How to ruin Thanksgiving dinner without even showing up

One of my favorite things about my old job was the two hours of volunteer time we were allotted every month, which I spent with my kid brother under the cover of "mentoring troubled youth." I may have been laid off, but I'm sticking to routine, at least for now. Yesterday I met Shane at Java Joan's at the usual time. I saw my first Christmas tree of the year there, though I couldn't tell if they were done decorating it. There were only seven ornaments on it, and the lights didn't seem to work. Maybe Joan is making some kind of political statement.

We got our coffee and sat in our usual booth. Only this time when I asked Shane what was going on, instead of his usual initial response of "nothing," he launched straight into an impression of Rob bitching about how I portrayed him in the book. Rob claims he never drinks in the driveway like I said. "Never" is a matter of timing. He finished off part of the garage when I was in college and set up a card table and two chairs behind an old shower curtain so he couldn't be seen from the house. That was in response to Stephanie complaining about Shane always wanting to go outside to be with Daddy because he could see him out the kitchen window. Shane was 3 then. Please note in my book, Shane wasn't born yet. Stephanie was nowhere to be seen yet. Nothing Rob complained about was actually untrue. He just has a shit memory.

So while I was uninvited to Thanksgiving dinner, I was present as some kind of invisible guest, pilloried in absentia by Rob and his partner-in-moronity Pat Donovan at subsequently louder and louder volumes as the day progressed until Stephanie finally lost it. She slammed a wooden spoon against the table, snapping it in half and then tossed the handle on Rob's plate. Shortly after that, he and Donovan relocated to the gentlemen's lounge out in the garage. Apparently Donovan didn't find any of my descriptions of him flattering, either. (They weren't meant to be.)

Looking out for the next generation

My employer is big on volunteering. The cynical side of me says they just want to look good to the wider community, but it's hard to knock a program that benefits the world around us, even if most of my co-workers use their time at their own kid's school, chaperoning field trips or whatever parents do in schools. I wouldn't know. Rob and Janice weren't the volunteery type.

We're allowed up to 24 hours of paid volunteer time per year, to be broken down however we want. You could do three 8-hour days, or mix in some half-days, or whatever works with your chosen project. I take mine in 2-hour blocks. One afternoon every month, I pick Shane up from school and we spend a couple of hours talking about life, big picture and small picture stuff, depending on what's on his mind. I told my boss I mentor troubled youth. I left out the part about it being my brother. But he's just as entitled to clear his head as any other random kid, right?

We'll usually grab a bite to eat or go shopping or fire up the PS4 at my apartment. Yesterday we did Java Joan's. It's not my favorite coffee shop, but it's close and it's never very crowded, especially right after school. He didn't believe me that it used to be a massage parlor when I was his age. The happy-ending kind. I bet Rob hit it once or twice. It got closed down a year or two after I graduated high school. One too many raids. The building sat vacant forever after that. About five years ago they finally renovated it, and it became a calzone takeout joint. There wasn't much market for calzone takeout, though. When that failed, Joan moved in, and brought a very different clientele to the neighborhood. Like most of her regulars, Joan's a lesbian. Like most of her regulars, she looks like she could whup my ass with one hand while not spilling a drop from the espresso macchiato she's holding in the other.