Pomade

As in:

The way things were at work these days, with Darla, is that if she wasn’t five minutes early, she may as well be two hours late. This was extra true after her big fight with Phil. Phil was her boss, and Phil had no problem dismissing three decades worth of stupid decisions in Detroit, the oil games from OPEC, and two manufacturer’s recalls in nine weeks and, instead, blaming all his troubles on his employees. That’s right. Midlands Pontiac was going down because his crew couldn’t get to work early enough, even if they were on time.

“Twelve minutes Michael!” she yelled as she poured coffee with her left hand and buttered toast with her right. “Twelve minutes! And you’d better look the part!”

He popped his head in the kitchen, his still sleeping blond bangs descending over his eyes like straw on a broom.

“How’s this?” he asked.

“A blue turtleneck?” she asked. “You get an interview with Yahoo and you’re going to wear a blue turtleneck? And what is with that hair?! How dare you show your head in here without brushing your hair!”

Oh how Darla was smoldering now. You put your heart and soul into your children, get them to their big day, and they can’t even get out of bed on time and look half decent.

Michael pulled off the turtleneck as he half-trotted toward the bathroom. He swept his hair with his brush, slapped a big gob of pomade on the front and quickly worked it back into a slick golden wave.

“I’m gone in four minutes Michael! Gone like a freakin’ train! With you, without you. Don’t matter!”

“Okay,” she heard over her shoulder, “how’s this?”

And she turned, and she saw him, blue blazer, white shirt, yellow and pink striped tie, looking like Val Kilmer, like a fully grown young man who was finally going to exceed all her expectations. And leave her.

“Good,” she said. “Damn good.”