Wesley’s head pounds against his left temple from the moment he slips from his dreamy trance into lucidity at 8:27 AM. He knew he would wake up with a headache, but he is nonetheless piqued by the pangs this morning. With a migraine this severe, there is no possibility of Wesley leaving his bed yet. The only thing waiting for him on this side of consciousness is a Zoom call with a supervisor that Wesley despises more than he despises his mother. It is best to push his temple against the satin pillowcase until the last possible moment.
Of course, Wesley knows his mother will insist on scurrying into his basement bedroom fifteen minutes before 9 AM to check that he is awake. She is never satisfied with his chosen schedule, always chastising him as though he can’t get ready in ten minutes. Maybe she can’t get herself together in that amount of time, but Wesley is different. Some people wake up better than others.
His headache is undoubtedly due to the sweet potatoes his mother insisted on making the night before. She knows he prefers loaded baked potatoes, but she flat refused to listen to his requests for a decent diet. She can be a real bitch, but she knows how to conceal her vitriol beneath a veil of sticky sweet cajolery. This detestable trickery only sets her farther apart from her son.
Wesley considers his mother’s penchant for order with disdain. He can hardly move in this bed because his mother insisted on tucking the bedsheets under the mattress along either side. It is as if she made his bed to keep him trapped in her house for another two and a half decades. The sheets are a sweaty cocoon that only makes Wesley’s headache pound harder.
Those damn sweet potatoes.
How many times has he told his mother not to force feed him her diet foods? Is she punishing him or just obtuse? It seemingly makes no difference to her that sweet potatoes mix poorly with his nightcap. After dumping three Ibuprofen in his hand, she has little empathy for the son she claims to care for. She deigns to imply that Wesley should consider switching from a nightly gin to a lager, knowing full well that Wesley would need at least two to get the same buzz. How could a sober man live in such a hell house? It had taken three lines of ketamine last night just to drown out her shrill judgment.
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Wesley knows his mother hates him. She resents him for his creativity, grit, and independent spirit. She wishes that she could look in the mirror and see a woman deserving of praise. Unfortunately, she is little more than a nag with her best years behind her. It is for this reason that his mother insists on keeping him prisoner to her agenda. Every year that she keeps him in her house, she slowly turns the thermostat up to stifle his sanity.
If it weren’t for his mother’s obvious shortcomings, Wesley would have the thrilling life that he deserves to live. He has no desire to enter the 9–5 rat race that his mother exalts, preferring to research career paths more suitable for someone who craves stimulation.
He knew she would keep him her prisoner forever after she mocked him for attending a volunteer firefighter interest meeting. In that paneled room, Wesley felt excited for the first time since he packed his clothes for college. Those men — and one stubby woman, but mostly men — knew how to fend for themselves. Just like Wesley, they knew it was their duty to make an impact on the world. People admired these heroes for keeping them safe while they continued living their asinine lives. Wesley saw himself reflected in their eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to abandon his current post as a doting son and work-from-home logistics associate.
He couldn’t even drive himself home from the interest meeting because the Subaru he got for his college graduation was in the shop for a recall. His mom had tittered anxiously about the potential dangers of firefighting until Wesley had turned up the radio for relief. Although she had not forbidden him from joining, Wesley dodged the station’s calls just to avoid her ongoing admonishments. Now here he is, lying in his tightly wound bed, unable to get her pointless anxieties out of his pounding head.
Those damn sweet potatoes.
No one could be expected to thrive under these conditions. Wesley’s mother wants him to be stunted and single so that she can continue to feel important. Needed. Maternal.
Wesley can hear his mother’s padded footsteps descending the stairs to his basement bedroom. With his head still pounding, he crosses the room and presses the lock tightly against the doorknob. He fits a pair of headphones to his aching temples and presses play on his brown noise app. Before drifting back off to bed, he sends an email to his supervisor.
Internet spotty. Might join late.
