The Belt



It’s about nine in the morning when she hears him clomping up the wooden steps and unto the back porch. “About time!”, she thinks to herself as she places the cup of Nescafe on the formica table top. She turns toward the shaky aluminum screen door just as he enters, carrying his silver lunch box in one hand, a brown-bagged six pack in the other. He responds to her bland “good morning” with one of his own as he walks over to the refrigerator. He sets his lunch box (with it’s hand painted iron cross and his work nick-name “Mad Dog”) on the top, pulls the six-pack noisily from the bag, and puts it in the fridge, while pulling a can loose from the plastic rings that hold it together. He pulls the tab off the Reading Beer tall-boy, and takes a long much needed draw as he pulls out the chair and sits across from his wife.

“How was work?”, she asks, without interest.

“It was alright”, he responds.

He takes another long draw off the tall-boy, savoring the cold wetness and anticipating the numbness to come. Then he could obliterate any thoughts of that miserable job, blast The Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers album on the stereo, smoke his once daily cigarette, and finally relax.

“Well!”, his wife proclaims, “Those kids of yours have been at again!” He looks into her face, at those bulging eyes (which remind him of a chameleon), which await a response.

“What was it this time?”, he says with piqued resignation, sensing that his morning of intoxicated relaxation was about to be ruined.

“I tried to call here from the St. Francis Bingo last night and the phone was busy. I tried again. Four times in an hour! Finally I had the operator break through and say there was an emergency. That sneaky son of yours told me he was talking to his Grandmom! For that long? That lying sack of shit!”

He said nothing as he emptied the first can of beer, then got up wearily, retrieved another can, and returned to his seat. He looked at her numbly, lips dawn tight and downward in vexation.

She continued, “They know they are not suppose to use the phone. Except in an emergency. Are they that damn dense? If you don’t beat it into their thick skulls, they just don’t learn!”

By this time he was fuming, “Those little bastards!, he yelled, for her benefit. “I can’t get a moment’s peace around this goddamned place! It seems like every time I get home I have to deal with some bullshit!”.

“Well, you need to do something! I am really sick of their crap! I discipline them, but it doesn’t seem to do a bit of good. You’d think that threatening to send him off to reform school would be enough to make him fly straight. But, no! The only thing those two kids understand is a good beating!”

“Well, they don’t seem to understand that, either! What the fuck am I suppose to do?, he yelled in frustration. “Maybe I should just kill the little fuckers! Than maybe I could get some peace and quiet! I’m sick of dealing with this shit!” He hoped the extreme statement would make her stop bothering him. But, no.

“By the way, he also left the water on last night after watering the garden. I just turned it off this morning. He could have flooded the basement again like that time we went to Pennsylvania. I’ve told him a thousand times! He needs to have his ears cleaned!”

His blood was boiling at this point, but she continued to drone on: “What about all those hours you lost when that little brat ran away?…all they know how to do is eat and sleep…they lie like dirty rugs…everything your son touches turns to shit…sometimes I think they’re retarded…causing problems all the time…who do they think they are?”. Her face floated before him across the table, detached from everything, mouth moving grotesquely. 

He couldn’t take any more. The complaints bore down on him like an immense weight. He felt like a trapped animal, adrenaline flowing, the rage building up. She wasn’t  going to ruin his whole morning. He still had four beers left and wanted to drink them in peace. Then he could become numb…to all of this: her, the damned kids, the shitty job at the chemical factory. There was only one thin that would shut her up…

He ripped himself out of the chair, sending it over backwards unto the linoleum floor with a bang. His oversized belt buckle caught the edge of the table, almost knocking it over, sending the empty tall boy onto the floor where it rolled clattering beneath a cabinet. She looked at him with disgust.


“I can’t take anymore of this shit!”, he roared, pulling his wide leather belt off in one smooth, familiar motion. “I’ll teach the little bastards!”, he said resolutely. He stomped up the carpeted steps, the belt gripped tightly in hand.


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