A sultry August day. Teenage wastrel Charlie had pushed his mom Frances too far:
“Get out of this house. Don’t come back until you have a job!”
Father Ray saw his boy drag up the hill, disappear. “Frances—what have you done? We’ll never see Charlie again.”
One hour passes. Charlie saunters down the hill.
“I told you—”
“Cool it, Mom. You know the snack shop at the corner? I’m their stock boy, and for the whole year.”
“What a relief,” says Ray.
“You think?” asks Frances. “So, you’ll keep him from buying smokes, booze and dope? We’re screwed.”
“Get out of this house. Don’t come back until you have a job!”
Father Ray saw his boy drag up the hill, disappear. “Frances—what have you done? We’ll never see Charlie again.”
One hour passes. Charlie saunters down the hill.
“I told you—”
“Cool it, Mom. You know the snack shop at the corner? I’m their stock boy, and for the whole year.”
“What a relief,” says Ray.
“You think?” asks Frances. “So, you’ll keep him from buying smokes, booze and dope? We’re screwed.”
