Short-Short

Welcome Home

            The white lines in the pavement morph and fade as my tires squeeze in between to reach the other lane.  It’s my BMW 550i propelling me towards what I originally called home.  I haven’t been to L.A. since I left when I was eighteen.  Now at 46, I can say that it’s been a while since I’ve seen either of my parents.  My Armani jacket freshly tailored, shining with all the accessories inside and out.  My iPod, my wallet stacked with cash, and a brand new Rolex are just a few trinkets I took with me when I left my estate.  I went ahead and included extra cookies from the cupboard, and some of my favorite mix tapes.  It’s a long drive.

            I arranged my visit.  I spoke with my parents on the phone briefly about times to visit until we agreed on a date.  Call it an epiphany, but I want to see my parents.  I couldn’t wait tell them about my big life in the city, my big advertising career that seems to be going up, and that time I met Bob Dylan in New York.  My father’s a big Dylan fan.  Since I haven’t kept up with or even spoken to my parents in all these years, people expect me to be nervous.  That feeling doesn’t stick to me anymore.  Try holding a meeting with the CEO’s of seven out of ten of the wealthiest companies in the country just once and see how you feel.  Not only this, but try telling them that they are continually losing money from a waning U.S. economy.  I do this twice a week before lunch.  A job, I’m prepared for.

           

As my old neighborhood approaches, I can see our big red door on our big white house, adorning the end of the street.  Regaling images of me as a child began to take place in my mind.  All the cliché’s overtake me.  First, I recall Christmas gatherings, and Thanksgiving meals, and then summer baseball out in the yard.  I can even remember the time when my father caught me watching Midnight Special and began accusing me of idolizing these musicians which my father called “sex-crazed drug addicts.”  My BMW halts in the driveway as I approach the front door for the first time in 28 years.  I make sure that my smile is welcoming and reminiscent of my old eighteen-year old self.  Surely, they’ll recognize me, even with my extensive hair loss.

I knock on the door only to be greeted with silence.  I wait a bit and knock again.  No answer.  Finally, I let myself in and discover my mother and father on the couch in the living room staring at the television.

“Hey mom and dad, it’s me!” I said with a big smile on my face. “Good to see you both!”

            “Shhhhhh,” my father said. “We’re watching this. Wait for a commercial.”