When I came home, my mother was sobbing in a darkened room listening to Prince. She still wore the gym shorts and U2 PopMart tour t-shirt from the night before. I knew better than to ask her what was wrong. I could smell it. An overacheiving white russian at her fingertips which were dangling from the side of the silver satellite chair.

"Mitchy, that you?" her usually loud, throaty voice a almost whiny whisper.

"Yeah, mom."

"Where's your father?"Mother had a way of hissing her s sounds when she was drunk that I could never replicate in any medium. She had a way of finding excessive numbers of s sounded words when she was drunk

"I dunno, I just came in."

"How was the bar? Good crowd?"

"There was no gig. There's no more band. Bass player quit."

"Was that Seth?"

"Yeah"

"Mmmm. I liked Seth. Why'd he quit?"

"Decided he'd rather play bass in a They Might Be Giants cover band."

"Better than an a capella death metal band."

I winced and hoped it would come accross as a smile in the dark room.

"What time is it?"

I glanced at the blacklit grandfather clock in the hallway, just past my mother's slumped ragdoll body. "Quarter to one."

"Your homework done?"

"I've got sixty four pages to read in On The Road. I was just going to get up super early and finish those, though."

"I'd offer you some of my speed, but you're still way too young for that shit. Too handsome."

"Thanks, mom" I continued up the stairs. Halfway up, my conscience got the best of me I came back down and I covered her with one of the throws on the couch.

"Mitch?"

"Yeah, mom?"

"Thanks for making sure my snatch wasn't showing."

"Anytime, mom."