The Quickest Way

In line for morning coffee at the hospital cafeteria. “Eventually,” says a woman in scrubs to her co-worker, “you run out of food. Then what’re you gonna do? Scrounge for quarters and go eat at McDonald’s—that’s what, that’s what he does. And he never cleans up after himself. There’s old hamburger boxes all over my house, stinking everything up. I don’t have time for this crap, I work double shifts. He leaves his unwashed dishes wherever he feels like but never in the sink. I find rotten food on the floors, on the furniture, even in his bed. I don’t go in there anymore, it’s too disgusting. I think his head is smaller than normal—Whadda you think?—I mean it’s gotta be. What’s wrong with him?”

“How old is your son?”

“He’s eighteen. Sometimes he’ll sweep the living room when I get on his case, but he won’t touch the kitchen. And get this—he wants me to pay for his dorm room this fall. I tell him there’s no way I’m paying for the damages to his dorm room—that’s his problem. He’ll learn soon enough—the quickest way to destroy a house is to not clean it.”