Boss: Yep. The inmates are the chefs. Well-behaved ones.
Me: Umm, that’s cool. Kind of. Are you sure the food is okay?
Boss: Yeah, it’s actually pretty good. I just avoid the creamy sauces.
Me:…
Me: Oh wow. That’s interesting. What’s this place called?
Boss: Doing Thyme.
THE PRESENT
When I get home, Timmy is back.
“You need to grow up,” I say, dropping my fanny pack on the nightstand.
He’s sprawled on the bed, his arms stretched over the cushion headboard like he owns the place. “You tell me all these things that are mean,” he pouts.
I roll my eyes. “Didn’t you say everyone else in your life says mean things to you, too? It’s not just me, Timmy. The issue isyou.Change. I’m done with your ding-dong scenarios.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then sighs dramatically and gets up. Without a word, he drags a box into the living room and starts setting up the drum kit. It’s mine, bought during a rare moment of indulgence. I’ve wanted one for years, and it was a steal during Black Friday sales.
I shoot a message to Alice:
Me:
He’s putting the drums together, at least.
Maybe he can put his brain together tooooooo (petty mode HI).
Alice:
OMG, why drums right now?
Are you sure he isn't doing meth? It's so unhinged and unpredictable.
Me:
Yeah, I’ve always wanted drums. They’re mine. Got a good Black Friday deal.
Alice.
Well, at least he did the thing?
Hooray for drums.
About an hour later, the drum kit is fully assembled, but Timmy has been drinking while putting it together. I’m about to try it out when Timmy grabs the drumsticks, mutters something incoherent, and bolts out of the apartment like a child who just stole candy.
I groan and flop onto the bed. “What the actual fuck?”
About thirty minutes later, I see him walk past the window outside, the drumsticks still in his hand. He notices me looking and starts running, as if we’re in some absurd cartoon.
“Oh, hell no,” I mutter, shoving my feet into my flip-flops and storming out after him.
I catch up to him near the pool, where he’s casually swinging the sticks around like he’s in a parade. It’s a beautiful day as usual, so the pool area is packed, the loungers occupied by sunbathers and families enjoying the afternoon.
“Give me the sticks,” I demand, snatching them from his hands. Out of sheer frustration, I lightly tap him on the shoulder with one of them. Not hard, and certainly nothing that would inflict pain—the way you might tap a toddler who put their hand on the stove. Certainly not beating him with them. “Grow the fuck up, Timmy.”