Judith Has A Problem

I didn’t know what to do. The check sat on my desk, centered perfectly between my homework and my stack of dirty dishes.

I started the channel to help people, not make money. Now, an ivory check, with blue trim and bold black letters, sat on my desk, more money than Mom made last month. I don’t have a bank account, and I cannot get cash for a cheque so large, which meant I had to tell Mom. She would clap in joy, but I didn’t start the channel for money. I just wanted to help others and not make money, especially this much, which cheapens my effort, and everyone knew that more money leads to more problems.

I brushed my teeth while I thought about the check on my desk. Too many numbers, with my name, signed, ready to cash.

“Jude, you done yet?” Mom’s new boyfriend asked while he pounded on the door and vibrated the flower picture on the wall. But how can I answer someone with a toothbrush in my mouth?

“Ahhhmosss,” I said, and white and blue spittle sprayed the mirror, added to the finger prints, and somehow dirt.

“Jude!” he yelled and vibrated the pictures with his hand on the door. Each one already sat off-center, but I didn’t care, not my problem, I gave up cleaning up after Mom and her boyfriends years ago.

I reached back and unlocked the door. Larry sprinted in and dropped his black-stained jeans before farting as he sat on the mud-brown toilet. His fat belly roll rested above his bright, red tan line. He at least works hard to earn some money, unlike Mom’s previous deadbeats.

“Thanks,” he said, grunted, and winced. Mom claimed he overeats cheese and needed more spinach, but Mom also claims that spinach will help your eyesight and make you a dynamo in bed. I hadn’t believed her in years.

I spat in the sink, and the white glob trickled alongside the hard water stain and swirled down the tarnished silver drain. At least Mom had a house to make a mess in, because Dad still lived in the garage of his buddy, who creeped me out when I had to visit, thankfully, not often anymore.

“I’m going to need you later,” he said, and grunted, his face red while tiny beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. Not an ugly guy, a couple of years younger than Mom, with a trimmed beard, grey-green eyes, and the hands and forearms of someone who works construction for a living.

“What about Mom?” I asked, picked at a stray eyebrow, and pushed my hair behind my ears. It needed a trim, which, before the check, I couldn’t afford, but if I gave in, set up a bank account, cashed it, I could not only afford, but I could go to the fancy place for hair and nails.