Fat Purple Figs

Prologue

"Honestly, I don't know why you insist on that apartment."

Exasperation rose from heel to head like the temperature on a muggy day. It was unclear whether the infamous chidings of Betty Young were made more unbearable by the discordant, outdated projections of my keyboard phone's speaker feature or if they were always this difficult to stomach.

"Mother," a sigh escaped me, always the primary line of defense when it comes to conveying irritation without actually articulating as such and risking her emotions. Here in the South, "mother" was a trademark often reserved for cross feelings and minor miscommunications as if to suggest, "Could you dial it back a little please?" or, in my mother's case for example, a lot. "It's not that I'm insistent, I'm just, y'know, settled already."

My assertions were accompanied by the flurry of a wrist, the sort of action that might have provided a panoramic glimpse of my beloved home if I were the kind of person wealthy—or conversely, irresponsible enough—to lead a life eased by the likes of smartphones and Facetime. If only she could see the layout of my living room as I can: every frame coordinated, every trinket positioned just right, then perhaps she would understand why packing up shop was absolutely not an option.

"I know you're infatuated, darlin', but home is where you make it. And—" I cringe prematurely, waiting for what has come to be, after a year and a half of living on my own, her signature catchphrase, "You could always move closer to your father and I. Then, maybe if you're struggling with the rent, we could help you out a bit."

If my life were reality television, undoubtedly there would be a compilation video or two up on the internet over the nine million times she's probably voiced this little suggestion. Don't get me wrong, my parents do mean well. It's just that, for some perspective, we only live twenty minutes away from each other. They've maintained a residency in my hometown of Merryville, Kentucky as long as I've been alive, whilst I call the neighboring, slightly larger city of Ascot my home. For my mama, though, the whole "separate county" thing might as well be up there with, "Thou shalt not kill."

"I know, mama. I love you, and I promise that if I don't find a solution to this soon, the real estate section of the Merryville Post will be the first place I look," I conceded, retreating into the safety of a couch full of novelty pillows. Somehow, the confidence a cutesy, "I donut care!" pillow exudes makes up for my lack thereof.

"Love you too, honey. It's about time that I get back to work; you know those girls are nothing but trouble without me," mom replied, and I could almost picture how she must have looked—a head of chestnut hair tossed back in messy bun, fading to starlight at the roots, a cigarette wedged between her frail hands, and, like our pre-lunch conversation, nearly spent.

"Have a great day, and give 'em hell," I offer my salutations with a heart warmed by the thought of my parents, well-intending, but always so stubborn in their ways.

With little more than a chortle of "You betcha, Ellie" from my mother, our early morning ritual concludes, relinquishing us to the trivialities of the day.

Unlike my mother who maintains a steady schedule of a weekday work week at Merryville's branch of the Halfway Mart chain, I bear the misfortune on a less dependable schedule with part-time hours at the 8-Bit Basement downtown. As one might expect, my line of work consists of peddling anatomically incorrect figurines and overpriced dice sets to the young adults of Norwich county. As appetizing as I made it sound just now, if it weren't for the limited shifts—three-day schedule, tops—then it would absolutely be my dream job. However, what I make in a week is barely enough to cover what a smaller, single-bedroom apartment might cost. Naturally, it's even more of a headache to attempt to keep up with the cost of two.