Athletic Shorts (1991)
“MacArthur is laboring over his Frosted Flakes with a fork because across the kitchen on the floor lies his spoon, a harmlessly spent projectile that only moments ago had Huntley’s name on it. MacArthur is almost two. Huntley’s one of our cats—and partner to Brinkley. Mac is mangling the cereal; little completes the harrowing ride from bowl to mouth, and as his frustration increases, he stabs viciously at the flakes.
“Mom,” I say, “I think my worst fears about Mac are coming true.”
“And what are... those fears, dear?” she asks, somewhat amused at MacArthur’s tenacity.
“That he’ll grow up to be a cereal killer.”
Mom sighs. “You promised to stop doing that, Johnny,” she reminds me.
“I know. I’m addicted.”
“There are places you could go for help….”
“It’s better than drugs,” I say.
“Not for me, it isn’t.” She pauses. “You’d better not let your father—”
“I know,” I say. “Ten push-ups per word, including the setup. What do you suppose that one would have totaled?”MoreLess
“Mom,” I say, “I think my worst fears about Mac are coming true.”
“And what are... those fears, dear?” she asks, somewhat amused at MacArthur’s tenacity.
“That he’ll grow up to be a cereal killer.”
Mom sighs. “You promised to stop doing that, Johnny,” she reminds me.
“I know. I’m addicted.”
“There are places you could go for help….”
“It’s better than drugs,” I say.
“Not for me, it isn’t.” She pauses. “You’d better not let your father—”
“I know,” I say. “Ten push-ups per word, including the setup. What do you suppose that one would have totaled?”MoreLess
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