These Children That You Spit On

Before - Guys

Bender

Dinner

It was "family time" in the Bender household. This meant that all of the Benders would sit at the kitchen table and pick at the canned meat and vegetables being served until one family member was the inevitable catalyst of yet another showdown between John and Stan Bender. The air with thick with tension, as well as the smell of Stan's not-yet-unlit cigarette and overheated mashed potatoes. This particular evening, said catalyst was Kitty, the eldest child, who at twenty was a vocational college student moonlighting as a bikini bar waitress.

"Daddy," Kitty began in her lilting tone. "I need a hundred dollars."

Stan looked up from his congealing meatloaf at his daughter. "What for?"

"I don't think I meant to be a businesswoman," she said. "And my boss at the Shake N Quake thinks I'd be a good model. But I need money for modeling classes and head shots and stuff. Daddy, please?"

Stan stared at her warily for a few moments as she pouted. "Fine, Kitty," he replied. "You better pay me back, though."

John immediately slammed his fork into the table. "Bullshit, Dad," he yelled.

"John, shut up," Kitty hissed, but it was too late.

"What if I wanted to be some kind of rock star or some shit? Would you just hand over money like that, no questions asked?"

"No," Stan replied. "But that's because you're a good for nothing piece of shit."

"And Kitty isn't?"

Stan shot her a passing glance. "At least she has looks going for her. What have you got going for you?"

"At least I don't plan rotting away in this hellhole for the rest of my life! At least I'm gonna get out of here, no matter what it takes."

"What does that mean," Stan yelled back. "You gonna be a drug dealer? A pimp?"

Feeling defiant, John shot up from his seat and stared down coldly at his father. "If that's what it takes."

He knew it was a dumb thing to say, but he couldn't think of much else. He was thinking, surprisingly, along the lines of more honest blue collar work, like a used car dealership, being a mechanic, or even some kind of fast food franchisee. But John figured Stan wouldn't understand, so he mouthed off instead. So Stan rose to face John, grabbed him by the wrist, and burned his hand with the cigarette. About three years ago, John may have winced or yelled out in pain. Three years before that, he would have begun weeping. But at eighteen, such an attack barely phased him.

"Nice going, Pops," he spat. "I think you've been wasting my birthday present."

This comment got him a rough slap across the face. "Fuck you, Johnny," Stan hollered. "You lil rat bastard."

"Go fuck yourself," John spat back.

"John. Please," Mabel, his mother screeched. "Shut the fuck up for once!"

John knocked his plate to the ground and tossed his chair down with it.

"Nice temper tantrum," Josie, his second older sister commented.

"Thank you, fat ass," John snapped, knowing how insecure his nineteen year old sister was about her weight. She pushed her own plate away and rushed out through the back door. The baby of the family, Joshua, who was about two, started crying. In response, Noah, who was eight, smacked him on the back of the head.

John, desensitized to the whole routine, stormed up to his room. He looked out of his bedroom window and saw Fallon Morris. Fallon was his cousin, but it had never meant much. She was a richie until her dad went upstate. Even now that they were in the same place, John didn't care. She was just another junior brat, like Claire Standish. He had almost liked Claire, until he heard what she called him that day. A burnout. He already knew she was like the rest of them, but it wasn't solid fact until she said that. John looked back up at the window and Fallon waved. Both windows happened to be open, but it wasn't any kind of invitation. Irregardless,  Fallon stuttered out an awkward hello. John assumed she felt obliged and he flipped her off in annoyance. Then he slammed his window closed, pulled down the shade, and turned his back to her.