Taste of Home for a Knight

“Glad to see you, Dean,” he says and closes the door.

I just stare and sit down next to a Goth with those wrist bands kids wear to hide where they’ve been cutting themselves — yeah, as if that isn’t obvious.

Two girls sit behind us, and in the back there’s someone huddled in a fetal ball with his hoodie covering his face and earphones blasting. Yeah, that might be a little bit exaggerated but not much.

The guy next to me says, “I’m Rick, borderline personality.”

I feel like I’m in an AA meeting. “I’m Dean Knight, schizoaffective disorder.”

“No shit,” Rick says. “You’re fucked.”

I know this is just a dipshidiot talking to me. Dipshidiot, by the way, is a word that originates in the 21st century, first used by Rose Knight when discussing politicians and a certain ex administrator who used to be her boss. Anyway, I know this is a dipshidiot talking to me, but it stuns me all the same. It’s kind of like when the worst ballplayer on the little league team, whose uncle is probably the sponsor, laughs at you because you’re not good enough to make the team. Right there, sitting in the crazy train with a guy who probably got his social services degree from Sears, a black guy who could be a lineman for the Rams, and four other lunatics my mood crashes just like the stock market in Octotober 1929. Yeah, I know about the great depression.

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