My sleeping arrangements were next on my list of tasks. Mom had a spare room to set up her first son. Me. The young man who moved away to college at 18 years old had enormous opportunity, and a multitude of skills to be successful in life. I had returned to her 20 years later crippled by alcohol. A social habit that gradually morphed into a hellish physical dependence.
My bed was a single sized mattress and box spring that was barely longer than six feet. The cot was nearly identical to the length of my body, and since there was no bed frame, the stack of bedding came up to my shin. While my mother painstakingly guided me, I squatted with my fingers stretched downward like antennae searching for some solid ground. Vibrations were gripping my entire muscular system by the time I finally reached the sheets.
I allowed the entirety of my dead weight on the heels of my hands when the mattress suddenly launched across the box spring, and out from underneath me. I sat on the canvas covered wooden slats, caught off guard by the bedding ambush. I leered over my shoulder, and huffed at the pallet deposited on floor behind me. My relationship with the bed was established on a sour note.