So I've got this thing, I call it a mind stutter. Don't bother googling it, it isn't there.
What is a mind stutter? You repeat stuff. Over and over, like old Granny who loves to revisit her best times, several times, each time you see her. Like my mother, her daughter.
It kind of pisses me off, but I refrain from "You already told me that". I let her gas on as I enjoy a wonderful bowl of her current preserves. With home made bread, with fresh butter, spread thick.
She's grateful for my visit. Insists on giving me stuff. A lace doily, a belt of whiskey (she thinks it is medicine); being "church people" - a deaconess - she doesn't think a good shot is evil. I don't tell her I know better as I get buzzed on her booze. The taste, to die for as I suck each few ounces down.
I, of course, want two or three shots more. Imagine doing shots with your almost 100 year old grandmother. I am twelve. I giggle after a couple of belts from her stash, almost as old as Gran.. Then my mother comes in.
Man alive, in her fox wrap around collar, gloves, high heelers we called them...
My head is pounding. Hangover? For a moment I can't remember where I am, but then it comes back to me. "I've got this thing," I say. "I call it a mind stutter."
"Yes, you told me that," the cop says. "Six times. Also that your mom's a prostitute, and your grandmother facilitates underage drinking. You came in to report a crime, and you did, over and over again. We got it."
"My dad's a murderer," I say. "Did I tell you that?"
"Nope, that's new," the cop says. He sits down, opens his notebook, clicks his pen again. "Tell me about that."
I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment. It's hard to concentrate, but I need to tell this story. Exhaling in a rush, I say, "I've got this thing, I call it a mind stutter."
The cop says, "Shit. Here we go again." I have no idea what he means.
Opening: Wilkins MacQueen.....Continuation: JRMosher