"Jim Morrison and Ronald McDonald's Offspring"

If Jim Morrison and Ronald McDonald could mate, Mr. McGee would be their genetic child. The man has long jowls with giant cheekbones and a generous dusting of freckles on his cheeks. Most people walk, but Mr. McGee swaggers his long limbs like there’s Novocain coursing through his veins. His lips are puffy red and much too big for his cheeky face.



Whenever Mr. McGee stops over to fix something in our apartment, he gives a ridiculous amount of winks and clicking noises with the inner flesh of his large cheeks. He makes me think of a new comic on open mike night. The man tries so hard to get us to laugh. He doesn’t know about my dad; he doesn’t know that we’ve forgotten how to laugh.


Mr. McGee’s son is an entirely different story. I don’t know what his mother looks like but clearly, Seth didn’t receive any of his father’s genetics. The boy is model gorgeous. I generally try to stay clear of attractive people as they only highlight my sub par looks. Other than a few passing grunts at each other, I’ve managed to avoid Seth.


The door opens and there is Mr. McGee dressed in a grape button-down shirt and matching pants with black cowboy boots on his feet. He is a lanky version of a well-dressed pimp. Unfortunately, this happens to be his everyday wear.


“Okay, what is your charity and how many Hershey Bars do you need to sell to make that trip to Disneyworld?” Mr. McGee asks, crossing his arms over his chest.


“What? Oh we aren’t trying to sell anything,” mom flushes and I know she is reeling from just the word: Disneyworld. It is where she met dad. It is where everything good began.


Mr. McGee makes that smacking sound with the side of his mouth and winks.


“Oh, of course, you’re joking.” She laughs as if it is happening without her consent. “Listen, I have a favor to ask you,” she says and explains our car problem.


“Sure we can give you covered parking. That’ll run you, let’s see…” He narrows his eyes and runs a hand against his long jaw line. “Fifty bucks a day,” he says.


Seth comes to the front door. He leans against the door in that lazy way only cute people can get away with. Already I am feeling like an over-sized monster.


“Don’t listen to him Mrs. Fluchter. It’s on the house, right dad?” Seth says.


“Oooh I outa’ slap you,” Mr. McGee says, trying but failing to impersonate Jackie Gleason well. “Alright, you heard the kid, go park your car in spot #5.”


“Oh thank you, thank you so much. And it’s Fluchter,” mom corrects, as she always does. Our name is pronounced flookter but most people say fluckter or sometimes even flucker. The awkward German surname is something I cherish as it’s the only indelible piece of my father that remains.


“Well that’s gotta be a painful name to carry around on the playground, huh?” Mr. McGee looks down at Jack and up at me.


“Excuse me?” mom asks, her eyes widening.


“Please forgive my father. He’s not used to people,” Seth explains with a smile. “And I’m only here because of the free rent.”


“Do you hear the way this kid talks?” Mr. McGee juts a thumb at his son.


“Apology accepted,” mom says and finally turns to leave.


Covered parking at Meadowview comes with a fifty dollar fee every month—something way over mom’s budget. I can tell by the way mom bustles down the sidewalk, ignoring the man-made pond Mr. McGee wakes up to every morning, that she knows the offer of free covered parking is huge and could easily be retracted. Mr. McGee stands in the doorway, looking at my mother like a puzzle he wants to figure out. Good luck pal! It doesn’t matter. We are that much closer to getting home.


“I need the bathroom,” Jack says, loud enough for all of Meadowview to hear.


“We’re almost home honey,” mom says.


“We have a potty here,” Mr. McGee says, and leans on the doorframe.


“We’re fine, thank you,” mom says.


“I don’t think he is,” Mr. McGee says and points at Jack who wears the face of someone about to go under the knife.


“Just go already,” I say and drag my wet body back under the awning. Jack takes one look at Mr. McGee and runs into his home, mumbling a quick thank you past him.


“First door on the left,” Mr. McGee says and gestures with his arm like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. “Please come in.”


“Fine,” mom says with drops of rain falling into her eyes. “Thank you,” she adds, her chin raised high. She looks like a child pretending to be a grownup. Seth seems to see this because he asks us to stay for dinner.


When my mother says “yes,” my body suddenly feels ten feet tall, my droopy eyes almost invisible against my pale skin. I want nothing more than to disappear, to hide behind my pasty skin and drift out of this apartment like a (albeit giant) white cloud. And it all has to do with the beautiful boy I need to look down to see.