Cathy, the rich aunt, takes with her on the way to Best Buy her ghastly sick 22-year-old Yorkshire Terrier, her 2012 Jaguar convertible, and her charmingly arrogant nephew who always says in confidence, "Cathy's the only one in the family with any money." The nephew's name is Mitch and the contents of his stomach contain from the night prior: three chilli dogs, nine beers, four shots, a party of spicy potato chips, nachos, cheeses & dips, and the chilli itself. They ride together to buy a new PC. The dog waits in the car.

Aunt Cathy searches for a computer that has all her needs, namely Free Cell. More libertarian than Luddite, Aunt Cathy is the person who holds her seatbelt with one hand in order to placate the incessant safety warning in her car without actually succumbing to arbitrary and freedom-curbing ridiculous seatbelt laws that try to make her, a never-once-married 75-year-old woman who handfeeds her dying dog McDonald's french fries, buckle up. She's at that point in life where she farts unapologetically, even when she notices it. Cathy does not plan it, but ends up spending a good four hours in the Best Buy.

Mitch's appendix is slowly bursting; he thinks he's just badly hungover.

Around Hour 2 Aunt Cathy returns to the car to change the dog's diaper. The dog has trouble hurdling obstacles the size of, say, a brick and has been in diapers these past couple of months. Cathy just won't let it die. The dog underwent hip-replacement surgery at the age of 21, or about 150 in dog years. It's no more than seven pounds in weight and takes up less space than a rugby ball. Cathy only leaves it in the Jaguar under the circumstances that she can, and boastfully does, keep an eye on it in the handicapped space right up front-- thanks to the handicapped parking tag of her since-deceased mother, rest in peace. When since-deceased mother finally passed four years ago, Aunt Cathy was found in the basement chain-smoking cigarettes, which was ironic, the Hospice nurse observed, since that's exactly what had killed her mom. But seeing and loving and changing the diaper of the dog who probably would be dead by now if it had enough time without Aunt Cathy's hovering care do so, Aunt Cathy returns inside Best Buy with a renewed energy and begins assessing the PCs by weight.

"Well, let me just see how much this one is." She bends down and slowly lifts the desktop computer, arms extended. Pffft! An airy exhaust sighs audibly from her bottom. Mitch turns his head, concerned the stink may involuntarily induce vomiting at this stage in his daytime sickness. "Oh that's not bad. I don't know if this one has free cell though."

"You know Cathy," Mitch bites his underlip and sends vicious, violently hateful texts to his buddy (the chilli's cook) from last night, "I think you can just get free cell on any of these computers."

"Well they say that then you get stuck paying for something worthless."

Best Buy employees glide past the couple, long past helping them or even acknowledging their presence on the sales floor.

Mitch closes his eyes and thinks about Aunt Cathy's money. He thinks about the time he puts in with her. He thinks about thinking about everything except the pain in his stomach and head and soul, the very soul of a young person lost and abused by seemingly nothing but their own choices.

They finally get back home after dark, without a computer. The whole day was a bust and Mitch near collapses on the couch until Aunt Cathy asks him to drive to McDonalds to get a small french fry for the dog which he does whilst attempting to put the real purpose of that drive out of his mind and then does return to the couch and collapses. He guzzles Advil and curls up.

Aunt Cathy calls him a pussy and fixes him a whiskey, neat, and turns on the golf channel and talks to probably no one but herself. Mitch sips the booze and squeezes his eyes shut, now in the fetal position, now taking more pain reliever pills and hopefully something to knock him out, now again in the fetal position just focusing on breathing and using the pain to shut out the words Aunt Cathy makes from her mouth. He complains now, at least, openly and explicitly, finally abandoning the charmed reservation of honesty that's gotten him through the day. Aunt Cathy, at best feigning a disinterested nurse on her last day, brings her nephew a heating pad.

After thirty minutes he gives in: "Okay. I give up. I gotta go to the hospital." Aunt Cathy scoffs.

Turns out drinking and applying a heating pad are two of the worst things you can do when your appendix is bursting. Turns out it's one of those if-you-had-waited-any-longer-it-would-have-been-unbelievably-worse type deals. The doctor and Cathy's younger brother and the miserable patient were all named Mitch, so that brought polite laughter to the hospital visit.

Aunt Cathy finally got her little brother, Mitch Senior, to place the online order for her new computer and so far she's at 54 consecutive free cell wins. And that damn dog is still above ground.

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