Even though I’m only a cashier by day, I’m a dancer by night. Weeknights, I dance in my room, in front of the mirror, until Ma yells, “Doreen, knock it off! The floor is vibratin’ like crazy!”
She hates disco. I love disco.
I tell her I gotta practice. “I gotta keep goin’, Ma,” I yell down the stairs.
“The hell you do,” she yells back.
Every night it’s like that. And every morning she gives me the stink eye while I’m eating my cereal before I go to work to stand on my feet for eight hours.
“You’re too loud,” she says. “I’m gonna have to kick you out if I can’t hear my programs.”
Man, am I sick of this guy, or what?