Slinthead

Preface

One year ago

I heard a cry of happiness from my mom as she dropped the laundry basket we took to retreat the newly laundered clothes. She jumped up and down, as if she were a kid promised a jar of candy and said:

“Look Flo! An ice cream truck!”

The ice cream truck turned right to another street. Like how a dog chases a cat, she darted after it.

Personally, I see the ice cream truck as the cat; he’s sadly being chased by the crazy dog.

I darted after my mom, running amidst honking cars.

Well, Mom wasn't really running-- her stomach was jutting out of her shirt alarmingly, causing her to slow down a bit, people staring at her.

The sad thing was, I don’t even know who the father of that baby is.

“None of you’re business.” Mom said when I had asked her one night.

When I reached the truck’s counter, I’m panting. Mom is already there, fingering the menu board with deep interest.

Mom is that type of person who would complain deeply for ice cream in one second, and spitting it out in the other.

“So, I can have the pumpkin spice, mint chocolate and vanilla with a beer filling?” Mom asked.

The ice cream truck server sighed, his hand slapping on the counter.

“Ma’am, I told you, we don’t serve alcohol over the counter.” He said.

Mom looked thoughtful, then snapped her fingers.

“I know! Flo, hand me the screw drivers!” She yelled.

I rummaged through her two-pound purse-that I was forced to hold-and finally felt the rubber handles of the screw drivers. I handed it to her.

“No over the counter eh?” Mom said, muttering to herself

Horror reached me as I saw what she was doing. She was attempting to unscrew the counter from the truck and was succeeding: the ice cream truck wasn’t well made.

“Ma’am stop!” The server said.

The server was frantically punching in 911 on his phone. I tugged my mom’s sleeve.

“Come on mom, someone will take our clothes out of the laundry!” I reminded her.

Mom shook her head.

“I can’t believe you would say this, the friend I named you after wouldn’t say that she would-”

“Your friend is dead.” I said through gritted teeth. “The baby is going the same way too, if you don’t stop drinking.” I told her.

Mom shook her head, going back to unscrewing the counter. Soon, sirens and red and blue lights filled the area, as nosy neighbors stuck their noses out of their windows.

Mom was halfway done unscrewing the counter. She somehow got off the hard layers of what looked of tar, and snapped the counter in half, much to the servers horror.

“What’s going on here?” The officer said, a jelly doughnut in his hand.

The server told him the shameful tale, adding lies here and there.

“And then she hit my head with a whiffle bat!” He lied.

I tried to point out the fact we didn’t even have a bat, but the officer waved me off. So much for fairness.

“Well, you’re vandalizing property, and assaulted this server.” The officer said chewing his donut loudly.

“I’m afraid you and your daughter are under arrest.” He said.

What did I do to be arrested?

The officer placed handcuffs on my wrists: they were too tight, the cuffs probably cutting circulation off my arm.

“Metal handcuffs? These, they issue with the third eye, a bad omen..” My mom muttered.

The server was protesting, as I unsuccessfully tried to slip away. The police officer firmly held onto my shoulder.

" They ruined my counter! My wife and I made this, but now she’s dead.” He said bitterly, a few tears slipping out of his eyes.

I felt bad for the old chap; but again, he doesn’t want our affection, but our money. And money wasn’t something we had a lot of.

The officer led us into the back of the police car.

I’ll tell know you this. It wasn’t my first time being in the back of that car. And probably not the last.