The phone jolted me awake at 2a.m. For normal folk that would mean panic but for me it signaled that my daughter Beth was on her way home and needed someone to open the gate (really need to fix that electronic opener). This also means her boyfriend has not escorted her home so I’m burdened with the job of making sure she gets in safe. Most times I’m OK with it because I don’t like when he sleeps over…..but tonight I groaned answering the call.
“Hello?”
“Mummy, can you pick me up, please?”
Odd. Did I detect a crack in her voice?
“Huh?” I stupidly reply ….which made her start to full-on bawl.
“Can you pick me up? Stephen and I had a fight. He’s being soooo weird.”
In my groggy state I realize she didn’t actually take the car that night.
“OK, OK. I’m on my way.”
Again…no cause for panic. Figuring it was a simple lover’s quarrel that all young women with asinine boyfriends have, (my two brothers rescued me in a similar manner 25 years earlier), my blood pressure didn’t even spike….but I got dressed quickly and headed down to the party venue.
As I pull up and search the sidewalks, I squint into the darkness to see Beth pressed up against a fence with Stephen barricading her. What the…? I toot the horn, Beth sees me and hurriedly pushes past him and gets in the passenger side, distraught.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Before she can reply, here comes that fool Stephen standing in front of my car, in the middle of the street, bathing in the light of an eerily full moon, gesticulating widely and rambling nonsense. I’m even more perplexed now.
“What is his problem?”
“He’s been acting weird all night. Something is wrong with him.” Beth whines.
“OK, but does he know I’ll run his ass over with the car?”
At that point Stephen comes over to my window but since I don’t care to hear a damn word, I peel off and we start the trek home, while Beth relays all that had transpired up to that point. So you can imagine our surprise when we pull into our driveway to see that mothah-effer sitting on my front doorstep.
“Jesus Christ” I mumble
“How did he get here before us?” Beth wails
Stephen jumps up and starts his nonsensical rambling again, circling the car…so I put that hunk of metal in reverse, stepped on gas and drove off down the road. While aimlessly careening through our neighbourhood I find my phone and call my brother Charles, who’s house adjoins mine.
“Hi, can you come to my front door and escort Beth and I inside? Stephen is behaving erratically on the front lawn.”
Hear this pissant:
“Errr…no, I’m not coming to help. Call the police.”
Excuse me???!!! [insert black girl head-roll] Oh. No. He. Didn’t!!
“Gee, thanks a lot Charles. Bye.”
Little shit. Fine, he probably was thinking about his family of 6 that he has to protect…but really dude? Guess I’ll have to kill this mo-fo on my own.
I was not about to call the police because chances are they would shoot the boy or lock him up and all that wasn’t necessary. I had a better idea. Call his parents!!! A stupid child’s worst nightmare. Forget (for now) about whatever he did to Beth, I’m livid that (1) this deranged boy is on my front lawn and (2) my cold-hearted snake of a sibling was not prepared to help.
“Find his home phone number and dial it now” I yelled to Beth.
The Morgans were LIT. ERR. RALLY in for a rude awakening… because all politeness was out the door. A groggy female answers.
“Hello, this is Claire McAlister….Beth’s mom. I’m sorry to disturb you but something is wrong with your son. He is acting erratically at my front door and denying me access to my home!! Can you come and get him?”
“Yes, yes…OK” his mother replied
Click.
That’s at least going to be a 15 minute journey for them, and I’ve now grown weary of driving around the neighbourhood, so I take a chance and swing back around to the house. No sign of Stephen in the yard. I venture on, searching the connecting streets until I see him up the road. I make a swift U-turn, telling Beth to make a run for it inside, while I trail him until he’s at a safe distance.
Brrrrrrrng. Here come’s my brother who’s finally grown a bloody conscience, calling to say he’s at my front door with the dog as protection. Which dog? Couldn’t be the old, tired, pop-dung animal who daily lives up to his namesake “Rusty.” Through gritted teeth, I sneer:
“OK…pulling up now.”
Charles and Rusty meet Beth, so I drive off, stalking Stephen from a distance until he’s far enough away for me to go home and lock us all safely inside. While I’m relaying the story to Charles, “knock-knock” on my front door. Meet the parents.
I empathized for a millisecond at the sight of them, petrified on my front lawn. Despite our children having dated for over a year, our paths had never crossed. But I was still a bit too curt in my delivery:
“He’s not here. I left him walking out to the main road. I’ve never seen Stephen act this way before. It’s definitely more than just weed. This is way more serious, like DRUGS.”
Slam.
Phew….thought it was over, only to go into Beth’s bedroom to hear her on the phone with said moron, arguing because she has just revealed that we called his parents, and the boy is now even more deranged. I grab it from her.
“Gimme the phone. Hello?”
“Why did you call my parents?” he cried.
I scream at him, almost bursting a blood vessel in my neck, about all the drama he’s caused, ending with:
“Right now your parents are driving around looking for your dumb ass. If you had an ounce of respect for them you sit tight until they find you.”
Imbecile.
Later that week, we heard a friend he’d been playing football with on the fated day was in the hospital getting his stomach pumped. This patient had apparently spiked his own beer after the match and Stephen appeared to have UNKNOWINGLY taken a swig.
Bollocks….but hey, whatever,….at least I didn’t go to jail for murder-by-Pathfinder….and Beth is done with him for good.
Right?