Oops, I've Fallen

The gurgle of the pot’s sweet brew signals there’s enough to pour myself a cup, so I take a mug out of the cabinet, sweep the pot out of the stream quickly, and do just that before putting the pot back to collect my next two cups’ worth.

I’m just about to put the rim of the mug to my lips when my mom screams bloody murder.

I drop the cup, bobbling it between my hands and thankfully shoving it onto the counter so it doesn’t shatter. Hot liquid burns my skin, but I wipe it off on my pajama shorts and take off for the living room.

“What? What is it?” I yell, looking frantically from my mom to the rest of the room and back again while she peers out the front window with her hands at her face.

“You left the can at the street!” she shrieks, making my chin jerk back into my chest.

Jesus Christ, not another garbage emergency! I can’t take another one.

“You can’t leave the can out overnight, Carly! You have to bring it in! Betty’s going to be by any minute, and I’m going to get a citation!”

“I don’t understand even fifty percent of what you just said, Mom.”

“Go get the can! Now! Bring it in the garage!”

My head feels like it’s going to explode, I’m so freaking annoyed at the garbage. I swear to God, I’m about to toss myself in a bag, seal it up, and wait for the driver to come back and get me next Thursday at five, just so I don’t have to live another minute of this drama.

“Carly!”

“I’m going!” I finally yell back, slamming my feet into my abandoned sandals from last night and doing the garbage walk of shame all over again. Out the garage, up with the overhead door, and down the driveway, I trudge on angry steps toward that asshole motherfucking can.

But I only get two steps forward before a golf cart comes to a skidding stop in front of my mom’s driveway.

A little old lady with white hair and a perm squints toward me from the driver’s seat. “You’re late!”

This must be hard-ass Betty.

“I know. Sorry,” I say, though my attitude pretty plainly says I’m not sorry at all. Betty and her citations can blow a fucking goat. Continuing down the driveway, I get to the end and grab the can by the handle, dragging it back up toward the garage. “I’m new to the rules.”

“Where’s Stella?” she snaps.

“Inside the house,” I say sharply, stopping in my tracks. “I’ll have to be the one taking her trash out for a little while because she was, you know, injured.” My voice is thick with all sorts of Old lady, fuck you.

“Is that why an ambulance came to her place the other day?” she says then, her eyes narrowed unsympathetically.

“She took a fall,” I say, putting a hand to my hip, braless boobs or not.

“Yeah.” The woman snorts. “I’m sure she did.”

And just what is that supposed to mean? She better not go running her mouth all over Sunny Creek about my momma.

“Excuse me?” I question, but she’s too busy worrying about her stupid rules to register my words.

“If you’re going to be taking her trash out, you need to do it right,” she states, mouth set in a firm line.

“I told you, I’m new to the rules. Next time, I’ll bring the can in on Thursday night.”

“Good. But you need to make sure your can is placed at the curb in an orderly fashion. It doesn’t just go anywhere, all sloppy joe like you had it, missy.” She points toward the curb and makes a straight edge with her arm. “The can needs to be two inches from the curb, maximum, and the back should run a straight parallel line.”

“Two inches? Parallel lines?” I question on a laugh. “I didn’t realize I needed to bring a measuring tape with me for garbage duty.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

I bite my lip to avoid laughing again. “I’d never dream of it, Betty.”

She furrows her brow and then scratches some scribbles down on the pad in her hand with a pen before ripping the page off the top. She holds it out for me to take, and I pull in a deep breath before making my way back down the driveway to do so.

“Give this citation to your mother.”

Well, damn. Betty means fucking business.

She shakes her head, disgusted with me and my garbage practices, and I can’t stop myself from saluting her. “Yes, Captain Betty. At your service, Captain Betty.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re just like your mother.”

And then, before I can say anything else, she’s back to the races, zooming off in her little cart to stir up some shit in front of someone else’s house.

Good riddance. If there’s only one thing I accomplish while I’m here, it’ll be making sure Betty Matthews takes her bullshit to a doorstep that doesn’t belong to Stella goddamn Page.