@Robertopancake: A Story About a Boy

Chapter Seven

So Michelle is the buzzkill who dragged my dad from Miami up to The Armpit of Hell, as the Coral Breeze Verandas will henceforth be known. We roll into the gravel driveway of the trailer park, and I immediately spot a weathered woman in a bikini bent over in her "yard" (I use the term loosely, as it's really just a sad patch of grass with a plastic sunflower pinwheel jammed into it), her saggy, wrinkled ass staring me in the face as we drive by. It's probably only fifty-eight degrees this early in the morning and she's nearly naked. She stands up and waves at my dad, giving us a wonky grin. She's missing more than a few teeth.

Oh, and did I mention that this is a trailer park? I did? Yeah. My dad had a cool little guesthouse in Miami with two bedrooms and those slatted horizontal windows that you crank open to let the air in. There were ceiling fans in every room, tile floors, and a pool behind the main house that we were allowed to use. I loved it there. This place is going to be a major downgrade—I can already tell.

We park next to a clean looking trailer with white rocks spread around it in place of grass. The yard reminds me of the white-flocked fake Christmas tree my grandma used to put up every year: it looks weird and alien when you first see it because you're expecting something green.

My dad drags my suitcase out of the back of the truck. The weight of it makes the light pickup bounce on its shocks. There's a round, rusted-out, red barbecue pushed up next to the aluminum siding of the trailer, and the stairs are covered with that bright green faux-grass carpet stuff that looks like cheap AstroTurf.

And then it gets even better. I close the creaky truck door and follow my old man up the green-carpeted stairs. They give slightly under my feet, like I'm stepping on wet cardboard. Inside, the small living room is neat and clean, with a flowered couch in front of an older television, and a copy—a real, actual copy—of the current TV Guide on the coffee table. I've always wondered who bought TV Guides. I guess my dad does. Or maybe the mysterious Michelle does.

"Hey, honey! You home?" A woman's voice calls from down a dark, narrow hallway.

"Just got back," my dad says, walking into the kitchen. It's clean and orderly like the front room, but it's really small, the smell of bacon grease thick in the air. In front of the window that sits over the sink is a thick green plant cradled in a holder that's made of some sort of braided rope. My dad picks up a cup and pours water into the plant's pot, touching the waxy leaves with his fingers as he inspects them.

"Robbie!"

This behemoth barreling towards me must be Michelle. She's nearly twice the size of my dad in girth, and she has a solid five or six inches on him. I swallow hard. Sweat prickles in the hair under my arms.

"How are you? I'm so happy to meet you!" she says, reaching for me. I let her hold my hands for a second and she squeezes them. Her own hands are plump and soft. She wears fake nails like my mom, but hers aren't that plain kind with white on the ends like I'm used to, these are long and coppery with shiny diamond thingies pasted on them.

"I'm good, thanks." It feels weird for us all to be standing in the miniature kitchen with its half-sized appliances. The bathroom at Skylar's apartment—and the three of us tucked in there snugly—again pops into my mind. (I silently pray to stop thinking of that particular incident at every inopportune moment, and particularly during those moments where one of my parents is involved.)

"Your dad has told me so much about you," she says kindly, opening the refrigerator. "Are you hungry? No, you're probably tired. Did you sleep? I never sleep on planes. It's too much excitement for me, you know? Just the anticipation of being somewhere else and wondering what's going to happen, and when we're finally going to be there. Let me show you to your room." She gives me a tilt of her head and a gesture with her pudgy hand that clearly says: "C'mon, follow me!" So I do. She continues to rattle off a series of exclamations and questions that she never gives me the time to answer or respond to.