In Rockville: The Rolls

The scent of his mother's cinnamon rolls in the oven always tugged him from sleep, hopeful that he could get to the pan before his sister and father and mother marred the perfectly iced surface of the golden rolls with their greedy damn hands.  He grabbed what clothes lay at the foot of the bed, and dressed wildly as he moved through the house to the kitchen.  His bare feet landed on the cold linoleum as he pulled the raggedy t-shirt over his head, backwards.  Fashion mattered little to a boy of seven, especially when he needed to focus on the grim battle of attrition that faced him with each new batch of rolls.

His mother stood at the counter, spreading the icing across the surface of the soft, perfect warmth inside the pan, and they were untouched.  Big sister was at mother's side, eager to take her share and ruin the entire pan with her clumsiness.  His father sat at the table with the paper, nodding his head at the box score of last night's Cardinals game.  He looked over the top of his paper at the ragamuffin loitering in the kitchen.

"Hey.  Shirt's on backwards.  Where's your other sock?  And what the hell is on your pants?  Boy."  He repeated himself for the final time, firmly.  The glare blazed into his sky blue eyes, "Boy."

"Mornin'."  He walked slowly to his mother's side, eyeing his sister's movements as he approached, lest he need to tackle her to prevent her from being The First to take a roll.  "Hey ma...how many did you make?"

"Answer your father," she reminded, softly.

He stood at the counter, transfixed, fumbling within his shirt to right it.  He pulled a crumpled gray sock from his back pocket, stood on one foot and hopped as he struggled to slide it on without breaking eye contact with the gift of heavenly nourishment.  "Hey dad.  I told you The Man hit one out last night.  Number 33, I think it was."  The boy looked down, quickly, remembering the question and rubbed the stain.  "It's oil.  Mr. Huff was changing his oil yesterday and I was watching and got some on me."

"Hm."

Just as his mother started to lift the pan from the counter, his sister grinned at him, and made a grab for a roll.  The boy's eyes widened in horror.  Mother barked, "Will you stop?  You know he'll throw a fit.  Just stop.  Or you can go without."  Sister retreated to sulk in her chair at the table.  Rolls were distributed, to the boy first, of course, and everyone was silent.  Eager.

Forks clinked against the plates, glasses rapped against the table, and appetites were sated.  The boy smiled as he swallowed, thinking of the day to come.  Baseball with Charles and Larry.  Maybe a trip down to Panther Creek for some catfish, or to his uncles for some leftover fireworks.

This was going to be the greatest day ever.  Glorious, even.

He swallowed the remnants of his fourth roll and patted his little stomach.  His father wiped his mouth, folded the paper, and rose from the table.  "Thank ya for the rolls, baby.  Come on, bub.  We need to get moving."

Things began to rattle and shiver in the boy's mind, teetering on the brink of ruin.  "What?  Get moving where?"

Father shook his head.  "Jesus, you really don't listen do you?  Chickens.  We're picking some up for the store out at the Davidson's.  And you've got a coop to clean.  Move."

This was going to be the worst day ever.