Page 20 of Never To Suffer

“Oh, I don’t mind. My wife loves it, and it looks damn good. The guys in the neighborhood envy it, too, because it’s fancy.”The lines on his face deepen when he smiles, giving him a bit of a creepy clown appearance. It always reminds me a bit of Danny Trejo. “Besides, I don’t think jeans and an LA Kings jersey will cut it when I’m driving your folks around, Mr. Maxwell?—”

“Xander, man. Hell, call me Alex. Just not Mr. Maxwell. You taught me how to frame a house and grill a burger. You don’t have to play the game with me anymore, man.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I still need to get paid, bro. Now hurry up before your mom gets all pissy.”

I’m the only person in my parent’s house he’ll talk to like that. He lives two doors down from where Dani and her sister lived with their mom, so he’s seen the real me outside these walls. Over the years, I kind of became part of the neighborhood. They never met the polished and posh trust fund kid I saw in the mirror earlier. They only knew me as the guy Lando taught to help fix the old lady next door’s plumbing when the pipes burst. The one who helped carry Mrs. Martinez’s groceries three blocks when the stores locked the wheels of the buggies. The guy who’d step up and speak up when the cops came around to harass the group of teens that hung out on the street corner after school.

I glance over my shoulder, down the hall to what used to be my old bedroom. That’s when the idea hits me. “Hey Berto? Do you have any clue where they put the stuff from my room?”

“Yeah, it’s in a storage facility not far from here. Wait, they moved your shit and never told you? It shouldn’t surprise me, kid.” He claps me on the back, something he’d never do in front of my mother. “Your parents are okay people, but they’re trapped in an era neither one of them lived in.”

“Yeah, I keep telling them the nineteen twenties called and want their shit back.”

The front door acts like a portal as we both step through. He morphs from Berto to Albert—back stiff, smile gone except for the corners of his eyes. I become Alex, the soulless meat puppetmy mother and father are desperate to force me into a mold of their likeness. They’re failing, but I’m not sure they realize that yet, just like they don’t realize how it hurts to shove all my things into a locker the day I left. I never existed in the house as anything beyond decoration.

“Hello, Alex. Glad to see you’re feeling better after the party, since I assume that’s why you left early,” my mother says as I climb in, though she’s barely glanced at me. “Do you have to wear all that black? I’m not taking you to a funeral.”

“It’s the style, ma.” She doesn’t like when I call her that, but I don’t like when she comments on my clothes. So, we’re even. It’s petty, but we’ve always traded bullshit remarks. “Hey, uhm, I forgot to tell you, but I’m picking up keys for a new place tomorrow for Dani and I. It’s nice. In the arts district and I’ll?—”

“Oh no, baby, that’s not a pleasant neighborhood.”

“Okay, but we can’t all live in Bel Air, can we?” I flash her a goofy grin, so she’ll relax a little. “Anyhow. I’m picking the keys up tomorrow and I wanted to get some of the furniture from my old room.”

My mother’s brilliant, capable, legal-centric mind spends all her time doing multimillion dollar business deals and making them look easier than making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not that I’ve ever seen her make one of those. But right now, she’s staring at me as if I spoke in some broken, lost language she’s never heard uttered before.

“My room. The room I had upstairs. The room I grew up in. Come on, I only want a couple of things.”

“Oh, I’m sure we threw all that junk away. Why would you want your old things?”

“Because we don’t have the money to get new?—”

“Alexander Maxwell! Would you stop with this pauper routine, please? It’s honestly driving your father and I mad. It’s embarrassing, to be frank.”

“Okay, but willyoustop the millionairess act from wherever the hell people still talk like that?” Mom rolls her eyes. “Come on, Mom. It’s sitting in storage somewhere; you didn’t throw it out. What will it hurt if I grab the desk and a few things and put them to use?”

“Talk to your father about it. I’m not sure what he did with your things.”

Her tone tells me we’re done talking, and sure enough, she’s silent the rest of the drive. Once we’re out of the car and she’s surrounded by her people, she shifts everything about herself. The way she speaks, walks, gestures, everything. She’s a chameleon, going from haughty heiress in a silent film to hard as nails lawyer who will eat your soul and charge you by the hour for it. I guess we all play parts, and she’s where I learned that talent.

While parading me around like a show pony, she’s an expert at dodging questions like ‘where did he attend school’ or ‘what firm does he work with’ because the answer would embarrass her. These are the moments I’m the most powerful in my life. Not because of the lies, but because if I opened my mouth and told any of these people the truth, I could collapse the walls around my mother and her fantasy world. Just a few words and they’d come tumbling down on top of her, crushing her to the soul. I don’t hate my parents. They’re trying to what’s best for me without consulting me first. They can’t comprehend why I would throw away this life to ‘live in a mouse infested apartment with a girl who has no future.’

They mean well, they’re buried so deep in their privilege, they can’t see they’re wrong.

“You wanna get the hell outta here, kiddo?” The raspy voice behind me whispers as she tugs on the sleeve of my jacket. My savior. My Morpheus who freed me from the Matrix and showed me the dirt and grime of the real world: my aunt.

The doors haven’t closed, and she’s handing me the one-hitter and the lighter. “Aunt Melody, you’re a lifesaver. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to this shitshow?”

“I wasn’t, but your father told me you’d be stuck here. I can’t miss an opportunity to run to the rescue of my ride or die!” She takes the pipe back and takes a hit. “God, that’s so much better. So, how’s the beautiful girlfriend and do we have a wedding date yet?”

I laugh a little harder than I should, but that’s the weed. “No. Oh, but we’re getting a new place! You have to come see it; it’s fire. Arts district, too.”

“Thank god! I had hoped you’d come to your senses. Mice, baby. You were re-homing mice!”

“Yeah, but it’s what we could afford.”

“Still holding onto that dream, huh?”

“I like making it on my own, well, with Dani.” I raise a glass to a man walking across the courtyard. He swallows hard when he sees me and speeds to the doors. “Aww, shame. Mom wanted me to talk to Ronnie Boy.”

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