PROMPT 2: Writing Prompts from AlexMcGilvery's 'Getting To Carnegie Hall'

Exercise: Dialogue in the Kitchen (rewrite)

HELL'S KITCHEN (Rewritten in 1st Person)

"Tim. Would you like to say Grace?" Dad pressed his hands together, prompting me from across the table.

Would I like to say Grace? As if I had a choice in the matter? No. No, I would not like to say Grace. But did I say that? No. I didn't. Instead, I looked down at my plate and said: nothing, nothing at all. But my eyes, upturned, looking at Mom to my left, were screaming: MOOOOOM.

She saw. She knew. He didn't. He hadn't a clue.

"Oh Hank, he's already had a hard day..." Mom said, turning to Dad. "Why don't you give him a break."

"Ti-mo-thy," Dad insisted, raising his voice with each syllable.

My eyes remained fixed on Mom and waited. But I could see, as she turned back and looked at me, that she wouldn't intercede again. She just gave me a subtle, slow nod and a tight little smile that said: Just be polite Timmy and do what your Father says.

Defeated.

I was defeated. So, I did what any other hormone-enraged-borderline-pubescent-on-the-verge-of-becoming-a-man-pent-up-stressed-out-gawky-awkward-bullied-at-school-AND-at-home-AND-completely-fed-up-about-it Catholic boy would do. I looked up from my plate and began the sign of the cross: "In the name of the Father..."

Dad, looking satisfied and proud, lowered his head to his hands, clenching them in prayer.

"... and the Son..." I continued. The corner of my lip tensed into a smirk; I couldn't help it. "... and the Holy Spigot."

Dad looked up from his hands and glared. Mom looked up and over to him, then to me. I could hear the concern in her eyes, pleading, as if to say: Tim please, no. Not tonight.

"Excuse me. Ahem." I coughed and cleared my throat with cautious intent. "I mean... and the Holy Spirit... Amen." I completed the sign of the cross and Dad's head lowered again, returning to rest on his clenched hands. Then I began to recite the prayer in the familiar cadence. "Bless us, O Lord... and these, Thy gifts... which we are about to receive..." Then, Lord knows what got into me, I said, "... from Thy booty--".

Whack! My head jerked forward. My skull vibrated and Dad's voice was inside it saying: You've got the Devil in you, Son, and I won't stand for it. He had swatted me across the back of my head, so hard my glasses fell off my nose and onto my clasped hands. My hands shaking, I replaced the frames to the bridge of my nose and spoke to the end of the prayer, my voice a faint mumble now. "... through christ, our lord... amen."

"What was that, Timothy? I can't hear you."

I glanced up to the framed portrait of Jesus hanging above the table -- beseeching him: Oh Lordie, help me, please -- then repeated louder, "Through CHRIST. Our LORD. A-MEN."

Dad decided to finish this ritual himself (Thank you, Jesus), performing the sign of the cross over the food and closing with: "In the name of the FATHER and the SON and the HOLY SPIRIT, Amen." He grabbed the spoon in the bowl of mashed potatoes and served a large sticky clump to himself and another one to me -- then handed the spoon to Mom. Pointing at me, then to my plate, he said, "Now. Eat your potatoes."

Mom, apparently thinking this had all passed over now, served the peas and chicken to all three plates and said, "So how was your day, Hank... sweetheart?"

I picked up my fork, jabbed it into my potatoes and thought: I can't wait to get the hell outta here.

Copyright 2014 B.T. Miggins. All rights reserved. (Please note the phrase "Holy Spigot" is a reference to the movie "Four Weddings and a Funeral", which apparently Tim has seen recently. I believe "from Thy booty" is wholey original though.)