I did a double take from reading the label of the peanut butter jar in my hand to Ringer, who stood next to me in the supermarket aisle, a grave look on his face as he waited for me to respond. More disturbing than his look, though, was something else entirely obvious to me. “Did you honestly just say yanking my chain?” Ringer just stared on in stony silence. “Seriously, who says that?” I winced, putting the jar in the hand basket. “Oh, I’m sorry. What I meant to say is … are you fucking with me?” “Nope, the weekend’s off.” Ringer muttered more explicit words under his breath, pretty much the same ones I had repeated to myself as I kicked a frustrated line home last night. “So while your parents enjoy their piss-up for the weekend, you’re basically a prisoner.” “Pretty much.” “You’re a fuckin’ slave to that place, mate; it’s not right.” Ringer’s contribution was not making me feel any better about the situation. “Yeah, well, it is what it is.”
