"Larry... Larry, are you ready for your breakfast yet?"
"Goddammit. Of course I'm ready, you old hag. Can't you leave me alone for once in your too long life?" Larry mouthed the words without sound, only wishing he could say them aloud. But of course he couldn't. Mother would be angry and upset. She was only calling him down to breakfast like she had every morning for the past forty years or so. She only had his best interests at heart. Wasn't she always saying that a good day starts out with a good breakfast? Larry stopped rummaging through his dresser drawer for a second and listened. Nothing. The old man would no doubt be hunching over his oatmeal, Stirring in the half pat of butter and the allotted teaspoonful or so of milk he was given every morning for breakfast. Larry wondered if the Boraxo he'd poured into the oatmeal tin last night would leave a strange aftertaste. Would the old man even have a clue as to what was happening when he swallowed the first bite. Would he know why his throat was constricting and he was having trouble breathing. Would Mother know anything was wrong or would she lap hers down also, oblivious to the deadly mouthfuls. Larry hoped they would die together. Calling his name and begging for help. He hoped things would work out this time. Not like the little accident he arranged in the garden. That was a fiasco. He was embarrassed to remember it. Even when he was sitting all by himself. Sitting in this same stinking room he'd woken up in every morning of his life since he was four years old. The cowboy and Indian wallpaper Pop had put up for his sixth birthday was a touch faded but still unpeeling. He hated that damn wallpaper. Wished in his heart that he could tear it down with his fingernails. It reminded him of everything he wasn't. Reminded him that he wasn't living on his own. He, Larry K., holder of 42 patents on just about every medical electronic imaging advancement in the last eleven years. Larry K., boy savant and middle aged emotional cripple. When what he wanted to be, how he saw himself in his heart was Larry K., Montana Cowboy. He had, ever since his tenth birthday, wanted to move to Montana and live a cowboy's life. He wanted to live in the bunkhouse with the other cowboys and do cowboy things all day instead of sit in front of a computer in his deathly quiet office at the lab. He wanted to have a cowgirl for a girlfriend. Someone named Kate or Maggie. A clear eyed, rawboned, red-haired woman who would make his shirts by hand and go for long rides with him on his day off. Larry wanted a tall black, yellowed eyed horse that would stand for no one on his back, save Larry. He wanted the courage to spit in any man's eye who looked at him crossways.
"Larry, honey. Come on down, you'll be late for work." Mother's cry rang out like a cracked bell. Larry started, involuntarily twitching his tie into place and rubbing the front of his loafers against the back of his slacks. A neat appearance is so important mother always says. He moved like an automaton down the hallway and to the head of the stairs. He could hear his father rustling the paper and snorting something to mother about what he was reading. Damn. The Boraxo didn't work either. They must have caught on somehow. He hurried down the stairs lest he turn a suspicious eye on himself. He would do better next time. Maybe a drop or three of sulfuric acid on the brake lines of Pop's old '65 Valiant. A clear-cut accident, impossible to trace. He could see their car heaving up against a tree on their daily trip to the post office. Go ahead, stare at me he thought as he silently swallowed his boring breakfast. Laugh while you can. We'll see who laughs last. Larry thought, for the sixteenth thousand time, about how his day would be starting on the ranch. He could almost smell the leather and sweat of the stable, taste the dust and hear the snorts and yells of the men.
"Like I said, Larry. Larry, are you listening to me? Honestly. You haven't answered one thing I've said for the last ten minutes. Are you having one of your spells again darling?" Mother chattered away as she handed him his brown sack lunch. The same damn sack lunch she'd been making him for the seventeen years he'd gone off to work at the lab. The same goddamn tuna sandwich and red apple and three Oreo cookies he always got. That was going to be the first big change. Maggie or Kate or Bess or whoever he found in Montana was going to make him a different lunch every frigging day of the week. Yeah, the old brake line trick. That would do just fine he thought as he pulled away from the curb and headed down the street.
"Did you say something honey?" Mother asked to the blank spot where the car had just been. It had sounded like he said something about the brakes and she hoped it wasn't dangerous for him to be driving the car. "Father,", she yelled back into the house. "Put this on your list of chores. Check the brakes on Larry's car when he gets home from work today." Larry's Pop flinched at the blast and instinctively lowered his eyes before shuffling off to the garage, muttering something about tools, dreaming about his own personal Montana.
"Goddammit. Of course I'm ready, you old hag. Can't you leave me alone for once in your too long life?" Larry mouthed the words without sound, only wishing he could say them aloud. But of course he couldn't. Mother would be angry and upset. She was only calling him down to breakfast like she had every morning for the past forty years or so. She only had his best interests at heart. Wasn't she always saying that a good day starts out with a good breakfast? Larry stopped rummaging through his dresser drawer for a second and listened. Nothing. The old man would no doubt be hunching over his oatmeal, Stirring in the half pat of butter and the allotted teaspoonful or so of milk he was given every morning for breakfast. Larry wondered if the Boraxo he'd poured into the oatmeal tin last night would leave a strange aftertaste. Would the old man even have a clue as to what was happening when he swallowed the first bite. Would he know why his throat was constricting and he was having trouble breathing. Would Mother know anything was wrong or would she lap hers down also, oblivious to the deadly mouthfuls. Larry hoped they would die together. Calling his name and begging for help. He hoped things would work out this time. Not like the little accident he arranged in the garden. That was a fiasco. He was embarrassed to remember it. Even when he was sitting all by himself. Sitting in this same stinking room he'd woken up in every morning of his life since he was four years old. The cowboy and Indian wallpaper Pop had put up for his sixth birthday was a touch faded but still unpeeling. He hated that damn wallpaper. Wished in his heart that he could tear it down with his fingernails. It reminded him of everything he wasn't. Reminded him that he wasn't living on his own. He, Larry K., holder of 42 patents on just about every medical electronic imaging advancement in the last eleven years. Larry K., boy savant and middle aged emotional cripple. When what he wanted to be, how he saw himself in his heart was Larry K., Montana Cowboy. He had, ever since his tenth birthday, wanted to move to Montana and live a cowboy's life. He wanted to live in the bunkhouse with the other cowboys and do cowboy things all day instead of sit in front of a computer in his deathly quiet office at the lab. He wanted to have a cowgirl for a girlfriend. Someone named Kate or Maggie. A clear eyed, rawboned, red-haired woman who would make his shirts by hand and go for long rides with him on his day off. Larry wanted a tall black, yellowed eyed horse that would stand for no one on his back, save Larry. He wanted the courage to spit in any man's eye who looked at him crossways.
"Larry, honey. Come on down, you'll be late for work." Mother's cry rang out like a cracked bell. Larry started, involuntarily twitching his tie into place and rubbing the front of his loafers against the back of his slacks. A neat appearance is so important mother always says. He moved like an automaton down the hallway and to the head of the stairs. He could hear his father rustling the paper and snorting something to mother about what he was reading. Damn. The Boraxo didn't work either. They must have caught on somehow. He hurried down the stairs lest he turn a suspicious eye on himself. He would do better next time. Maybe a drop or three of sulfuric acid on the brake lines of Pop's old '65 Valiant. A clear-cut accident, impossible to trace. He could see their car heaving up against a tree on their daily trip to the post office. Go ahead, stare at me he thought as he silently swallowed his boring breakfast. Laugh while you can. We'll see who laughs last. Larry thought, for the sixteenth thousand time, about how his day would be starting on the ranch. He could almost smell the leather and sweat of the stable, taste the dust and hear the snorts and yells of the men.
"Like I said, Larry. Larry, are you listening to me? Honestly. You haven't answered one thing I've said for the last ten minutes. Are you having one of your spells again darling?" Mother chattered away as she handed him his brown sack lunch. The same damn sack lunch she'd been making him for the seventeen years he'd gone off to work at the lab. The same goddamn tuna sandwich and red apple and three Oreo cookies he always got. That was going to be the first big change. Maggie or Kate or Bess or whoever he found in Montana was going to make him a different lunch every frigging day of the week. Yeah, the old brake line trick. That would do just fine he thought as he pulled away from the curb and headed down the street.
"Did you say something honey?" Mother asked to the blank spot where the car had just been. It had sounded like he said something about the brakes and she hoped it wasn't dangerous for him to be driving the car. "Father,", she yelled back into the house. "Put this on your list of chores. Check the brakes on Larry's car when he gets home from work today." Larry's Pop flinched at the blast and instinctively lowered his eyes before shuffling off to the garage, muttering something about tools, dreaming about his own personal Montana.