Living at home with your parents when you are a grown man is fucked up in itself. But what can one do with property prices the way they are? The bank of mum and dad had already dried up thanks to my university costs and a part time job in a pet store wasn’t going to get me very far. At least at twenty-five I was still young.
Many of my friends had their own pads, or digs in student accommodation, so they were used to having their own space. I had to contend with queuing for the toilet while my dad sat on the bog hoping his constipation medicine would kick in. Often I would hover outside the locked toilet door, buckling under a full bladder or worse, while he strained and belted out expletives from inside.
“Any luck dad?” I would say, showing interest in his predicament.
“Ahhhhh…....not yet son,” a weakened voice said from inside.
“Keep trying,” I would say.
He was bunged up real bad……
When my parents announced they would be having a weekend away to celebrate their forthcoming wedding anniversary I was overcome with joy; at last, the place to myself.
I had it all planned out.
First night: stay in, phone off the hook, anything goes.
Second night: party at mine, mostly girls, anything goes.
That gave me all of Sunday to clear up and recover.
“You sure you don’t want to come with us? You still can? Are you going to be alright by yourself?” Said mum as I ushered them out the front door to the cab.
“I’ll be fine mum,” I said trying to keep the excitement from showing on my face. “Besides, it’s your silver wedding anniversary, a special moment for you and dad.”
“Hey, and no parties and I want this place looking spic and span when we return.”
“Dad, don’t worry. You guys enjoy yourselves.”
“Yeah. Come on Mavis let’s get going. We don’t want to miss our flight.”
The taxi whisked them away and I waved them off, with a tear in my eye, a tear of joy.
I slammed the door closed and fist pumped my way to the drinks cabinet. I pulled out the entire contents: bottles of whiskey, Malibu, beer, vodka and tequila. I lined them up on the glass coffee table and started on the whiskey. I poured out a bag of coke, made three lines and snorted one with a rolled up fifty I had nicked from my dad’s wallet. I got drunk and dialled Hire a Whore and booked a mature blonde for an all night stay. I turned the sound system up to eleven and danced around in my pants, running to every room in the house busting moves, throwing shapes, doing gymnastics. I bombed around the place like a kid at soft play centre. Then I could smell burning coming from below. I slid down the bannister catching my bollocks on the end post. I rolled onto the floor and crawled into the living room. A lit cigarette had fallen on to the shaggy rug and was smouldering and burning a hole. I jumped up and quickly stamped it out with my foot. I realised immediately that I was barefoot and I hopped around the room in agony. I ran to the kitchen and shoved my burning foot under the cold tap. To relieve the pain I did another line of coke and lit up a spliff. It must have been two hours since they had left and the night was still young. I downed a bottle of Jack Daniels and flicked the tunes to some heavy rock. I was performing air guitar to ACDC, pretty good, if I say so myself, and was in the middle of doing the splits when the door burst open and the old folks walked in.
In my current state, it took me a while to process what the fuck was going on. I thought I was hallucinating and blinked several times to re focus my eyes.
When I’d finished blinking, mum and dad were stood there before me, luggage in hand, opened mouthed. The music had died.
“What the fuck is going on here?” said my dad.
“Mum. Dad. Your back early?” I said, suddenly feeling sober.
“Flights been cancelled,” said mum.
With that, the doorbell rang. “Who the hell could that be?” said my dad as he went to answer it.
“Hi big boy. I’m Trixie. You booked me for some all night fun.”
“What the hell is this?” said dad.
I ran to the door. A wrinkled peroxide blonde stood before us in a leopard-patterned coat. She looked as though she had put her make up on with a trough and her red lipstick was smeared down her chin.
“Ah, there must be some mistake. Wrong house,” I said.
“No, it was definitely number 64 Walnut Close.”
“Please go, you’ve got the wrong house.”
“NO I was booked to come here. I want paying!”
“Whoever you are lady, you’re not welcome here,” said dad.
Her red painted talons produced an invoice. She waved it in my face.
“Here, take this.” I said and unfurled the fifty-pound note and gave it to her.
“That’s not enough. I want at least another fifty.” She said baring her lipstick stained teeth.
I could see a shady looking figure in a fedora hat and a zoot suit climb out of a black BMW parked on the road. He came towards the house brandishing a baseball bat. He stopped and stood behind Trixie hitting the bat into his palm.
“My girl here, Trixie, she wants paying. Now pay up.” He said, working a toothpick around his mouth with his tongue.
My mum pushed us aside and screamed out the door.
“You better get out of here or I’m calling the police.”
“No need they’re on their way.” Said my dad.
Blue flashing lights were working their way up the road.
“Split!” said the pimp.
Trixie tottered her way back to the BMW.
I shut the front door and went to my room.