– Well?

More crap.

– Mom. Can you send me some money?

– Of course I can.

– Thanks, Mom.

– Web, Web, I wish youd call me Thea.

– Its weird. I dont like it.

– Chev does.

– Chevs not your son.

– Not biologically.

I looked at the photographs stuck on the fridge next to the bills. Looked at the one of me and Chev up in Oregon with Mom three years ago. Me on one side, Chev on the other, Mom, almost as big as Po Sin, between us. A joint between her lips. Three years ago. The last time Id seen her.

– I just dont like calling you Thea, Mom. Thats not gonna change. Im almost thirty and its not gonna change. OK?

– Of course its OK. I just wish you would.

– I know. So. OK. Im gonna go. I gotta go… do something.

– Web.

My turn to pause.

– Yeah.

– I could send you a ticket. A plane ticket, I mean. You could come up. For the harvest. Spend some time. Get a break from that place. Breathe some different air. Be away from all the unbalanced energy still floating around you.

– I dont need a break.

– But if youre not working anyway, you should think about shifting your position over the center point. You know, the earth, she knows where you are, and you can change her attitude toward you just by changing your physical location on her skin.

– Yeah. Sure, Mom, I know that, but the thing is, I am working. Im working for a guy me and Chev know. Just that the jobs just starting so I need some extra cash.

– You can have whatever you want, baby. You know that.

Sometimes its hard to know if she means that literally. Like as a philosophy or something. The kind of thing she would tell me when she tucked me in at night when we lived in the house in Laurel Canyon, before she took off. You can have anything, Web, anything you want. You just have to want it, wish for it, dream it, and it will happen. Thats how I got you. I wished for you and there you were. A story that ignored the fact that she got pregnant with me one night when she was so fucked up she forgot to put in her diaphragm. At least thats what my dad told me.