they’re full of shit. He’s just being a four-year-old,” he continued in a disguised attempt to soothe his worries.

Marie glanced at the blinking indigo blue numbers on her alarm clock. “Hey Will, I gotta go. I need to leave here for work in like five minutes,” Marie said hurriedly.

“Alright then,” he sighed back heavily in response. It was one of those dormant “there’s no hope left for me” sighs that Marie was all too familiar with.

“Fuck, dude,” Marie thought clamping her teeth together as if small doses of electricity were being sent in gradually higher voltages up her spine. She ignored her frustration and his hedonism by attempting to chirp another fabricated farewell.

“Okay, well I guess you don’t have time to hear about mom then,” he countered back with hostility.

Marie had forgotten this was the reason she had called in the first place. Will had left a frantic message on her answering machine talking about how mom was selling again.

“Shit, I forgot. Is it okay if I call you back tomorrow night? I have to leave for work now,” Marie pleaded.

“Yeah, whatever,” Will replied with another melodramatic sigh, signifying his annoyance to her.

Despite his obvious petty attempts to get her to feel sorry for his situation, Marie was anxious to get off the phone and out of this temporary feeling of stagnancy. She hastily expelled another farewell and slammed the phone into the receiver .

Stretching out the kinked muscles in her neck, Marie reflected on their conversation. She rolled her eyes, inhaled deeply, and let the exhaled breath blow her bangs up away from her forehead. Massaging her temples, Marie gripped the coffee table with her toes and pressed her back into the bosom-like coziness of the couch. Why did Will always have to sound so helpless, and what the hell was up with that sigh? Marie thought he did it to make his torment seem more authentic. She once confronted him about it, and he, of course, responded with his usual caustic repertoire:
“What, are you miss fucking psychiatrist now. Don’t fuckin analyze me, cause you’re just as screwed up and you know it!”

Why was it that every time Marie called back there, her very positive intentions felt trampled over by the end of the conversation? Will always blamed it on living in St. Jo Missouri, like it was an airborne disease. To some extent, he was right. The land of All-You-Can-Eat-Anything-And-Everything did its fair share of weighing people’s good intentions down. There was a different kind of mentality to living in middle-America: People move from middle-America to California to establish residency and go to school for free. People move from California to places like Missouri because the state provides cheap housing for mothers under 18. Shortly after establishing themselves in places like Missouri, people develop this slowed elongated sighing problem that mimics the painfully sluggish progression of their lives. The process reminded Marie of fish gasping for a final breath as their eyes glazed slowly over and their bodies finally subdued.

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