“Is Mr. Randolph there?  This is Wayne Courson.”

“Good morning, Mr. Courson.  Mr. Randolph hasn’t come downstairs for breakfast, yet.  May I take a message?”  Mr. Peters, the Randolphs’ personal assistant, asked.

“It’s about Wesley.  He’s passed out on our front lawn again.”

“Oh, dear . . . one moment, please,” Mr. Peters pressed the hold button on the phone so he could speak discretely through the intercom.

“Mr. Randolph, we have a bit of a situation, sir.”

“Can’t it wait, Peters?”  I was about to shave.”

“Sir, your son has passed out on Mr. Courson’s lawn again.”

“Jesus Christ!  Does that kid have once ounce of respect?  Let me talk to Courson.” 

Mr. Peters immediately transferred the call.

“Hi, Wayne.  I’m sorry about this.  We’ll be right over,” Billy Randolph said.

“My son was pretty well into it, too.  Passed out on the couch.  Wes is able to talk so I didn’t call an ambulance.  He won’t get up, though.”

“No!  There’s no reason for an ambulance.  You know how these kids are today.  We’ll take him home and he’ll sleep it off.”

“You’re coming now, I hope.”

“Be right over.  Thanks, Wayne.”

“Peters, would you come with me?  I’ll be right down.”

“Certainly, sir.  I’ll get the smelling salts and water ready,” Mr. Peters replied into the intercom.

“What’s wrong?”  Anna Randolph asked her husband as he furiously dressed.

“Your son’s been playing ‘lawn boy’ again.” 

“He’s our son, Billy!”

“No, he’s your son!  If he were my son, he’d have been enrolled in the Marines by now…especially after flunking out of three ivy-league universities we paid through the nose to get him into.  You spoiled him rotten!  He has no discipline, no goals, no ambition, no sense of purpose.  That’s the problem!”

“He’s young, Billy!  All his friends drink a lot.  It’s a phase; it will pass.”

“It’s beyond that.”

“Then what do you recommend?  Do you want our son, who’s only going through a rebellious stage, to enroll in a rehab program with a bunch of low lives?”  Mrs. Randolph screamed. She seemed to startle herself and loudly inhaled and exhaled. She placed her left hand over her heart and attempted “to collect herself” by practicing the deep-breathing techniques her personal trainer had taught her.

“No!  I can’t have that now; I could lose the election.  Thank God Courson is a good friend.  That’s all I need is for the reporters to get wind of this.  I swear that kid does this to me deliberately.”

****

Billy Randolph and Mr. Peters drove to the Coursons’ mansion and the black iron automated gate immediately opened to permit them to enter the secluded property.

“I appreciate your discretion,” Billy said to Wayne while Mr. Peters quickly opened the back of the van.

“You’re lucky I don’t have any neighbors close by, Billy.”

Mr. Peters knelt next to the tall young blonde boy clad in black on the lawn and stuck the bottle of smelling salts underneath his nose.  He had speckles of vomit on his tanned face and blotches of dried vomit on his clothes.

“Go away.  Jus’ lemme sleep,” Wesley mumbled.

“Come now, Wesley.  Time to get up,” Mr. Peters commanded.

“Give me that water bottle!”  Billy demanded.  He splashed the water onto Wesley’s face and slapped it firmly.

“Get up, Wes!”

“Lemme alone,” Wesley slurred.

“Peters, help me get him into the van.”

“I’ll help you,” Wayne offered.

The three men carried the boy to the van and clumsily placed him in the back.

“Whew!” Billy sighed as he slammed the van door. “That’s done.”

“We still on for that golf game this Saturday?”

“Yea,” Wayne replied.

“See you at the club, then.  Thanks, Wayne…you’re a true friend.”

“Billy?”  Wayne asked.

“Yes?”

“We have to do something about our kids.  They need help.”

“Yea, I know,” Billy sighed. He pushed his back against the van to lean and this caused the vehicle to slightly shake.

“Why me?  Why did this have to happen to me?”  Billy Randolph yelled to no one in particular.  “It’s just not fair!”  He shook his head. “ Life is so unfair!”

The author wrote the micro story above in 1995.  It had never been submitted anywhere before nor published…until today.

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About the author:   Christine Bruness is U-K's reigning Essay Contest Champion!


Email: chatnoir@comcast.net

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