The Day I made a Hobo Bundle

I was preoccupied in expanding my knowledge of fantastic classic literature when I distinguished the quick, hurried tapping of my mother at my bedroom door.
“Charlie!” she called, in a voice as shallow as a wading pool, “Your father and I are going shopping, Darling. We’ll be back by seven, so try to get yourself something to eat in the meantime.”
I placed my bookmark between two wonderful pages of Great Expectations. The work of Charles Dickens had been an intelligent breath of fresh air for me, but alas I was forced to return to the world of underdeveloped minds now. I closed the book and set it on the pile next to my bed. My mother clumsily made her way into my sanctuary now, the only room in the house that wasn’t infected by contemporary trash. She began asking whether I’d be alright left alone for a few hours (to which I would have plainly replied “Yes” for I am twelve years old and have more brains in my head than the two of my naive, sorry excuses for parents combined). My mother’s small mouth stopped producing horrible, high-pitched syllables, however, when she stumbled over my collection of Shakespeare’s plays on the floor. She made a disgruntled noise, sounding something like a piglet, and then proceeded to comment on the messiness of a genius.
“Charlie Daniels! How many times have I told you to get rid of these silly old books?”
She picked up my dusty, crumbling copy of Romeo and Juliet—her top lip curling up like a shrivelled piece of kindling—sniffed the cover, made a disgusted expression, and then chucked the brilliant composition of poetry across my bedroom. It crashed into my easel, knocking my interpretation of Picasso’s “The Dream” onto the floor. I could have expressed my anger verbally, but I decided not to waste my intellectual vocabulary on such a pathetic creature as Priscilla Daniels (my “mommy”).
“Look at this!” Priscilla exclaimed, eyeing every object in my little cave individually as I simply shook my head in disgrace. “All that these books do is create clutter and filth... If you’d only use that e-reader your father and I bought you for your birthday, you could have most of this mess compacted into one little gadget!”
“Mother, are you trying to destroy my sanity?” I exclaimed finally. “These books are art! There’s nothing breathtaking or profound about your little e-reader! An electronic reading device! Imagine! What is it other than a pure insult to great writers such as Shakespeare, Coleridge, and Dickens...Jules Verne? That “filth” you speak of, ‘tis the beauty of age! Of good old English! Woman, do you comprehend nothing?”
I could have described to you the look on her tight, stuck-up little face without even looking at it. She wore the same blank, annoyed expression after every one of my explosions. She stayed frozen in dismay for a brief moment, and then recommenced to inspect the tidiness of her surroundings. She let out a heavy sigh at the sight of something on the wall behind my bed.
“Charlie!”
“Yes?”
She shook her head and sighed again. “Darling, you consider yourself a genius, but yet you still scribble on the wall like a two-year-old...”
She started rubbing at the spot, but I instantly slapped her frail, tiny hand away.
“That’s a sonnet, you fool! Not a scribble! Can’t you tell by the rhyme scheme? I was inspired one night—“
I was interrupted by the loud, booming, arrogant voice of my father, who called up to his wife to inform her it was about time they left to go into town.
“Coming, Darling!”
Darling.... Everyone was her sweet little “Darling”. Blech.
“Well, Charlie, Darling, please remove your rhyme seen from your wall. I’ve placed some leftover pizza out on the counter for you. Do you think you’ll manage to heat it up in the microwave by yourself while we’re gone?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Rhyme seen. Goodness. The things I have to live with...
My pathetic parental figures departed for town, leaving me once again in cerebral paradise. I delightfully returned to the yellowed pages of my aged copy of Great Expectations. I was lost in that splendid novel all evening until Mortimer and Priscilla returned.
What names my guardians have...
I heard Mortimer struggling with something coming in the door. I was curious as to what new hull of junk he’d dragged home from the store. By the sounds of it, it was something large and heavy; but then again, he was rather a weakling, that one. It could have been a feather.
Having finished Expectations, I decided to investigate. I made my way downstairs and into the entrance way of our home. Father was unpacking a giant box from Crap R Us or Rubbish Unlimited or somewhere like that. When I finally caught a glimpse of the bright, shiny new object inside I just about fainted. It was so hideous, you would have gagged. I nearly threw up. I understood that my parents were all “contemporized” and whatnot, but this was just...just...sick!
I ran back up to my room. I simply couldn’t manage any longer. I ripped my sheet off my bed. On it, I placed all my novels and collections of poetry and other writings. I packed up my paint set too. The last things I added to my hobo bundle were a pad of paper, a pencil, and a few life essentials. I realized, once I had gotten the whole thing tied to the end of a broom (which I’d fetched from the hallway closet), that I had too much stuff for my creation to realistically be referred to as a “bundle”. When I picked it up and slung it over my shoulder, it dragged on the ground. I didn’t care. I had to leave.
I towed my things down stairs. I thought Mortimer and Priscilla were going to drop dead when they saw what I was doing.
“Charlie!” my mother gasped.
“That’s correct, Woman. I’m leaving this dump. Thank you, mother figure...father figure...for providing water and nutrients and shelter and “love” and whatnot. ‘Cause you sure weren’t any good for much else. You two really shouldn’t be allowed to raise children. As parents, you’ve failed, utterly!”
With that, I was out of there.