expectations mismanaged

To the consternation of all involved parties, a local family has consistently mismanaged the expectations of such people with whom they do business, including those of their go-to automobile repairman and there-for-you-day-or-night charman. Said the repairman while driving his own vehicle through the darkened streets to a nearby car-parts store for the fourth time in one night, “Mr. Gonzales said this was going to be an easy hundred bucks, and that all I would have to do was to switch out some brake-pads. When I arrived this afternoon, however, it turned out that there were at least three separate problems that he wanted me to fix, and that neither he or anyone else in his family had taken the time to do any background research into what parts were needed, or how long these jobs would take.”

A similar refrain was heard from their friendly local chore-man, or charman, who had just the week before dog-sat the family's English mastiff, a large, unruly bitch who had just undergone surgery, requiring her to be monitored constantly and force-fed a number of different pills. “I thought it would be nice to watch their dog so that they could go to the shore for a week of sun-soaked family bliss,” said the charman, a pitiable individual with a shriveled, stunted soul. “When they got home, they asked me to wait until this week to get paid, and when they finally did pay me, it was less than half of the agreed-upon rate. Here I am sitting around in the family's kitchen listening to the mother complain about how little money they have and how she wishes she could pay me more while she's slamming one ultra-lite beer after another from the four, separate cases they bought that day. Talk about pissing in my pocket, and telling me that it's raining.”

Reports have also surfaced that Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales are concerned about their son, a portly boy of eighteen who shows little-to-no ambition for travel or personal development, who drives the family car everywhere he goes, and who spends most of his meager retail paychecks on video-games and paint-balling. “We don't know what to do,” Mrs. Gonzales said while polishing off her sixth cranberry-flavored beer of the night and adjusting her sleeping clothes, which – even though it was not yet even close to being dark outside – she had just donned. “Why doesn't our son want to go out and see the world, get out of that stuffy basement, or do anything besides kiss his girlfriend's ass?” Casting about for a willing audience, the woman's gaze landed on her husband, who had just returned home later than usual after working a few hours of overtime. “Yes, dear,” the man said, bending over to make sure to get every drop of the blended whiskey he was pouring into his battered, tin shot-glass. His shoulders drooping under the weight of a repetitive life mostly devoid of true, existential pleasure, the man headed downstairs into the family's work-room – unbidden – in order to do everyone's laundry.

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