It’s Saturday morning, May 17th. I unintentionally wake to the murmur of the milk chocolate ceiling fan wind milling above me. For a second, I don’t recognize where I am. I have almost forgotten I was at my parents’ house for summer break. My old room seemed bizarrely normal. Walls that were once filled with posters of rappers are now dressed with framed artwork. My desk, which was usually drowned in dirty laundry and old movie tickets, had now seemed like a legitimate place for learning. Across the house, I hear my parents laughing as they play with their stereo system. My sister violently swings open my bedroom door and yells, “Happy Birthday Gaby!” She jumps on my queen-sized bed as if there’s no chance it could potentially break. In the distance, I vaguely hear the Spanish birthday song my parents have put on the stereo. I think they’ve played this song every year for my past 20 birthdays. I almost forgot that today I turn 21. As tempting as all the commotion sounds, I just want to sleep.
Sure enough, my parents infiltrate my room like they’re SWAT. The two of them proceed to attack me with hugs, kisses and despite my resistance, make me laugh. My smile is similar to a light switch. There are only two positions. It’s either really on or very much off. The frustrating part is that I’m never really either. My dad hands me his annual envelope of dead presidents and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“What do you want to eat for breakfast Gaby?” he asks with his cheeky smile.
If there’s one thing I missed about living at home, it was my dad’s breakfast. I love sleeping and eating, so naturally breakfast and I are a match made in heaven. Unlike other meals where you are forced to wait until a certain time, breakfast allows you to wake up and instantly eat. It’s socially acceptable and even recommended by doctors. Also, the fact that I didn’t have to make it this time helps too.
“Yes, please,” I tell him.
The thing with my Dad’s breakfast is that it’s always the same. 4 Eggo waffles with 3 scrambled eggs on the side. Although I’ve tried years attempting to mimic his signature plate, I always fall short. The scrambled eggs are at just the right consistency: not too watery, not too solid. The waffles are always golden brown, but still perfectly soft. The IHOP/Divinely scent of syrup’d down goodness reassures me that I’m back home.
I swallow my breakfast and make some small talk with my sister and mom at the kitchen table. The bay window casts a spotlight on everything.
“Did you want to go to Seasons 52 tonight?” my mom asks as she’s finishing her parfait.
“Um, yeah sure. Could Oscar come?” I replied.
“Yeah! Of course, bring whomever you want,” she said as if she’s subtly suggesting I bring more people.
As I’m sitting there listening to my sister talk about her conversation with my cousins from Sweden, my gaze wanders to the window. My eyes become fixated on the man-made lake behind our backyard. It’s always looked like one of those pictures you find online that people put quotes in front of. Rays of the UV-light continuously reflect off every ripple of water. The wind blows each layer higher and higher to the east until it decides it’s finished. The trees surrounding the lake are tall. Their Dr. Seuss-like branches sway in the wind like hands on a roller coaster. From one of the trees in our yard, an albino squirrel hops down the trunk. I wonder if he knows he’s albino. I wonder if he cares. As he steps on the grass, I notice the length of it is scarcely long.
My dad and I have always teamed up to do the grass. I don’t really remember how it started. I think one day when I was 14, I was playing a video game and my dad was kind of like ”Hey come help me,” and I did. I thought it was a one-shot deal at first, but I soon realized that this was a ‘until you move out’ kind of thing. Typically, I mow it all and he comes in to do the edges with the trimmer. I like helping him out and the Andrew Jackson he gives me every time doesn’t hurt either.
I interrupt my sister’s story and say, “I’m gonna go do the grass.”
“Yea, good idea!” said my mom.
I get up, thank my parents for breakfast, and go put on my “grass cutting” shoes, which are basically just a shitty pair of black Nike free runs with green stains along the bottom. They were one of the only things I left behind in this house when I moved out. As I roll the lawn mower outside from the garage, I see our neighbor Orlando and give him a wave. Waves are interesting in their own right. Essentially, they’re the stage of acknowledgement before a handshake. They are the ‘I don’t know you, but I see you see me see you, and I don’t have a problem with that but, I’d rather still keep my distance,’ universally accepted greeting. Orlando has lived next to my parents’ house for about eight years, so I’ve done this wave quite often. He’s Puerto Rican, late 30s, and has two kids and a wife. Despite their occasional loud ‘fiestas’, they’ve always been relatively nice.
Sure enough, my parents infiltrate my room like they’re SWAT. The two of them proceed to attack me with hugs, kisses and despite my resistance, make me laugh. My smile is similar to a light switch. There are only two positions. It’s either really on or very much off. The frustrating part is that I’m never really either. My dad hands me his annual envelope of dead presidents and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“What do you want to eat for breakfast Gaby?” he asks with his cheeky smile.
If there’s one thing I missed about living at home, it was my dad’s breakfast. I love sleeping and eating, so naturally breakfast and I are a match made in heaven. Unlike other meals where you are forced to wait until a certain time, breakfast allows you to wake up and instantly eat. It’s socially acceptable and even recommended by doctors. Also, the fact that I didn’t have to make it this time helps too.
“Yes, please,” I tell him.
The thing with my Dad’s breakfast is that it’s always the same. 4 Eggo waffles with 3 scrambled eggs on the side. Although I’ve tried years attempting to mimic his signature plate, I always fall short. The scrambled eggs are at just the right consistency: not too watery, not too solid. The waffles are always golden brown, but still perfectly soft. The IHOP/Divinely scent of syrup’d down goodness reassures me that I’m back home.
I swallow my breakfast and make some small talk with my sister and mom at the kitchen table. The bay window casts a spotlight on everything.
“Did you want to go to Seasons 52 tonight?” my mom asks as she’s finishing her parfait.
“Um, yeah sure. Could Oscar come?” I replied.
“Yeah! Of course, bring whomever you want,” she said as if she’s subtly suggesting I bring more people.
As I’m sitting there listening to my sister talk about her conversation with my cousins from Sweden, my gaze wanders to the window. My eyes become fixated on the man-made lake behind our backyard. It’s always looked like one of those pictures you find online that people put quotes in front of. Rays of the UV-light continuously reflect off every ripple of water. The wind blows each layer higher and higher to the east until it decides it’s finished. The trees surrounding the lake are tall. Their Dr. Seuss-like branches sway in the wind like hands on a roller coaster. From one of the trees in our yard, an albino squirrel hops down the trunk. I wonder if he knows he’s albino. I wonder if he cares. As he steps on the grass, I notice the length of it is scarcely long.
My dad and I have always teamed up to do the grass. I don’t really remember how it started. I think one day when I was 14, I was playing a video game and my dad was kind of like ”Hey come help me,” and I did. I thought it was a one-shot deal at first, but I soon realized that this was a ‘until you move out’ kind of thing. Typically, I mow it all and he comes in to do the edges with the trimmer. I like helping him out and the Andrew Jackson he gives me every time doesn’t hurt either.
I interrupt my sister’s story and say, “I’m gonna go do the grass.”
“Yea, good idea!” said my mom.
I get up, thank my parents for breakfast, and go put on my “grass cutting” shoes, which are basically just a shitty pair of black Nike free runs with green stains along the bottom. They were one of the only things I left behind in this house when I moved out. As I roll the lawn mower outside from the garage, I see our neighbor Orlando and give him a wave. Waves are interesting in their own right. Essentially, they’re the stage of acknowledgement before a handshake. They are the ‘I don’t know you, but I see you see me see you, and I don’t have a problem with that but, I’d rather still keep my distance,’ universally accepted greeting. Orlando has lived next to my parents’ house for about eight years, so I’ve done this wave quite often. He’s Puerto Rican, late 30s, and has two kids and a wife. Despite their occasional loud ‘fiestas’, they’ve always been relatively nice.
It’s Saturday night and I’m at Seasons 52. My family and Oscar sing me ‘Happy Birthday’, which in my opinion is completely unnecessary. At what point in time did we, as humans, deem singing totally appropriate for all birthdays? Not only singing, but singing in public as if singing wasn’t enough in the privacy of our homes. I appreciate the thought, I just hate when everyone in the restaurant looks at me. I try to focus on my family’s singing, but can’t help notice the few people in the restaurant who join the vocal massacre. As I look around the dim lit room, I see some people smiling and even some glaring. While others would take offense to the glares, I completely understand. My birthday is an inconvenience to their dining experience. I just wish I could tell them that it hurts me more than it does them. I didn’t sign up for this either.
As we’re finishing desert, I feel my phone vibrate. Some old friends I haven’t seen in awhile heard that I’m in town. I read from their text that they’re all at Winghouse, and want me and Oscar to come.
“Did you want to go meet up with Johnny and them at Winghouse later?” I asked Oscar.
“Hellz the fuck yeaaaa, let’s go fuck this shit up,” said Oscar.
It was such a classic Oscar response. He was always down for whatever. Any place, any time; it didn’t matter. We met in P.E. in high school. I used to go over his house every day and play Marvel vs Capcom until our eyes were red. His mom would even cook extra food so that I could eat if I was ever hungry, which I always was. We’re more than friends. He’s basically my brother.
“Mom. Oscar and I are gonna go meet up with some friends at Winghouse, if that’s okay,” I said.
“Sure. Oscar just make sure Gaby doesn’t go crazy,” she jokes.
We arrive at Winghouse and greet our friends. Each time I come here, I can’t get over the fact of how much wood there is. Wood on the walls, wood on the tables, bar, stools, chairs, you name it there’s wood on it. I wonder if it’s some sort of innuendo they’re trying to make because of all the men that come here. As I sit down at the table, I’m greeted with two shots of Fireball. After those two shots, I was given another two, and another two, and so on and so forth.
“Chug this.”
“Atta boy!”
“Come on, one more.”
“Don’t be a pussy.”
“It’s your 21st birthday!”
I notice my friends slur their words, so I start faking shots. When they’d gawk at the underdressed Winghouse girls, I’d toss the shots under the table. Afterwards, I made sure to put on a disgusted face to really sell it. I managed to do this act for about 4 shots, but it wasn’t enough. The last thing I remember is laying down in the parking lot with Oscar: looking at the stars and laughing uncontrollably. I black out.
As we’re finishing desert, I feel my phone vibrate. Some old friends I haven’t seen in awhile heard that I’m in town. I read from their text that they’re all at Winghouse, and want me and Oscar to come.
“Did you want to go meet up with Johnny and them at Winghouse later?” I asked Oscar.
“Hellz the fuck yeaaaa, let’s go fuck this shit up,” said Oscar.
It was such a classic Oscar response. He was always down for whatever. Any place, any time; it didn’t matter. We met in P.E. in high school. I used to go over his house every day and play Marvel vs Capcom until our eyes were red. His mom would even cook extra food so that I could eat if I was ever hungry, which I always was. We’re more than friends. He’s basically my brother.
“Mom. Oscar and I are gonna go meet up with some friends at Winghouse, if that’s okay,” I said.
“Sure. Oscar just make sure Gaby doesn’t go crazy,” she jokes.
We arrive at Winghouse and greet our friends. Each time I come here, I can’t get over the fact of how much wood there is. Wood on the walls, wood on the tables, bar, stools, chairs, you name it there’s wood on it. I wonder if it’s some sort of innuendo they’re trying to make because of all the men that come here. As I sit down at the table, I’m greeted with two shots of Fireball. After those two shots, I was given another two, and another two, and so on and so forth.
“Chug this.”
“Atta boy!”
“Come on, one more.”
“Don’t be a pussy.”
“It’s your 21st birthday!”
I notice my friends slur their words, so I start faking shots. When they’d gawk at the underdressed Winghouse girls, I’d toss the shots under the table. Afterwards, I made sure to put on a disgusted face to really sell it. I managed to do this act for about 4 shots, but it wasn’t enough. The last thing I remember is laying down in the parking lot with Oscar: looking at the stars and laughing uncontrollably. I black out.