Holey Dribble

Mom burned the soup again. The smoke and steam fill the kitchen while we eat. It is dinner, so that is what we have. We have the choice of one, the choice of a single option, the no-choice option that moves us from one day to the next. The soup smells like burnt plastic with a hint of charred something else…a vegetable of some sort? Tonight they are excited. I say “they” as we live a typical segregated household. Us is my brother and I, near the same age, subject to the same hardships. Them is my mother and Gerry, her current husband. Tonight some friends of Gerry’s are coming over. Gerry recommends them highly..a scary thought. They want to rent the house out back of our tiny plot of land.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Someone is smacking hard on the front screen door. Gerry’s friends have arrived. A man and a woman, both middle aged. Both look just like any ordinary working class couple. Like any ordinary, maybe a little worse for wear, maybe a little beaten down, maybe a little desperate, maybe a little untrustworthy, working class couple. As they step inside, exchanging pleasantries, the air is vaguely blurred with the smoke from burnt food. They don’t seem to notice. I watch as Gerry and Mom discuss the rental, the terms. Everyone seems happy. Hands are shook. The smell still hangs in the air, the acrid smell of dinner, of a bad no-choice meal. The next day, a big black truck, loaded with belongings, slowly and quietly drives up to unload.