Another Friday

Back home inside our first floor apartment at 2PM, as we were, after a morning at the city library where we spent several hours while mom searched through the mysteries for one that suited her and I picked out a couple of graphic novels, after mom had splashed the leftover bottle of wine from her pantry storage into a large glass to complement a small snack  (cream-cheesed everything bagel) from the fridge, and after she sat down at the kitchen table to eat and to write out a list of groceries she wanted for dinner from the local delicatessen which she completed and handed to me, I, sneaking two cigarettes from mom’s purse, set off through the kitchen door, down the stairs to the basement exit, lighted up  and smoked one while taking the shortcut through the dirt alley way which stretched behind rows of apartment complexes from our apartment to a nearby block of stores where the delicatessen was located and where, after entering, I squeezed between a couple of shoppers who were eyeing various foods displayed in refrigerated compartments, handed the list to Isaac who was tending to the counter fronting shelves filled with groceries along the back wall and from which he filled the list, added the total cost to our standing credit account, told me to be careful and handed me the bag which I promptly smashed on the door when I started to exit and a full bottle of Gallo red wine broke and poured down onto the dingy grey linoleum and while Isaac was quick with a mop and broom, the other customers wondered what a young teenager was doing with a bottle of Gallo red wine and I stammered my mother is a gourmet cook to no one in particular and everyone in general and I took the second bottle of wine from Isaac who had, after calling my mother about the bill, rescued the other groceries to which I added the wine and I backed out red-faced and cautiously through the doorway to freedom, hurried home without smoking the second cigarette, yelled “I’m home!” to mom, dropped off the order on the kitchen table beside an empty glass and a half-eaten bagel, retreated to my room, crawled under my twin bed, grabbed the flashlight I kept handy to read all the comics stored there hidden, and waited for my father to get home from work, hiding from the argument that would follow at the kitchen table over dinner, the yelling and excuses, Father’s storming out muttering about a divorce, my mother’s tears, and the inevitable snoring as she went to sleep, soon followed by my father’s return home and to bed beside her.