O For God's Sake: The Providence Vowel Houses

By Alan Masterson

An immortal girl with godlike powers and a taste for one night stands is being hunted. Operating from the shadows her pursuers will stop at nothing until she's imprisoned, enslaved or annihilated.  Desperate, she has chosen an unlikely guardian.

Obi Storm Otto, a career bartender and aspiring alcoholic, wakes up in the basement of a funeral home.  Cold, naked, and confused.  With the help of his best friend, an oversized punk rock man-child named Seth, and a talking pug that bears a striking resemblance to Elijah Wood, Obi retraces his steps from the previous evening searching for answers.

What he finds will change everything

Providence has been found.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Masterson
• Release date: Aug 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393554851

Alan Masterson

Alan Masterson lives in Warwick Rhode Island with his adoring wife Jenn and his devoted four legged best friends Quimby and Fred. He attended Johnson & Wales University until he wasn’t anymore. He currently sells The Best Damned Tacos in Town. Sometimes from a foodtruck. Sometimes from a restaurant. He also totally wrote a book.

Book preview

Prologue

DAD’S FUNERAL

June 15, 1998

My mother stood next to the body of my father like an artist displaying her latest masterpiece. As visitors and well-wishers approached the casket to pay their respects my mother pointed out the subtle-yet-intricate techniques that had been used by the mortician to make my father appear in death much as he had in life. My mother, Eleanor Otto, the widow, was also the mortician.

I was two weeks away from my 8th birthday when my mother received a call at the funeral home informing her that my father had been killed in a car crash and that she would now be a widow like so many of the unlucky customers who had graced Landon & Sons Home for the Deceased.

She had brought me to work that day as she often did when my father was away on business, and I was in one of the upstairs rooms of the Home watching an old rerun of Duck Tales when I heard her scream. She was downstairs in the embalming room (or meat locker, as dad had jokingly called it), but the sound of her grief carried all the way up to the second floor where I was.

I rushed down the stairs to see what was going on. Tom Landon Sr., owner of the mortuary, saw me making for the door down into the embalming room and tried to stop me, but at the age of 65 he was far from nimble and I easily dodged him. I flew down the stairs into the basement. When I reached the bottom step, I saw my mother sitting on the floor next to a gurney. The body of a man lay on the gurney with his chest cavity open. A small tube ran from his side into a drain on the floor. Small droplets of blood dripped from the tube into the drain. As terrifying as the site of this gore should have been, it was my mother crying into her cell phone that froze me in place.

When she finally noticed me, mom tried to compose as best she could. She picked herself up off the floor and straightened her apron. After a couple deep breathes, she spoke into the phone, Yes, I understand what you’ve told me. Now please, where is the body currently being held? My mother walked over to a small table that served as her desk area and jotted down a quick note on the back of a purchase order slip.

Very good. Well, I will send someone over for the body immediately and have it brought to Landon & Sons. They will be handling the post mortem.... Thank you for your kind words. With that she hung up her cell phone and turned to face me. Honey, there’s been an accident.

When my mother informed Landon Sr. & Jr. that she would be handling the embalming of her own husband there was a good amount of arguing done on both sides, but in the end, the Landons knew my mother was a stubborn woman and it would be a losing battle to try to get her to change her mind once it was set. My mother’s family was horrified. Dad had little family to speak of. He grew up in an orphanage, but later in life managed to track down his real birth parents who had unfortunately already passed away. The search did yield a half-brother though, Uncle Eb — always Eb, never Ebenezer. A short round man, the opposite of my father in most every way, yet some say they shared the same sense of humor; sarcastic and dark.

It was he who I was sitting next to in the front row of funeral home when my mother motioned to me to come say a final goodbye to my father. I turned to Uncle Eb and felt a tear try to escape the corner of my eye. Eb gave me a squeeze on the shoulder. There, there boy. Go say goodbye to yer old man, he said. And make sure you tell yer mom how good she did with his makeup, how life like ... it’ll make her smile. I nodded solemnly and got up to approach the casket.

My mother gave me a hug so strong I thought I might be joining my father wherever he was headed. Say your goodbyes, sweetie. She said in a hushed voice and kissed my forehead.

To my mother’s credit, she did do an amazing job with my father’s body. As I gazed down into the casket what I saw was my every day dad. Instead of the usual black funeral suit and tie, he was sporting a comfy looking pair of jeans and his favorite t-shirt, a white short sleeve that advertised Dave’s Market, You Can’t Beat Our Meat! On his head was his faded old Red Sox cap. There were bleach spots on the bill from when my mom had been both brave and foolish enough to try to wash the sweat stains out of it. My dad swore it never fit right again after that, but the fact that he wore it every day argued to the contrary.

The only thing I did find a little disturbing about my mother’s presentation of her husband was that she had posed his face into what looked like a conspicuous, winking grin. Only his right eye was closed, and a smirk tugged on the edges of his mouth. Looking at him like that, I felt like he was trying to tell me it was all a joke and he was getting ready to sit up and yell Gotcha!

I looked to my mother standing next to me and she leaned in close and whispered Whatdya think kiddo? Ben would think it’s hilarious. Probably drop dead laughing if he were here. Well, I mean he is here but ... you know what I mean! She winked at me and gave me the best smile she could force. She let out a small bark of laughter. She was barely holding it together.

It’s great, Mah, I told her. Dad would think it’s wicked funny ... oh and he looks so life-like. I glanced over at Uncle Eb and he gave me a thumbs up.

Thanks, sweetie! That’s awesome to hear. She leaned in and kissed my cheek. I’m going to make sure everyone knows the way to the cemetery. Say what you need to say, hon.

Then I was alone with the body of my father Benjamin Otto. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I had trouble looking at his winking face, so I tried to focus on his hands which were crossed on his stomach. That’s when I noticed the silver Zippo lighter in his left hand. Dad always had that Zippo on him. He was always fussing with it, flicking it open and closed, most of the time without realizing. After I was born he quit smoking cigarettes, but he kept the lighter. Staring at it in his dead hand I could hear the clink snap sound of it in my head. The thought of it started a fresh round of tears.

I dried my eyes on my shirt sleeve and turned to walk away but stopped. Some strange compulsion took hold of me. I turned back and pried the lighter out of my father’s hand. His skin was cold and the feel of it made me want to scream. I took the lighter and put it in the breast pocket of my suit and instantly felt ashamed. I had just robbed my father’s corpse. A quick glance over my shoulder and it seemed no one had witnessed the crime. My mother was drawing most of the attention, giving thanks and directions to North Burial Cemetery in Providence where my father would be buried.

I went to retrieve the Zippo from my pocket to return it to the casket, but when I looked back down at my father’s body I stopped. Somehow, when I had taken the lighter from his hand, it had left his thumb sticking up. That, combined with his sarcastic winking face, and it almost looked like he was giving me a Hey, good job, kiddo! I put the lighter back in my pocket and started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t help it. I laughed so hard I thought I might crack a rib. People started to stare.

Uncle Eb came over and took me by the shoulders trying to usher me away, but I brushed him off and leaned down to hug my father one last time. I laughed into his chest, my tears soaking his t shirt. Love you dad! See ya later. I turned and left the parlor with my uncle’s arm on my shoulder.

He was a funny guy, yer father, Eb said as we walked away.

There weren’t a lot of attendees at the grave site: my mother’s family and a few good friends of the family. My father was not a religious man. Uncle Eb had told me it was the beatings he had taken in the Irish Catholic orphanage he grew up in that had soured him on the Church. I had heard on more than one occasion my father refer to the bible as Sci-Fi crap with a bad ending. So, needless to say, there was no graveside sermon, besides a quick thank you from my mother.

My father made a living as a sound technician for a few regularly touring local bands. One band in particular, The Owl Pellets, had actually been pretty big in their time. My father told me they had once opened up for Tom Petty. I had no idea if this was impressive or not at the age of 7, but my father seemed to think so and that was good enough for me.

A few members of the Pellets had come to pay their respects and at my mother’s request they played an acoustic set of some of my father’s favorites. Skynyrd’s Tuesday’s Gone played as the funeral goers walked by and placed flowers on my father’s coffin. A couple people stopped to smile at the inscription on the tomb stone. Others just shook their heads. It read:

Benjamin Lumen Otto

Beloved Father & Husband

December 3, 1960 – June 10, 1998

Move. You’re Standing on His Head.

AFTER THE BAND FINISHED up a cover of Piggies by the Beatles (another of my dad’s favorites) people began to disperse. My mother was off being consoled by my Aunt, and I was left by myself by the grave. I was staring down at the polished wood of the coffin when a shadow fell over it. It darkened the ground around the hole, and the wood of the coffin lost all of its polished shine. I suddenly felt cold all over. I wanted desperately to pull open the coffin and see my father’s face again. Irrational fear gripped me and all I wanted was my father’s voice to tell me I was okay. Cold sweat covered my body and I felt myself beginning to faint.

I began to teeter at the edge of the coffin. I reached out and placed a hand on it to steady myself, and then suddenly the looming shadow seemed to retreat and I felt a hand grasp me by the shoulder. I turned around and looked up into the face of a man I didn’t recognize.

He was incredibly tall and had to hunch over slightly to touch my shoulder. The sun was cast directly behind his head and it created a blinding halo that made his features hard to make out.

As he straightened his stance blocking out the sun I could begin to see him more clearly. He was a lanky man, all arms and legs. His skin clung tightly to his bones, giving him an emaciated look. His face was a mess of jagged cheek bones and a long ridged nose. His eyes were dark hollows. My first thought was, this man is dying. He looked worse than the cancer victims I had seen on the sad television commercials. He wore a dingy pair of dress pants that looked a few sizes too big for him. A pair of plaid suspenders kept them in place over a white button up. His head was crowned with an old black cowboy hat.

Are you alright, boy? he asked. His voice sounded deep, like it came from the bottom of a well. I thought there must be terrible things down in the dark depths of that well. I was instantly terrified of this man. I couldn’t exactly say why at the time. It was just a feeling of wrongness. It radiated from him. I wanted his hand off my shoulder. It felt like whatever was wrong with him was seeping into me through his contact with my shoulder. I said, are you okay...?

I stared at his hat because I was too afraid to look into his eyes. Yes sir, sorry I just never seen anyone wearing a cowboy hat in real life before. I managed to whisper.

He smiled at that, and I could see his teeth were stained yellow and brown. Smoker’s Teeth, my mom would’ve called them. He took his hand from my shoulder and I exhaled with relief. I looked around, and although there were still people present they seemed miles away from me and this cancerous man.

This old hat belonged to my father, and his father before him. Bit of a family tradition, you might say. He took the hat from his head and held it forward. He was bald except for a few straggling hairs fashioned into one of the worst comb-overs in history. He held the inside of that hat before me and when I looked in I could see the words Grenly Alabaster written on the inside rim.

That was my grandfather’s name, my father’s name, and you know what else? he asked.

It’s your name now, too, isn’t it? I replied.

His smile widened revealing more of the gnarled yellow mess of teeth that inhabited his mouth. Well, you would be right on the nose with that assumption, boy. You’re a smart one just like your father is, er, pardon me ... was, he said, nodding to the coffin behind me.

You knew my father? I asked, horrified that the man I admired would know such a being.

He laughed at the question. It sounded terrible. It reminded me instantly of the evil laugh from the video game Zelda, which only happened when you died in the game. We were in a similar line of work, you might say, he replied after a moment. Did he tell you much about his work, Obi?

How did you know my name? I asked, puzzled.

Again he replied with that horrible laugh. I know quite a bit about you, Obi Storm Otto.

Mom and Dad met at a comic book convention. I come from true nerd stock. Mom was dressed like Storm from the X-men and Dad was done up like a Jedi of legend. I was told I was conceived and named that evening — information that would haunt my imagination for years to come. Unfortunately, I’m a very visual thinker.

"I wonder, Obi my boy, while we’re on the subject of hand-me-downs, he said flipping his hat by the brim and catching it. Did your father happen to leave anything of interest behind. A certain bobble he would tinker with?" He threw his hat into the air and my eyes followed it up. Suddenly, I felt a tickle in my chest pocket, and when I put my hand to it I could feel it was empty. Cancer Man caught his hat in his left hand and propped it back upon his head. In his right hand he held my father’s Zippo lighter.

How did you... I started to ask, but then stopped myself. Whoever this man was, he was far from normal. No one could possibly move so fast.

A slight of hand, my boy. He replied. Now this, if I do recall correctly, was your father’s lighter, was it not? Yes, yes, I do remember him ... tinkering with it. He held the lighter up, examining it more closely. A wave of anger crashed on me like I had never felt before.

I took a step towards him and yelled, Give it back, now!

He did not take his gaze away from the lighter. He only held up his other hand and waved his forefinger at me condescendingly. Tisk, tisk, tisk. A boy of your age should not be playing with something like this. I assure you, it is not a toy. We wouldn’t want you starting any fires you can’t put out, now would we?

I said give it back! I yelled again, but he continued to disregard me. His thumb slid over the top of the lighter and it sprang open with the familiar clink sound. His eyes widened, and it seemed like he was holding his breath. His thumb played over the wheel sparking the flint on the lighter. Sparks flew, but no flame. He tried again and again, but still the flame never caught. He smiled, flicked the lighter closed, and exhaled deeply, almost like he was relieved.

Seems like it’s out of fuel, he said, and tossed it back to me. I caught it with both hands and held it to my chest. I suppose there’s no harm in you keeping it as long as it stays that way. He took a step towards me, I took several steps back. He laughed at me and hunkered down on his haunches. He put a hand on my father’s coffin to steady himself.

Your father was a good man, Obi. It was a shame what happened to him, but that’s the problem with good men ... they often go and get themselves dead. Do you think you’ll be a good man when you grow up, Obi? Just like your father? he asked with a crooked smile.

Get your hands off my dad, you creeper, and get the fuck away from me! I replied. I like to think I sounded scary but that crack in my voice probably made it seem otherwise.

Grenly Alabaster chuckled and stood. Again I was taken aback by how tall he was. He straightened his hat and looked down at me. Such language. Maybe there’s a little bad in you. I guess time will tell, won’t it? He turned to leave but paused to give me one last look and said, I’m sorry for your loss. Take care of that mother of yours. He gave me a tip of his hat and walked away. I watched him go, and it seemed like none of our family or friends noticed him at all. He crawled behind the wheel of an old Ford pickup. It was a tarnished yellow color that made me think of his teeth. I watched as he drove away and saw his arm stick out the window holding his black hat. He waved goodbye.

Seventeen years later he died, and I’m glad I was there to watch.

Chapter 1

15 years later

Landon & Sons Home for the Deceased

I WOKE UP COLD, NAKED, and confused. Not really a first for me, but still alarming. The metal embalming table I was laying on was cold and slightly less comfortable than my mattress. I rolled onto my side and noticed a small rolling cart with an assortment of scalpels, saws, and other evil-looking equipment possibly belonging to some mad scientist. There was also a pair of polka dot panties.

The latter I examined more closely. I reached out and plucked the underwear off the table. There was a small tag on the elastic strap. It said Saturday. It was at that moment that the overhead fluorescent lights came blaringly to life and I realized I wasn’t alone. I sat up too quickly and my head started to spin. I bumped the table and all the metal instruments fell to the floor in a clanking symphony. The panties followed suit.

My mother stood at the bottom of the stairs to the embalming room. Her hand was still on the light switch and her mouth stood agape. She had the look of someone trying hard to figure out what she was looking at, and I’m guessing she was more than likely hoping that what she was seeing was not in fact what it looked like. Her eyes moved from me to the table, then down to the floor, then back to me.

I managed to pull myself together enough to put together three syllables. Uhhh hi Mah.

After another second or two of assessing the situation she replied, What the frack is this, Obi?! Eleanor Otto never swore. On occasions of great stress she might slip in a few sci-fi f-bombs though. What the hell are you doing down here? This isn’t the Motel 6 on Jefferson. It’s a mortuary, for Christ’s sake. Color bloomed in her cheeks. Clearly this was not the morning she had expected.

Ever the conversationalist I responded, Umm. I scratched my head, but that didn’t seem to help inspire any intelligent excuses, so I shrugged.

She glanced from my eyes downward and then let out small shriek. Her hand quickly shot up from the light switch to cover her eyes. And why the hell are you naked? THIS is supposed to be a sanitary environment! She parted her fingers and peeped down at the floor where the polka dot panties sat doing nothing. Nothing but being underwear, that is. And whose are those?! Oh this is too much!

Ma, I dunno—

Oh my god, is this some kind of creepy masturbation ritual? she interrupted. She glanced over to one of the walls that housed a number of built in refrigerated drawers used to store cadavers until they were ready, shipped, embalmed, or cremated. Oh Obi, you didn’t!

I dunno what you’re talking about, ma! I replied.

She shot a finger out towards one of the drawers, and with the stern tone of a school teacher she shouted, Mr. Rodriguez from the flower shop is in that drawer. Heart attack, two days ago. Obi, please tell me you didn’t have sex with Mr. Rodriguez! He was such a nice man!

Jesus fucking Christ mom, I didn’t—

Language young man! She interrupted Uh, your father could be a bit of a perv, too, but nothing like necrophilia. Maybe a little role playing, some light bondage—

Oh god please stop. I cut her off.

I flung my legs over the edge of the table and made an attempt to cover up everything I wasn’t comfortable showing to my mother with my hands. With the best reassuring voice I could manage I said, Mom, I know this looks weird.

She cocked her head to the side and raise an eyebrow as if to say, Ya think?

Okay very weird, but I assure you that I most certainly did NOT has sex with Mr. Rodriguez’s corpse. I’m not into dudes, especially dead dudes ... also, I didn’t know he died. That’s a real bummer.

It really is. You know he did most of the floral arrangements for the wakes we have here. He was a good friend to your father from way back. He’ll be missed ... but that’s not really the subject at hand, is it? What the hell are you doing down here? Some of the initial rage in her voice seemed to have gone down, but she was still very upset.

I looked around the room and spotted my jeans over by a door that lead out to the parking lot behind the building. It was used to bring the cadavers in and out of the home as well as to dispose of the waste in the bio dumpster out back.

I must have stumbled down here last night and fallen asleep. I guess I used the back door and crashed down here so I wouldn’t wake you up. After the passing of my father and my eventual moving into an apartment of my own, my mother had moved into the funeral home. There was a small in-law apartment on the second floor that had once been occupied by Tom Landon Sr., but he had passed away a few years back. His son had allowed my mother to take the apartment and had also made her a full partner of the home.

That still doesn’t explain all this. She waved a hand across the room like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. Now does it?

Uhh no, I guess it doesn’t. I must’ve been down in the Village getting drunk. Came here to pass out? I don’t know what to tell ya here, ma. I just woke up. Things are a little foggy. I shrugged and put on my most apologetic face.

You know you’re welcome home whenever, honey. BUT. Home is upstairs. Not down here where I work. She glanced down at the underwear on the floor and cringed. I hope you at least used protection.

I can guarantee that if I did, uh ... need protection, I definitely used it. A wise woman told me long ago, ‘No glove, no love,’ I said. Mom, that wise woman was you.

My flattery fell flat. Don’t be an ass. Clean this room up and come upstairs for breakfast. Seth is up there eating everything in the cupboards. I’m going to make some tea and try to burn this memory from my head. She turned the lights back off and stomped back up the stairs muttering to herself. And put some fracking clothes on! she said before slamming the door shut.

I gathered up my belongings and started to get dressed. I slipped on a pair of beat up old Levis. My underwear was suspiciously missing as was one of my socks. I found my sneakers underneath one of the other embalming tables. I looked around for my Red Sox cap and had a brief moment of panic when I couldn’t find it. Then I noticed it hanging from the doorknob to the small bathroom in the corner and sighed in relief. Wearing a baseball cap religiously was one of the many habits I stole from my father.

A faded old Metallica t-shirt lay crumpled on the floor by the bathroom door beneath my hat. When my father passed away, my mother let me go through his old things and keep whatever I wanted before she put most of it into storage. I grabbed a ton of his old vintage t-shirts from all the shows he had worked throughout his life. Some of them were like wearing rock n roll history for me. Others, like his sweet Abba shirt ... not so much.

I slipped the hat and shirt on and stepped into the bathroom. I turned the light on and stepped over to the mirror to give my reflection a quick once-over. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I had feared, thankfully. I hadn’t shaved for a few days, so I was looking a little stubbly — but not to the point of homeless-looking quite yet. My mother always remarked how much I looked like my father. I didn’t reach a height of 6’3" like him, but I usually hit about 6-feet-even, depending on the day and gravitational pull of the earth. She also compared him to Robert Downey Jr. a lot, but I think she just had a thing for Iron Man. I never really saw Mr. Downey Jr. staring back at me in the mirror.

I turned on the sink and splashed some water on my face, and that’s when I noticed there was a new addition to the collection of tattoos on my right arm. I’m not what I would call an ink freak. I haven’t graduated to neck tattoos or anything so grandiose, but I do have a decent collection. My left arm has a half sleeve dedicated to my favorite Marvel comic book heroes, Nightcrawler and Wolverine being on top. B.L.O. my father’s initials adorn my right upper arm. There are a few others in random spots around my body, some which I don’t care to mention.... Hey, tribal tattoos were cool for a minute.

The new addition was on the inside of my wrist, just below the palm of my hand. A black O with an eye in the middle. It was done all in dark, fresh black ink. I rubbed it with my left hand and I could feel that it was raised slightly from my skin. It didn’t sting or burn like a fresh tattoo normally does before it heals. In fact, it looked like it had already completely healed and set, but that was impossible if I had just gotten it last night, which I didn’t remember doing but must have. The proof was sitting on my wrist.

I stared at it for a little while longer, then I came to the conclusion that as far as drunken mystery tattoos go it wasn’t so bad. I once met a guy at a show who had caricature on his back of himself riding Grumpy Cat and brandishing a sword above his head. I guess it was supposed to be a nod to He-Man and Battle Cat but didn’t quite pan out. So, I guess things could’ve been worse. Still, there was something a little unsettling about waking up with a new eye on your wrist.

I sighed and, not for the first time since I turned 21, thought maybe, just maybe, I should stop drinking so much. That’s when I realized how great I felt. I wasn’t hung over in the slightest. In fact, I felt much more clear-headed than I had in years, despite the loss of a few hours of memories from the previous evening, that is.

I examined myself again in the mirror. No big bags under the eyes or pale complexion that would usually accompany a bender of memory-evaporating scale. No headache, no feeling like I smoked every Camel light cigarette Turkish India had to offer. I felt awesome.

I looked down at my hands. A couple nights ago I was bartending and had cut my thumb on a broken bottle while taking out the trash. It wasn’t a life threatening injury, just very annoying. I had kept it bandaged until last night when it scabbed over. Today it was gone. If I looked close I could almost make out a little pink mark where it had been, but otherwise it seemed to have healed over night.

Neat, I said to the mirror. It agreed.

I headed back into the embalming room and did a quick clean up. I stuffed the polka dot mystery in my pocket and put all the instruments from the autopsy table into a bucket of sanitizer solution. I had helped my mother out a little down here when I was younger, so I knew my way around pretty well. She never made me deal with the corpses, but I had seen enough to be well beyond squeamish when it came to dead bodies. I guarantee that my bring your kid to work day experiences were much different than most.

After cleaning up I headed upstairs. I stopped on the first floor, which was the showing area of the home where the wakes and funerals take place. I feel like if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. Muted colors and carpets, non-offensive pictures of vases, maybe a couple real vases. I always felt like I was stuck in my grandparent’s house frame when I was on that floor. It was my personal idea of what purgatory would look like.

I stopped long enough to peep through the windows by the front doors. There was an old Honda Triumph with a sidecar attached to it sitting in the driveway out front, next to the hearse. Most of the bike was covered in old punk rock and ‘80s stickers. The Misfits and the Sex Pistols seemed to reign supreme, but there was also a strong Alf presence. A couple of fishing rods stuck out of the sidecar. It looked more than a little out of place surrounded by the immaculate grounds of the funeral home.

That would be Seth.

I climbed the stairs up to the second floor of the home. A small office was off to the right, it was currently occupied by John Landon, who, since the passing of his father, now owned the home. He was engrossed in a phone call, but gave me a little wave before shutting his door. To the left was my mother’s apartment. I let myself in and heard my mother’s laughter. At least her mood seemed to be better

The apartment wasn’t much. I entered from the hallway into what served as her living room. A small room, with a love seat and end table being the only furniture of note. Halfway up the wall, a shelf ran the length of the room. It was filled with DVDs. Favorite movies and TV series my mother loved to binge watch time and time again. Her favorites were sci-fi — anything from Galactica to Quantum Leap. As a child I had been indoctrinated by the divine lessons of Master Yoda and Jean Luke Piccard.

Off to the right of the room were two small bedrooms. My mother used one as a makeshift office/storage room. A lot of my father’s old belongings sat in boxes in there. Every now and then, I’d come over to find her on her fourth glass of wine, sitting on the floor going through his old things. She never really got over losing him. She never dated another man that I knew of, though many had presented the offer to her. She was in her late 40’s but it didn’t show. She was still a pretty lady.

... found him sleeping in the hallway outside our apartment once. He was only wearing a tube sock, but it wasn’t on his foot, I heard a gruff voice say. It was followed by another fit of laughter from my mother.

I stepped off to the left into the kitchen. My mother was sitting on the counter sipping a cup of tea. She covered her mouth and tried to stop laughing when I entered but couldn’t stifle a few more giggles. Your BFF was just telling me some interesting stories about your adventures in alcohol abuse, honey.

Seth Yoffbrau was seated at the small table in the middle of the kitchen. He was slurping cereal out of a large mixing bowl. Milk dribbled down his red Goatee, which hung down to his chest. The sheer size of him made the kitchen table look like it was made by Fisher Price for a kids play set.

To say that Seth was a large guy wouldn’t really do him justice. He looked like a dwarf from Lord of the Rings, only I’m pretty sure those dwarves didn’t grow to a height of 6’4. He wore jeans and a black t-shirt with the arms ripped off. I’m not sure if he ripped the sleeves off on purpose or if it just happened every time he tried to get his tree trunk arms through the holes. His head was clean shaved and he had a Celtic knot tattooed on the right side of his scalp above his ear. The rest of him was similarly decorated. Seth had a thing for Norse mythology and liked to display it. All together, he was a pretty intimidating sight of a man, which helped him in his career as a bouncer for local clubs. Most people just took a look at Seth and decided their best bet would be to abstain from starting anymore trouble and show themselves the door. That was alright by Seth as he was a self-proclaimed pacifist. I only use violence if it’ll stop other violence from happening," he had preached to me many a time.

Hi honey, how we feeling today? he said in his deep grumbling voice.

Better than you look, sweetie, I replied.

Oh my, at least his sense of humor is intact, he said. Grab a bowl of cereal. I already polished off the Captain Crunch, but I think there’s still some Cheerios left. He kicked a chair out from under the table and motioned for me to sit, then he continued to slurp down his breakfast.

Maybe I’ll just pick out some of pieces that got caught in your beard. I think I see a whole Crunch Berry in there. I sat down and turned to my mother. You still buy Captain Crunch, or has that been hanging in that cabinet since I lived here four years ago? I asked. Seth stopped snarfing food momentarily and glanced at my mother who just smiled and shrugged. Undaunted by the idea he continued.

I’ll take a cup of that tea instead if you don’t mind? I asked my mother. She jumped down off the counter and poured me a cup from the kettle on the stove. I sipped it too quickly and burnt my tongue.

Careful, that mug is an antique, She warned me. I examined the mug more carefully. It had Mister Tea written on one side. The other showed a picture of the star of the A-Team and