The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

Previously on Goldberg

She curls up on the apartment floor. Kyle will be home in an hour and no doubt be perturbed to find the apartment in the same state of disrepair. She sighs and waits for the shower. But the tears don’t come. No catharsis.

“Shitballs!”

She heaves herself to sitting and considers her options. Dinner prep. Laundry. Something off the list. They have a list. For Laser’s easy reference. It was Kyle’s idea to help combat Laser’s depression. To keep them moving forward…or something. How did he say it? ‘Depression is not productive, Laser.’ Productivity being key for Kyle. They are constantly comparing productivity notes at Kyle’s prodding. He always wins.

Laser lets him win, refusing to mention the obvious bundle she is carrying around her middle which has diminished her drive.

“Patrick and Rupta and Georgio and Samuel,” she names the ants as they pass. They are busy this afternoon. Probably a stray crumb has them all worked up. She admires the clarity with which they approach their work. Never a question. There to there. No stopping. A simple existence. But they probably don’t have ant brains to trip them up? Do they? She wonders.

If Kyle only knew how Laser spent her most ‘productive’ hours. Thinking about ant brains on the kitchen floor. Oh yeah. Just another area where they are at odds. Every morning when she hears the front door slam, Laser pulls out the broom and tidies the death powder which Kyle has resolutely sprinkled. She for one is not prepared to annihilate her only companions. He has yet to catch on.

“What a drag that you’re gonna have a doochebag for a father, Pooka,” she mutters half to her belly and half to the void. If only she had some energy to make a change.

Laser takes off her pants and lies back down. The cold parkay feels good on her thighs. She stares at the travelers who are now making their way up the kitchen cupboard. Efficient little buggers. They sure know what they want. She is in awe. “Dum, dum…record shows I took the blows and did it my way..dum dee…was my way…” She jolts when she realizes she is humming Sinatra. Goldberg’s song.

“SHITBALLS!”

That’s it. Laser bangs her fist on the parkay and reaches for her flip flops. “Sorry, baby,” she gives her belly a rub. “We’re going back.” Maybe a little chat with her garbage dump nemesis is just what she needs. This time on her terms.