I’ve talked a bit in the past about untitledhusband’s youngest brother. He’s the one who we think is a serial killer. OK, so maybe he hasn’t technically killed a human yet. But let’s not let that little detail stand in the way of what I believe is his true calling.
Anyways,Â the 22 year-old deadbeatÂ (I will refer to him as “the deadbeat” for the remainder of this post, for it provides me a modicum of comfort in this otherwise joyless scenario) moved back home recently because he got evicted from his own place. I never knewÂ it worked this way, but it seems the more you ignore your bills and shunÂ full-time employment, the more the road rises to meet you. Mom and dad swoop in, buy yourÂ meals, slip you twenties for gas (which you then spend on lap dances and Swiss Cake Rolls)Â and ask your older brotherÂ whyÂ he hasn’tÂ given you better direction in life. Sigh.
The move-out was quite interesting for theÂ shock value, if nothing else. He and his two roommates screwed their landlord out of rent. How many months’ rent, we do not know. On top of this, theyÂ chose to leaveÂ the home in a state of squalor –Â and I don’t mean dust bunnies andÂ smudged windows. There was animalÂ feces and hair everywhere, moldy dishes each with their ownÂ orbit of flies,Â and an orange fuzzy bathtub. I didn’t actually see this, mind you. untitledhusband wouldn’t even let me go inside, which is saying something. This isÂ a guy who makes me sleep on the side of the bed that’s closest to the bedroom door, so that I may serve as a speedbump in case an intruder pops in for a look-see. Perhaps we should’ve dropped a little envelope of meth and a bottle of Spic and Span at their doorstep a few months ago. That place would’ve been cleaner than Star Jones’ post-op GI tract.Â
In between armfuls of boxes and garbage bags filled withÂ soiled laundry, untitledmother-in-law stopped by our car to say, “I’m so happy we’re getting him out of here.” What do you mean, getting HIM out of HERE? This IS him. HE did this. In that instant, IÂ saw what was toÂ be the neverending denial of responsibility. After loading up his belongings, which included an electric guitar, a mountain bikeÂ and a few other things that reeked of misappropriation, mom and dad chauffeured himÂ home — they in their old rustyÂ pick-up truck and he in his two-year old vehicle. I’m not saying he didn’t work to earn it. He went to great lengths to trash it, seeing as his parents were making the payments.Â
Reliable sources tell us that they spent the weekend as a family. If he is capable of anything, it is of knowing just how much grease the wheel needs toÂ turn in his direction.Â They made a special trip to the fair, soÂ fat ass could get himself a funnel cake. HeÂ suggested they grill out, and hey, why not make it steaks. They even went to the movies together. Awwwww. I’m guessing Sunday was a bit slower, since mom needed time to wash his grundies and unpack his belongings. It was cause for celebration, the prodigal son returning home, demandingÂ Black Angus, laundry service and a little bubbly to mark the occasion.
So here I sit, with all this rage and anger, knowing damn well there is nothing I canÂ do about this situation. untitledhusband has talked to his mom, and she just says, “We HAVE cut him off. We aren’t doing anything for him that we didn’t do fo you.”Â (which is flaming shit-sack full of lies). It’s a futile conversation, a waste of breath, because untitledmother-in-law is in denial about this situation. She is convinced that if they just help him out this one last time, he will be instantly reincarnated into Suze Orman.
I’m sure someone out there has a similar experience and some wisdom to share. What will it take toÂ open upÂ untitledmother-in-law’s eyes? Is there anything that we can do or say? Justice is in order.Â I just wish I knew how to bring it about.Â Â Â