Picayunes

“Paper or plastic?” The question barely registers. I look down at my nuts in a vice grip, and then back up at the pimply teen.

“Plastic.”

I pay and wait for the last few bags to be loaded into the cart. My balls are killing me.

“Would you like help with that sir?”

God this kid is pissing me off. He’s just doing his job, but damn my nuts hurt and I just want to get out of the store. I grab the last bag myself and say, “Do I look like I need help?”

Trying to get out of the parking lot, people just walk out in front of my car.

“There’s no crosswalk there! What the hell are you doing? You just step out into traffic? You have more faith in me than I do!” Am I legally obligated to stop for every oblivious (or belligerent) pedestrian that tempts fate by getting between me, my nuts and home? The next one gets a Honda Odyssey to the knees!

Home.

I walk up the stairs with the vice grips swinging from my crotch. My beautiful family greets me. The children crowd me with love and noise. My wife knows better. I don’t deserve them.

“Dad! Dad! Dad! There was this thing and this, um, other thing with these things that went, WAAAAAA!”

“Hi Dad, I’m doing my homework. What’s a picayune? How was your day?”

“Dad, Dad, look at this. Look at all these Legos. These are the ones I want for my birthday. Come here. Look. Do you want to play Legos with me?”

Paparazzi wanting a piece of me. My gonads are throbbing.

“Hi kids. [Phony laughter.] Yeah, that’s crazy that thing with the thing. I love you. A picayune? I don’t know. Look it up. My day was alright (except for that part where someone tightened the vice grip). Yeah, son. Those Legos are cool. I’d love to play with you, but my nuts are kinda distracting me right now. Let me set these bags down. Excuse me. I just need to…over here. GET OUT OF MY WAY!”

The wife looks at me out of the corner of her eye. I wince. Damn.

“I’m sorry kids. That wasn’t right. Daddy’s having a hard time lately. It’s just that…there’s this vice grip attached to my balls.” They’ve all scattered. I’m talking to an empty room.

My wife turns her attention back to dinner and says, “Oh, you used plastic. Did you forget the cloth bags?”

I grunt and start putting away the groceries.

“The kids have their spring festival coming up.” She sounds happy about that. It sounds like torture to me…dragging this vice grip around and having banal conversations with the parents of the other kids while my nuts scream for my attention.

“Remember that you’re taking them to school tomorrow.”

I crack open a Fresca. “Yeah.”

“I’m going to have to cancel my hair appointment. Budget.”

The vice grip tightens.

“I’ve got some reading to do. Call me when it’s time for dinner.”

I go up to my room and shut the door. I take a deep breath. Made it. I fiddle with the vice grip to try to loosen it’s hold. No luck. God, have mercy. Being alone is the best I can do for now. Someone is going to get hurt. I want to be alone, but I don’t want to be alone. I don’t know what that means. What is a picayune anyway?

This piece was originally written for storypraxis.com. Spread the word about creative writing every day.