From Chapter 11 of
Atlanta Nights:
Bruce Lucent put the tray down on the table. He began to shape the hamburger patties, shaping the meat into round, circular shapes with his strong hands. Usually he caressed the hamburger like a lover, loving the way the soft red meat squished yieldingly between his hands and the sensuous sucking noises it made when he pulled his hands away once he got the round shapes just the way he wanted them, not too thick and not too thin, not too wide and not too small, but just right, like the Three Bears, except it was hamburger and nor porridge, everyone said so.
But today it wasn't good like usual. The way Penelope's exquisite features had fallen when her eyes swooped down onto the meat had taken roots inside his brain like the tentacles of a poisonous black spider.
I let her down again, he berated himself savagely. I betrayed her. Again.
Why didn't I remember that she's a vegetarian? he ruminated to himself worriedly. This must be the fourth time I've forgotten. Or is it the fifth? But I'm forgetting a lot of things. his thoughts veered off on a tangent. So many things I can't remember since my accident. Like ... like making hamburgers with my mother.
He remembered a lot about his mother. Too much, in fact. The alcohol binges. The beatings. The way she'd sit in front of the TV smoking crack and watching infomercial. The time the cops had to come because she'd set the dog on fire. He'd loved that dog--Fluffy, his name had been, and there were times when he'd been sure that he was his only friend. The time she went into his closet and cut up all his clothes. The time she stole the money he'd saved up from his crappy evening job at the roller rink and spent it all on nail extensions. The way her fat legs bulged inside her spandex stirrup pants, so different from Penelope's slender frond like limbs. The way she'd cut him down all the time, laughing at him, telling him he'd never amount to anything, never get anywhere in the world. Well, ma, you aren't laughing now, he asserted to himself. I'm not a pimply wimp any more. I'm a stud, a rich businessman, with a fabulous house and a voluminous redheaded girlfriend and lots of friends. How does ya like them hamburgers? He'd always wanted to shout those words into her fat face, her ugly fat hateful face with its garish caked on makeup and glittery paste on eyelashes. But she'd died before any of the good stuff happened and he'd never gotten to yell it into her fat face like he wanted. She'd choked to death on a cocktail frank while watching infomercial. He'd found her next morning, stiff as beef jerky.
I wonder if there's anywhere that the people... responsible... have fessed up; this is getting better and better each chapter that I read... :)
