Clutter

My son is having difficulties, but he doesn't want to talk about it. He gets angry at small things. The other day he cursed me out because I accidentally kicked the cat. It was an accident, and furthermore, he hates the cat. He leaves it outside when it's meowing at the door wanting to come in. Once he said "I hope that cat starves to death." So I refuse to believe he was really all upset about the cat, but he was just looking for an excuse to curse me out, which I don't appreciate.

He wears baggy clothes. Ludicrously baggy clothes. Which aren't the style now, if they ever were, I don't know, but they certainly aren't now. All his friends wear tight-fitting clothes and form-hugging shirts, which look equally ludicrous in some ways, but it is the style and they're all comfortable. My boy wears his baggy clothes all the time. I know what it is -- embarrassment, body-image issues. I gently suggested one day he get himself some new clothes, I bought him some more appropriate pants for his birthday. He shouts at me, "I'LL NEVER STOP WEARING BAGGY CLOTHES." I told him to moderate his g-d volume. He stomped off, cursing me out again. You just put up with it, that's all you can do.

I bought him a new bicycle for his birthday too. For months he'd been complaining about his bicycle, how certain gears didn't work, how it was flimsy, how his tires were always running out of air, how it was one of the uglier bikes parked outside his school every day. I waited for him to buy a new one, but when he didn't I thought it would be a near-perfect birthday present. So I bought him one I had an excellent reason to believe he'd like, and did he? Well, I'm sure he did, but he wouldn't admit it. Got furious, said "I don't need a bike, I ALREADY HAVE A BIKE." Yes, I said, but this bike was better, would work, would not scrape rust onto his needlessly baggy pants. "This is stupid," he said, "my bike is fine and I don't want a new one." I knew what it was. He would have been embarrassed riding to school on a bike his father picked out for him. I don't take it personally. He wanted to pick out his own bike, make his own decision. But even that he couldn't do, he imagined going into school the next day with his new bike -- ANY new bike -- and all his friends would crowd around and say "ooh, look at him, with his fancy new bike, what's with the new bike?" and he'd get embarrassed and try to hide inside his ludicrously baggy clothes. He'd rather cling to the rotten old bike no one bothered to mention anymore, I get that, now. He is not ready to shoulder the mantle of "new bike owner," not confident enough to be someone who appears to be trying to improve himself. But that's irrational, and it was a gift, and he should have shown some appreciation. And he should have been rational. Instead he let the new bike collect dust in the garage, until he thought I'd forgotten about it (I never will) and he took it out to the gravel pit in town and pushed it down there. I know because I drove past him doing it.

I found him researching Zoloft on the computer the other day. I didn't say anything about it, of course, and he quickly closed the computer. Let him take his Zoloft, I say. See if it changes one fucking thing on this planet.

I told him I want him to get a summer job this summer. He said he couldn't, because he has to practice the unicycle. He wants to become very good at riding the unicycle. I think he decided this to get under my skin after the bicycle thing, but I can't prove it. He rides it to school now, instead of the old bike. He gets teased mercilessly for it -- the teachers have called home. I want to beg him to stop riding his goddamn unicycle to school, but he can't now, he's the unicycle guy. To let yourself be cowed and pushed around by teasing is weakness, an admission of guilt, is what he thinks. I taught him that.

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My dad bought a gun. I don't know where he got it, but I don't think it was from a legit gun store. I say this because he spent the whole first day he had it shaving off the serial number. "This gun is going to keep us safe," he says. "No more intruders." We ask what intruders, and he just points it at the wall and pretends to fire it and makes little PSHEW sounds with his mouth.

He knocked out most of his teeth on the counter yesterday. I watched him do it. He stared at the counter for a long time, then walked towards it, then pretended to trip on the rug and landed teeth first, right on the edge. It's a hard counter. Marble. He yelled at my Mom for putting the rug where it was. That's why he tripped on purpose. I asked him why he did it in the ambulance. He grinned up at me with the bloody gauze sticking to his gums and winked.

He took his gun to the hospital and started waving it around at everyone. Said he didn't want to pay his bills. I tried to get him to calm down, but he just winked at me again. "I'm not going to shoot anyone," he said. "I'm just using the gun so I always get my way." Then he fired three shots into the ceiling. Everyone hit the ground. He grabbed a box of rubber gloves from a nurse's cart and just booked it.

My dad came home from work one day with a chicken in a cage. He gathered the family around and said he wanted us to all see something die. He said he was going to break the chicken's neck and we were all going to watch. He opened the cage and the chicken jumped out and flapped off. My dad chased after it, but it was quick. It hid under the couch. I don't know how it squeezed under there. Dad stuck his hand under and tried to pull it out. He kept screaming because it kept pecking at his hand. Finally he gave up and threw the empty cage into the backyard. The chicken's still under the couch. Whenever it makes a sound my dad tells me to be quiet. "Quit that clucking," he says, "do your homework." My mom slips a little dried corn under there for it every time Dad leaves the room.