4. Runt Says What?
“Pass the rolls, dipshit.” I don’t bother reacting as I pick up the basket in front of me and hand it to my brother, Mason. Greta, my favorite sister, intercepts it, grabs a roll, licks it, and puts it on Mason’s plate.
I’m so deep in my thoughts that all I manage is a snort at Mason’s horrified face. My brain is too busy puzzling over my future at The Base. I love it there, but I want to use my rhetoric degree and stretch my creative muscles beyond my office manager job.
Because I’m a full-time employee of The Base I can take advantage of all the coworking space’s benefits without having to pay a monthly membership fee. For a few years, I’ve wanted to start a podcast but hesitated because I don’t really have anything interesting to say. Nobody wants to listen to a straight white dude blather on about suspenders, or student loan debt, or how the waffles at the local diner are probably the best in California.
I mean, I could probably do an episode or two about what a good kisser Meredith is, but I don’t think she’d appreciate that. Maybe another on how she looks in the slouchy black sweater, cut-off shorts over fishnets, and Doc Martens she wore yesterday. It should be a national holiday whenever she wears those shorts and fishnets together. I had to go home at lunch yesterday so I could demonstrate my appreciation for them in the privacy of my apartment.
Each one of her thick thighs should be celebrated. They’d get their own day of the week. Saturday for the right, Sunday for the left. Mondays would be for the bra strap that sometimes peeks out of her slouchy sweater. Tuesdays for the dark, near magenta lipstick that highlights her plush, pouty lips. Lipstick that she left on my mouth when she kissed me. Wednesday?—
Something splats against the side of my face, and I flinch. “What the fuck, Wesley?” I glower at my oldest brother sitting next to me at the family dinner table. All my brothers and sisters are older than me. I’m the baby of the family, so this is not the first time I’ve been hit in the face with a wet something.
“You were staring off into space. It was creepy.” Wesley plucks a used teabag off my shoulder and puts it on his plate. I lick my finger to give him a wet willie, but I notice my mother across the table with her face in her hands, shaking her head. My oldest sibling is eleven years older than my twenty-four years. I can’t imagine putting up with this bullshit for over thirty years.
Each of my five siblings has some form of smirk on their face, and my inner youngest child wants to pitch a fit. But I’m a college graduate, a mature, grown-up person with the debt to show for it. If I could just come up with an interesting podcast topic and find sponsors, I could move out of my crappy apartment and pay down some of my loans. Sylvie pays me well enough, but everybody needs a side hustle in this economy.
Greta turns to her twin Michelle and asks, “How was your date last weekend?” She and Michelle are the next youngest in the family, and Greta always runs interference for me. She gives me a subtle wink, letting me know she intentionally took the focus off me. It lets me go back to noodling on podcast topics as I watch my siblings interacting, each with a different dynamic between them.
“Holy shit, I’ve got it,” I say to myself. The table goes silent. My dad’s soup spoon is halfway to his mouth. “You guys are perfect.”
“When you say guys, does that include us?” Michelle motions between herself, Greta, and our mother.
“Sorry. Yes. Y’all are perfect.”
“For what?” my brother Clay asks with a curious lift of his eyebrow.
“My podcast. Be nice to me or I’ll dedicate a whole episode to how many times I ended up in the ER thanks to pranks gone wrong.”
My mom puts her head back in her hands.