dingleberry.

On Saturday morning, my dad yelled from downstairs: goddammit! Sonofabitch you've gotta be fucking kidding me!

Craig has moved out, and he left his former bedroom (previously my former bedroom) a mess: dark, crusted stains on the carpet, dusty blinds bent and crooked as though someone's been "peeping" too much, plastic cups with the brown sticky of Pepsi gobbed in the corners, old plates that held entire pizzas next to the bed, holes in the wall the shape of a large fist, the knuckles distinguishable, dings and holes in the door. My dad is fixing up the room to turn into a guest room. The carpet is gone, leaving cool concrete. The holes in the walls have been patched and the walls are covered in another layer of white paint. The holes and dents in the door have been fixed, and my dad has sanded down the door ready for a re-varnish. His plan on Saturday morning was to keep working on that door.

But what he found on the newly sanded door was a new hole. Through the wood and to the other side of the door--a rectangular-shaped hole, looking at him with a snarl of splintered wood teeth. Someone had thrown a heavy object at the door. And we all knew that that someone was Dingleberry.

Dingleberry is Travis, or Edward. Not my Travis. Not the eleven-year-old who should rightfully-so be living at my parents' house, whose voice has changed into a baritone, who gets decent marks on his report card except in Language, where he has a C because his English teacher hates him and always makes him draw. Not the pre-teen who looked over my shoulder while I was grading papers over Thanksgiving break and suggested I fail everyone. I love that Travis. I do not love the Dingleberry Travis, or Edward. I, in fact, hate that one.

In fact, I've decided that even though I'm not the kind of person who could ever stab another person, that Dingleberry is someone that I could see myself stabbing. Not to kill, of course. But to poke. And to scare.

This started last May. My dad and Travis and Amanda came to Minneapolis to help me move to Elgin. Amanda's boyfriend is coming too, said my dad, and I thought that it was ridiculous, but oh well. I'd expected that neither of them were going to do any work, but were only coming because they knew we'd go out to lunch, and that's exactly what happened. Free sandwiches. Who's this boyfriend, anyway, I'd asked.

I learned that this boyfriend was from Florida. He and Amanda had met online, and now he was coming to "visit her" for an extended period. Except "visit her" has turned into "live with her and her parents for 7 months." Whether my parents knew this would happen, I don't know. But I do know that the fact that this stranger has been living in my house is fucking ridiclous. Of course, I don't even think Amanda should be living there. But that's just my opinion, and who am I (except the most sane person in this entire fucking family, which is saying a lot).

His name is Travis, but we can't call him Travis because there is another Travis living in the house who was there first--and we don't want to make things confusing. So he goes by his middle name, which is Edward. His last name is Berry; to my dad, he goes by Dingleberry. In fact, my dad will refer to him as nothing but Dingleberry, to his face or just in-reference-to. To me, in-refernce-to, he goes by Amanda's boyfriend needs to get the fuck out of this house or why the fuck haven't you kicked them out yet or useless or asshole or stranger or fucking fuck face.

My sister continues to attend what I call Couch College, which is probably the one thing she's been absolutely dedicated to for her entire life, other than NCIS or books about Vampires. She hasn't stolen anything that I know of lately, but her appetite has unfortunately gotten out of control for someone who, most days, doesn't leave the house--let alone her "classes" at "Couch College" taught by "Professor Lazy." She's fat. She eats a lot of food, and everytime she has money, she buys a lot of food. I pity her. This probably isn't a good thing, but is sad and selfish and wrong, but I do. She has mental problems, and nobody is helping her to fix them. She has been unemployed for months, since Dingleberry moved in. She and Dingleberry eat all of the food my parents buy and then use to fill the upstairs and downstairs freezer. My mom called me a couple of weeks ago to let me know that my sister had made 50 frozen chicken nuggets for her and Dingleberry to eat for dinner. They threw half of them away, wasting an entire meal of food. Who wouldn't be irrate? My mom has kicked them out a couple of times, changed the locks. Dad is too nice. He changes the locks back. He gives her gas money.

I wake up early now, as though I'm 60 years old. I wake up at 7:30, and I go into the living room to read the paper and eat some Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I turn on the light in the living room.

Turn that fucking light off, Jesus Christ! Says Amanda.

I look at her. All I can, again, is THE LIVING ROOM IS NOT YOUR BEDROOM SO GO SLEEP IN YOUR BED.

She has turned the couch into her haven. Her blankets are always there. The cushions are squished together, and the couch bows to accompany her weight. She has pulled the ottoman from the chair up next to her head, and she uses it as a nightstand. She keeps her vampire library books there, she keeps bowls of food there. She even brings the garbage can out from the bathroom and sets it next to her on the couch; this will allow her to get up even less to throw those food wrappers away. She holds onto the remote control as though it's a hot cup of coffee and the winter wind is blowing hard, she has set up her fan at the head of the couch to blow cool air on her head when she gets hot, and when it cools her off enough she turns it to the side instead of turning it off. I suppose the hum soothes her.

And when I come into the living room to start my morning, when I turn on the lights to read my paper--she bends her arm out of position on the couch to turn the light back off. She shields her eyes and starts screaming, her long black hair frazzled and getting caught in her mouth.

I can't sleep in my bed! Edward's in there! She screams.

Don't care. Go sleep in Travis' bed, where I was. I'm not there anymore. Go kick Edward out. Not my problem. The living room is not your room, and I am going to turn this light on, and I don't fucking care if you're sleeping--especially since you've been "sleeping" on this couch since yesterday.


She turns the lights off. I have to call dad for reinforcements. I win. Amanda covers her head with blankets. I crunch my cereal extra loud and sluuuuuuuuurrrrp the milk from the bowl when I'm done. I can see a little light from under the blanket. Amanda is texting people from under her blanket-fort. I wonder who pays for her phone bill and then I have to stop thinking about it so I don't get irrate.

Dingleberry sleeps in until 10, or noon, or two, depending on what time my sister has to drive him to work at Sam's Club, in Maple Grove, twenty miles away. Dingleberry doesn't have a car. My sister shouldn't have a car, but she does. I suppose my parents gave it to her so she's not home all day. Her car used to have a "Support Bitching" purple ribbon magnet on the back, but it's not there anymore. Now there's a black ribbon magnet that says "Some asshole stole my support magnet" in white writing. Clever.

Dingleberry used to work at the Burger King, not far from our house. He didn't make enough money there. He doesn't pay rent, he doesn't pay for food. But he does pay for all of his cigarettes that he smokes in our garage, and he does pay $100 for concert tickets for him and Amanda to go see a comedian on New Year's Eve. I'm assuming he pays Amanda for gas to drive him to and from work, but I don't know how Amanda pays for gas because she doesn't have a job or Disability or self-respect.

But apparently she has sex. Because I saw a Trojan sticking out of the back packet of her giant jeans this weekend. Who keeps a condom in their back pocket when they're at home? Who doesn't know it's all sticking out? I almost poked out my eyes. You think that's hyperbole, but it's fucking not. I became physically sick at the thought of my sister and Dingleberry, in her twin bed. My 300 pound mess of a sister. Dingleberry. He probably weighs 100 pounds soaking wet, or 100.5 pounds soaking wet and with all of that cigarette smoke in his lungs when he inhales, and 110.5 pounds when he's soaking wet and has a puff of air in his lungs and is also wearing his giant black boots and black trench coat. He looks exactly like my ex-uncle Greenie, the one my mom's sister Patty married. Yes, his name was Greenie. Yes, he was disgusting. Yes, he smoked and his teeth--the ones remaining--were brown and yellow like rotting banana peels. Yes, his own kids grew up to be child abusers.

Dingleberry has grown a pubic-hair-like mess of a beard that sits on his face in clumps. It forms mutton chops on the side. Dingleberry has a drawer in the bathroom at our house, and in that drawer he keeps at least 4 bottles of Axe cologne (the mist spray kind) and Axe after shave and men's deodorant that I think he shares with my sister. Dingleberry keeps a red mesh clothes hamper in our basement, and he keeps cigarettes in our freezer. He has a box of PS2 games in the corner, next to his dragon statues--one is a crystal dragon with white frost glass, and the other is black. These dragons sit on the little shelf in the basement, next to my mother's family pictures and wolf statues. It makes me want to die.

Dingleberry crosses his chicken legs whenever he sits down, and his heavy boots weigh them down like the little gray weight on fishing line. He talks as though he knows things, although he does not. I look at him, always, with a scowl on my face and from the right side of my eye--the evil side. I don't respond to his questions or comments, but Travis, my brother, does. Travis thinks the things that he says are smart, because Dingleberry has a laptop and because he knows how to get free internet and how to download games off the internet. Travis listens. I get pissed. Dingleberry gets home from work, and he wears his big gross boots outside and he turns on the computer and he sits on it until 2:00 in the morning. Then he goes to bed in my sister's room, and my sister falls asleep on the couch upstairs, and Travis falls asleep downstairs, because he thinks it's important to stay awake as long as Dingleberry does.

Dingleberry. He talks slow, like a stoner, his fingernails are long and witch-like, and I've seen him without his shirt on and his spine curves in a weird way and sticks out of the skin on his back like an underdeveloped Stegasaurus. His hair is grease. His ears are elfin. He smokes like Ponyboy. He wears a blue vest at work that says "HOW MAY I HELP YOU" in big white, dumb font. He makes excuses for why Travis doesn't do his homework, when I'm just trying to talk to Travis. He is sometimes watching TV when I want to be watching TV, and he is sometimes in rooms of the house that I would like to be in alone. He is attracted to my sister. They shop at Hot Topic together. They see a White Bear Lake restaurant on the show Diners & Drives and they go there, with Travis, to order a pizza called the "Heartstopper." They wear chains. Dingleberry wears black slacks all of the time, faded, like mechanic's workpants.

And he has a temper problem. The last thing that my house needs is another person with a temper problem--all of us are a bunch of angry Pollocks--but Dingleberry can't control himself. His laptop is from the early 90s. It must weigh at good 15 pounds. My sister has decorated the top of it with Winnie the Pooh stickers. I don't know what the use it for. Other than the fact that Dingleberry used it to put a big fucking hole in the newly sanded door downstairs, because he got mad and threw it.

Travis covered for him. My mom took the keyboard away from the computer until Travis would tell her what happened, and he refused, even though he knew. Did Dingleberry ask for a cover up? How do you stay at someone's house as a guest and have the fucking audacity to destory their property in such a decisive manner? So many fucking questions I have for you, Useless Dingleberry.

Dingleberry whipped that smile into the door, Travis covered for him, my dad got pissed, my mom took the keyboard away and grounded everyone from the internet until an unknown date. Dingleberry has to pay for the door, but he still doesn't pay rent, and he still eats all of our food, and I'm certain he is still not saving up for an apartment so he can move himself and my sister out of Freeloading-land into Adultville.

February my mom told my sister. By February 1st, both of you are fucking out of here.

We'll see. Fucking tools.