. . . AND WHO CAN BLAME THEM? Their mom, my cousin Margie, is fuzzy with gin. When I offer to take the kids to the arcade on the Santa Monica Pier, she almost leaps to her purse and throws me her car keys, her money: “Oh, would you? I really want some time alone. Would you, Julie, really?”
Yes, I would. My car is on the fritz, and I need to scope out a guy from my method-acting class who tends bar at Jimbo’s on the pier. He’s so cute. I want to get something going with this guy. I really do. Margie rubs her eyes, puffy from tears spent. Last night she stuffed fifteen tranquilizers into a hot dog and forced it down her dog Boo Boo’s throat. “I killed Boo Boo.” Her words dribble out. “The vet said I had to, but the kids and I are still upset about it.”
