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My sister is thirty-six years old, mentally ill, socially incompetent even with the cheryl hines heavy doses of medication she cheryl hines ingests daily. (Don't ask what happens when she doesn't.) "Yes. I talked with Larry today." Larry is either a homeless man, the owner of Peet's Coffee, or her boyfriend. In her mind, a combination of all of the above, most cheryl hines likely. "You should find a job," says my father. He doesn't look up from his bowl of rice. "Yes," chirps my mother. She's frantically running around in the kitchen, washing dishes or adding corn starch to soy sauce to add to chicken or wiping off the tables, anything to avoid a conversation. "You can work at MaiDangLao!" McDonalds, my mother said. We all throw dirty looks at her and she continues washing dishes. "I'm NEVER going to work there. I wanna be a street person!" She says "I wanna be a street person" the way a five year old boy declares that he wants to be an astronaut, and I look down and I zone out and swallow big gulps of rice because I know exactly what's going to happen.
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