[/caption]INT—MORNING—THE DEATH BY CHILDREN ESTATE.
Mr. Garlington comes down stairs in gym shorts and a stained t-shirt, his eyes rheumy and caked, his hair a riot. He’s had all of three and half hours of fitful sleep and looks it. He’s about to go wake his daughter.
SARAH: WHERE’S MY BRA!
DAD: Rhmbjkd hdygs?
SARAH: JESUS CHRIST! I SENT IT DOWN TO GET WASHED YESTERDAY!
DAD: Hrrrmgh phlammtgh . . .
SARAH: I NEED A BRA!
DAD: I did six loads of laundry yest—
SARAH: IT’S PICTURE DAY!
DAD: Ok, ok, put the knife down. I’ll go look.
Mr. Garlington descends into the pit, makes his way carefully through precariously piled hills of underwear and socks. He finds no bra. He rifles through the clothes he folded yesterday, unfolding them, leaving them askew. He climbs hip deep into the dryer to see if the bras in question might be hiding in the vents. He returns.
DAD: Honey, I don’t know—
SARAH: THIS SHIRT IS CRAP! LOOK! JESUS! WHAT THE !@$%#$! DO I HAVE TO DO?
DAD: I don’t—
SARAH: GET ME A BRA!
Mr. Garlington redescends into the pit. Small blurry things scurry into the shadowy depths of old sweaters and acid washed jeans. He lifts a stack of blankets to find two garish bikini tops. Perhaps they will do.
DAD: Sarah, these aren’t bras per se, but—
SARAH: THOSE ARE MY BRAS! JESUS!
DAD: This one is lime green and pink and this one is black with gold stripes. I thought they were bikinis.
SARAH: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?
DAD: I . . .
SARAH: IT’S PICTURE DAY! JESUS!
The Princess is delivered to school. Mr. Garlington returns for the boy. He wakes the child who rolls out of his bed into a pair of jeans that are so dirty and caked they’re already drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper. He pulls on a t-shirt that is clearly pro legalization. His hair looks like a frightened squirrel. They get into the car.
DAD: Isn’t it picture day?
SON: Yes.
DAD: (staring at the squirrel)
SON: What?
