"[My son] comes here for three or four days, and he just sits on his ass. He doesn't help me," my grandmother complains. She looks at me, irritated, "He's lazy."
"If you need help, you need to call someone," I say, bringing my hand to the side of my face in a gesture like holding a phone to my cheek. "No one is a mind reader. Plus, [my uncle] said he is coming on Sunday to take the garbage to the dump."
"You wanna bet me?" She says, sourly. "Bet me $10."
"I asked him if I could come with him, so I will be here on Sunday."
"Okay, you can sit and watch him."
If I would have taken that bet, I would have lost. My uncle sent my mother a TXT-message that he wasn't going to Ridgecrest to haul off that hazard of garbage, but instead was going to the shooting range.
I made plans to go to Ridgecrest again on Sunday by myself, using my uncle's truck, to fix up the place a little. To that, Dad said, "You don't have to go." Mom finally talked me into driving to Ridgecrest when she would be available. She responded, "You have no idea how many of those bags are going to fall apart as soon as you move them. It's going to be a dirty job."
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