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Jeanie Louise was hot. She had been calling her daughter since eight o’clock that evening trying to pin her down on where she was and when she was coming back. The night before she had to walk home from her job in the pouring rain for two hours till some nice Christian lady stopped and gave her a ride, because she had loaned Charity the car and Charity didn’t come and get her at work. The next day she got out a “Thank You” card from her stash of cards and addressed it to the lady, who lived two blocks over and down three, and put it in the mail. Her back and feet ached and she made her hubby rub them, which he didn’t mind at all.

Charity was sixteen, and had her learner’s permit, so she got her friends to sit in the car while she drove them around in Jeanie Louise’s car to parties in town. Jeanie Louise was giving her daughter a little taste of independence and establishing her credentials as a “sick” mom. The weekend before she let Charity take the car to a “concert” with a “rap artist” and Charity got to go backstage and meet the guy. The girl that went with Charity, Abby, got grounded, because they didn’t get back till five a.m. Charity was excited when she got back and couldn’t wait to tell all her friends at school.

Perhaps Charity had come to expect to be able to party indefinitely, and was a little unresponsive when Jeanie Louise wanted know when she was coming back. They were having so much fun. She told Jeanie Louise she was hanging out at a friend’s house. Jeanie Louise called the friend, but the kids weren’t there. She talked to the friend’s mom. She called back her daughter and demanded she quit “blowing smoke” up her skirt and tell her where she was, what she was doing, and who with. C had a two a.m. curfew on weekends. C told Jeanie Louise that she was at a party in town. Jeanie Louise drove down to the party, but got the address wrong. She backed the car into the driveway of 519, knocked on the door. The lights were dim, she figured the kids were hiding inside the house so she banged on the door again, and saw the blinds part upstairs. She got back in her car, then saw a house where it looked like kids were partying, it was the house, 509, she wanted, not 519.

Jeanie Louise got out of the car again and banged on the door. A fat effeminate male with tattooed arms answered the door, Jeanie Louise figured he was about 23.
“I’m looking for my daughter, Charity Mobob, is she here?” She walked past the chubby tattooed kid and went inside and looked around while he figured out what to say.
“Um, she was here, but she left.”
“Where’d she go?”
“She went out with Lyle.”
“Where?”
“Um, they went out to get some beer.”
“Nice. Where’d they go to get the beer?”
“Umm, his house.”
“You tell her to call her mother when she gets back.”
“Umm, OK, I’ll tell her.”

Jeanie was still hot when she got into her Mercury Sable and left the driveway, entered the street and approached the stop sign at the end of the block. She rolled up to it, looked both ways, and gunned it out onto the street. A block later, a cop pulled her over for “failing to come to a complete stop”.
“Why are you hassling me when there’s a party down the street with under age kids drinking and smoking dope?”
“Well, it’s the law, Mrs. Mobob,” said the officer as he took her license and went back to his car and check it out. He looked like he was twelve, JL said later.
A minute later he came back, gave JL her license and her warning, then asked about the party. Jeanie Louise told him.
Jeanie Louise drove off, got home, and called her daughter on her Charity’s cell.”
“You better come home right now, Charity, because the cops are on their way to your friends’ house and they’re going to bust them.”
Her husband didn’t hear what their daughter said, but then heard his wife say,
"Charity, if you go back to that party, you’re an idiot. The cops are on their way right now and if you get a ticket for underage drinking you can kiss your license good-bye. When are you coming home? No, I want you home right now. Tell that loser to take you home, do you hear me?”
She hung up the phone and told her husband that their daughter was on her way.
“She was at this party with twenty guys and maybe three girls. I saw her friend Allison (you know, the one she says is a slut?) coming down the stairs with some guy. I’m tired of her lying to me. I’m going to have a talk with that girl when she comes home. If she wants to go back to her father, that’s fine with me but I’m not putting up with this.”

At 509 Birch Street, the gangsta’s was down with the rap, then there was a knock on the door. The big guy with the tats looked through the peephole and told his partner to turn the music down.
“Yes, officer?”
“You got a party going on here?”
“Yeah, kind of, more of a get-together.”
The cop didn’t have a warrant, but he looked around and saw the inebriated kids, and smelled the skunky bud smell of high grade marijuana like they burned for the recruits at the academy, and made a mental note.
“You don’t have any underage drinking going on here, do you?”
“No sir.”
“Good. OK, keep the music down, there’s been a complaint.”

He got in his car, thinking, “I guess it’s true, what they say, everyone want’s to be a gangsta, till the cops show up.”
A week later the guy with the tats was busted for selling bud to a high school kid.
They also say, “Don’t mess with Mama Bear when her kids are involved.”