One morning when I was at Ann’s, her son Neil got up and belligerently decreed: “I’m 9 years old and I’ve minded long enough . . . I’m never gonna fuckin’ mind again.” And then my sister said, “Pick up yer sox.” “No.” “Pick up yer sox.” “Noo.” “Pick up yer god damn sox.” “Nooo.” And then she grabbed him . . . bang . . . bang . . . bang . . . his hard little skull cracked the Sheetrock. And one time I said clean up the yard and he threw trash everywhere . . . the little bastard . . . I strangled him good fer that. Back then, that’s the way it was. But today, beatin’s are not popular. No more jerkin’ the belt outta yer pants, no more goin’ out and cuttin’ a switch. Ann had heard about this and got herself some “New-age” books on psychology . . . “tough-love,” they call it. And when she was finally able to bring Neil to Phoenix, she tried some on him. He was, however, 13 then and not into ceramic angels, clogged chakras, or crystal mineral therapy. And he didn’t understand all the men coming through the apartment to get their massages on the contraption she kept in his room. That pissed him off the most . . . what she might be doin’ in there. She would close the door and come out an hour later. “Would you like some lunch, Sweetie?” she asked as she walked through the kitchen. “Sweetie . . . would you like . . .” “No, ya fuckin’ bitch, I HATE you,” he yells, jumping up from the couch. “FUCK YOU and these stupid angels” and the knick-knack shelf crashes to the floor . . . wings and halos bouncing everywhere.