Crash Test Dummy

Chapter 2

By the time Mom came in at 11:30, I was sleeping in front of the TV with a half empty bottle of Scotch wedged between my legs.

I felt the bottle jerked from between my legs. My wrathful mother towered over me. "Chauncy Wayne Baisford," she said in a very controlled tone of voice, "what is the meaning of this?"

"Patricia Lynn Baisford," I responded in a not so controlled pitch, "what is the meaning of this?" My voice chose that moment to let out an adolescent squeak, but I held up the birthday card for her to see and continued. "You have lied to me for years. Let me think my father didn't care. Hid his love for me. I'd rather follow in his footsteps than yours. You claim you love me but choose to betray me."

I struggled to my feet and tried to make a grand exit. Instead I crashed into a chair and fell flat on my face.

My mother tried to help me up, but I pushed her away.

"I can do it myself," I said.

As I weaved my way out of the room, Mom said firmly, "We'll discuss this in the morning, Wayne. It's obvious you are in no shape to talk rationally tonight."

The next morning when my alarm went off, I woke with a moan. The alarm was like someone turning on a jackhammer inside my head. My mouth tasted like I ate my socks after a soccer game. When I tried to sit up, I felt like I needed to barf. I moaned again. I felt stabbing pains in my abdomen. I needed to piss, bad, but I wasn't sure I could make it to the bathroom. I forced myself to sit up. I sat on the side of my bed with my head hanging down, taking deep breaths to control my rolling stomach. When I had the nausea under control, I stood up and headed towards the bathroom. When I opened the bedroom door, the smell of frying bacon wafted through. I could feel the bile rising and sprinted for the bathroom. I made it to the toilet in time to barf my guts out.

After I was done, I was weak, still queasy, and my head was throbbing. I made my way to the sink and opened the medicine cabinet in search of aspirin. I couldn't believe it. There was nothing inside. Not one pill bottle. "Mom," I thought. "She thinks I'm a pill poopin' drunk now." Then the word exploded in my mind, "MOM!" I groaned. "Man, was I in trouble."

After relieving my bladder, I forced myself to dress and head downstairs with my backpack. I was still too loaded to go to school, but the idea of staying in the house with Mom wasn't too attractive. She worked 12 hour shifts on the days she was scheduled, so even if she was working, she wouldn't leave until 10:30. I tried to remember if she was on or off, but the effort was too much for my screaming brain to handle. My plan, what little there was of it, was to avoid the kitchen and sneak out without Mom's knowledge. I should have known that wouldn't work. When I started down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible, Mom emerged from the kitchen.

"You might as well put down the backpack. I've already called the school to report that you are sick and won't be coming in today. I doubt that you're in any physical or mental state to handle a day of High School. Come into the kitchen, now."

Her tone reminded me of a referee during a soccer game. I bit the bullet and headed in there. I dropped the backpack on the stairs, relieved that I didn't have to carry it a step further. Everything I did seemed to take extra effort. I slouched into the kitchen. When I saw a plate with bacon and eggs, my stomach churned, again.

"Don't worry," Mom said, "those aren't for you. That's your breakfast." She pointed to the place across from hers. There was a glass of water and a glass of tomato juice.

"Oh. I thought a greasy breakfast was supposed to be the cure for a hangover. I have heard that a Bloody Mary can help, though." I looked hopefully at the glass of juice.