When I was nine Mama and Daddy insisted that they take me to a dinner theatre production of The Sound of Music. They were excited as our table was directly in front of the stage. We never had front row seats to any event, until this particular evening. Between courses, and musical numbers, I developed a migraine. As Maria sang A Few of My Favorite Things, I launched what remained of my partially digested fried cheese sticks from my gut onto the stage. Kurt and Gretl were really unhappy. Maria, the only professional, continued to ignore the acidic fumes, and sang on. I swore I would never return to dinner theatre again. Not because I was humiliated, but because Mama said that dinner theatre was the Alcatraz for actors. "It's just a life sentence of showing your ass to strangers who are more interested in their marinated crab claws than the hard working people that are right in front of them. It's just a pathetic life. So very, very sad." This from a woman who would spend her remaining days fixed to a love seat, riveted by the intricate puzzles of Wheel of Fortune.
Twenty one years later (in 2001) I was gorgeously thin, in love, and all Americans were enjoying air travel without being molested by the F.A.A., or any other terrorist organization. I was comfortable in skin tight clothing, I had a man by my side, and no one was rubbing themselves down in flammable personal lubricant hoping to ignite their linens and the airliner they were flying in. It was a good year until that August when the romance died, and I began binge eating Triscuits and aerosol cheese. That was usually followed with a random sample of the Taco Bell menu. Then I would drink gin and tonics until I couldn't hold my head up, and the cycle would repeat every seven days. It was like going to church.
In the midst of heartache it became clear that I needed a distraction, or I was going to need an intervention. What I needed was a creative outlet! Well, any activity that didn't involve gin would do. The only benefits of gin are a great mood, and bizarre interpretive dance; however, it will not help you embrace the muse. In fact, it just makes the muse angry. At least my muse anyway. I never said I was Billie Holiday.
Under the advice of some fine, respectable bi-sexuals, I decided to take an acting class. Bi-sexuals are always so willing to explore options. It was a class specifically tailored for writers who were interested in producing their own one-man shows. Given my narcissistic nature, it was perfect. The instructor was an intense, brilliant woman who was highly respected in the theatre community, and had spent some time writing for Saturday Night Live. She was a tough, East Coast gal who would tell you that you were full of shit, and then make you eat it. I had to be near her.
The class cost hundreds of dollars, but when you're writing checks while drinking gin...you just don't care about such things as a car payment or eating. The latter I needed to quit funding anyway, so I signed the check, and by late September I was rubbing shoulders with nine other tortured, bankrupt souls. We would have two months to complete our project.
By November our first drafts were completed, and the entire city of Seattle was invited to see our performances. Our little theatre was filled to capacity. Every one of the 75 seats. By night's end, I had received a standing ovation, and was ready to leave my life as an office manager, and pursue the spotlight. The decision was finalized when my instructor asked, "Where did that come from? You were brilliant!"
That same evening I was approached by the one and only Julie Prosciutto. Not her real name, of course. That was her stage name. Julie had seen my performance, and offered me a chance of a lifetime. At least that's what she thought. She wanted me to host her cabaret act at the Pink Door, a local Italian restaurant known for promoting "unique" talent. Talent can be such a loose term.
I didn't know that Ms. Prosciutto had been performing at the Pink Door since Reagan was in office. She was better known for wearing a toaster on her head while singing Mambo Italiano, than for being a serious performer. I was also unaware that she trolled acting classes on a regular basis searching for new talent that she could manipulate and extort. She was like Madonna to my Justin Timberlake. By the by, those are not direct comparisons. I'm creative, not stupid.
I thought I was on the right track. Here I was, just minutes after showing my own ass to the masses, and I was being offered a gig. Granted, a non-paying-soul-sucking-you'll-have-to-dress-in-a-broom-closet kind of gig, but I was doing it. It never occurred to me that I had just signed up to do dinner theatre. Mama would be brutally disappointed.
Initially, Julie proposed that I would serve as the opening act. In exchange, she would serve as my mentor, and my emotional tormentor. She described her show as a hybrid of Ella Fitzgerald and Carol Burnett, but it was more like the bastard son of Cher and Charles Manson. She wore bizarre, poorly made costumes, and favored a character by the name of Vinnie. An aging, obese, stereotypical Italian man who made pedophile jokes, sang Frank Sinatra tunes, and farted on stage. Isn't this what everyone wants to see while enjoying a fine Chianti and pasta bolognese?
The following is an excerpt from the show:
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. My name is Robert, and I will be your host this evening. So, a few bits about myself...I am originally from Mississippi. I come from your typical, eccentric Southern family. In fact, I recently returned from Mississippi. It was a true joy to see my family again, especially my Mama. She's really embraced life as she's entered her sixties. She has this new hobby called...narcotics, which seems to have done wonders for her attitude. I think she said it best the last time she was frisked, "I am a Southern woman, and I do as I please. The only man I answer to is Jesus. Jesus Christ!" I love that she's found drugs and religion; which means she has a moral compass, she just doesn't know where she put it. Mama is also so much more spontaneous. She's really become a free spirit. She loves running stop signs, slapping the grandchildren around, and eating copious amounts of tapioca pudding. Of course this sounds exciting and decadent, but it has led to a tremendous weight gain; which makes it difficult to shoot up, because you can't quite get to the veins in your feet as easily."
A few weeks of performing, and I was exhausted. Matters weren't helped any when Julie's diva emerged. The boiling point occurred the night I had the crowd at the Pink Door on their feet, dancing around the restaurant, and laughing at everything that came out of my mouth. It was exhilarating, and I assumed Julie would be pleased. So, with our tip jar filled to capacity, I went "backstage" for my post-show critique. This was a nightly event where Julie would wax poetic about her talent, and belittle mine. I should mention that when I refer to backstage I'm referring to the restaurant manager's office. Did I mention that I got dressed in a broom closet? Julie was starting to strip out of her fat suit. At the time, she was still wearing the bald wig. I didn't care, I just had an amazing evening, but I failed to notice how upset she was.
"Listen, you can't go out there and be some bigger than life character. This is my show! I'm the star!" she raved.
"Okay." I said calmly, and started backing my way towards the door. A screaming woman in a fleshy colored fat suit, and a bald wig would give anyone cause to seek the nearest exit.
"You're here to help me, not yourself!" she was ranting and pacing. She appeared to be looking for something. My back was to the door. I gripped the doorknob.
"You had no right to do that!"
"But you told me you wanted me to entertain the crowd while you changed for the next act..." I defended.
"I never told you to take my spotlight! You took it, and you fucked it. You fucked it! You fucked it! You fucked it!"
She was escalating, and the bald wig was giving way to her curly black hair. I had worked in brain injury six years earlier. I could ignore and re-direct, or I could attempt to restrain her until she could be sedated. I chose the former given that the only way to sedate her would be to hit her with the bottle of red table wine that she was nursing.
"I don't think this is going to work. You and your funny ways, and those ridiculous stories about that mother of yours. It's all a bit much."
"My funny ways? What the hell does that mean?" I was shocked at her lack of creativity. Surely, she could find something other than my homosexuality to target.
"Oh, just shut-up! Just shut-up, shut-up, shut-up!" she screamed as she put her fingers in her ears.
"Don't tell me to shut-up you worn out old hag!" I screamed. She was stunned. She looked at me as if this was an unprovoked attack. I continued, "I'm out there busting my balls every week trying to breathe some life into this corpse of a show, and you're concerned about your damn spotlight? Y'know, I'm done. I'm done with the tantrums, and I'm certainly done with that damn toaster on your head!" I turned to face the door and walked out, slamming the door as I left. I stood just outside, caught my breath, and walked back in. Her back was to me, and she was struggling with the bald wig, "And by the way (she jumped at the sound of my voice)...if you have to tell people you're the star, you aint much of one, and probably never will be." As I left, the piano player (Craig) clapped for me. I told him to eat my ass.
I ran into Julie about two years later. I was shopping downtown when she rounded the corner ahead of me. She was sporting a full length, puss print, faux fur. Her black hair spiraled off her head, and she had more make-up on than would ever be deemed appropriate for daytime. She reeked of stale cigarette smoke, blue cheese dressing, and Liz Claiborne perfume.
"Good day, Ms. Prosciutto" I was surprised at my politeness.
She stopped, and said, "Oh, hello." She extended her hand as if I should kiss it. I just looked at her. She was offended.
"How are you?" I asked.
"What was your name again...Bobby was it?"
"No. It isn't Bobby."
"Oh, that's right! Now I remember you. You're from the Pink Door! Oh, the Pink Door!" She began to laugh hysterically, tossing her dyed, black hair about looking perfectly demented. "Can you believe those ridiculous things you did?"
"Oh, yes...I remember clearly just how ridiculous it all was." I said dryly.
"Well, I'm doing jazz now. Strictly straight jazz. I've literally just returned from a show in Turkey. I just adore the Orient."
"The Orient? I had no idea people still referred to that part of the world as the Orient. How novel." I said sarcastically.
She ignored me, "Well what are you doing these days?"
For a moment I thought I should tell her the truth. Tell her that I was still a creative, brilliant individual despite being an office manager, but she wasn't worthy of the truth. So, I lied.
"Well, I just landed a freelance gig with Details magazine, and last month I signed a book deal with Simon & Schuster. Oh, and NBC is considering optioning one of my short stories for a sitcom, and on top of it all I could very well be moving to New York! (dramatic pause) So...straight Jazz, huh? How's that workin' for ya?"
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Pizza Hut's Last Mohican
He stared up at me. He sat, sunken, in a wheelchair. He looked battered and defeated. A World War II veteran who I thought was invincible, until today. He was 82, with a full head of brilliant white hair. Still thriving, still enjoying his day-to-day routine of coffee with friends, and dates with his longtime girlfriend, Marilyn. Okay, so he started running stop signs a few weeks prior, but he didn’t kill anyone. He was doing fine. This was Pa, Daddy's father, and my grandfather. I didn't know it at the time, but I would only have one more hour with him before he died.
Pa was not the stereotypical grandfather. He wasn't particularly warm. On a good day, I would describe him as tepid. I knew he loved me, but he was more concerned with teaching me life lessons as opposed to hugs and kisses. When I was younger he would send me these two to three page essays about his ill-spent youth. These stories were morality tales. They included such important lessons as: Never Hitch a Ride On a Train with Hobos, Always Shake The Scorpions Out of Your Boots, and Remember That a Man Only Has Two Things: His Word, and His Credit. I was twelve. In those days, I spent my time reading Stephen King novels, watching MTV, and shoving Nutter Butter's in my hole. His lessons were a complete waste on me, but we shared a similar sense of humor, and as I got older, it helped to create a bond between us. We were more friendly acquaintances than family, but I loved him.
I was instructed to deliver Pa to the emergency room after a brief visit to his doctor who said that something was seriously wrong with his colon. I didn't get all the details as I was only half listening. I was more concerned with the ridiculous uniform I was wearing, and the impression I was giving others. Even under the most distressing conditions, I'm still a narcissistic asshole, but it's like Mama said, "As long as you know somethin' is wrong, it's permissible."
It was the summer of ’92, and I was waiting tables at Pizza Hut between semesters. During this time, I had the distinct pleasure of being one of the first to wear the new fuchsia uniform. I was my own gay pride parade with my fuchsia polo, and matching ball cap. Complete that look with long, dark red bangs, Linda Evangelista-styled eyebrows, and you have more gay than you can cram into a deep dish meat lover's pizza. You could choke on all the gay I was serving up.
After getting Pa settled at the E.R., and with Marilyn by his side, I told him I needed to head home, change clothes, and check in with my boss. The latter was a lie. I needed to call Mama and Daddy. I was told he was deteriorating quickly, and with Mama and Daddy living 260 miles north, they would need to leave immediately.
He looked at me and quietly asked, "Why do you need to change clothes?" I replied, "Have you seen me lately?" I stood back a few feet from the wheelchair so he could see the entire ensemble. Pa squinted, took off his glasses, and cleaned the lenses with his handkerchief, and said, "What the hell are you wearin'? Go on. Go home. I'm not goin' anywhere." I laughed. This was a good sign. He still had some sass to him. A few pills, some rest, and he'll be back to running stop signs.
I leaned down to hug him. I whispered, "I love you, Pa." and when I stood back up, he held fast to my right hand, pointed at me, and slowly uttered, "The Last of the Mohicans." I just stood there, telling myself not to cry. After all, I knew what he meant. I was the last son in the family. My brother, Spud, was my half-brother from Mama's first marriage. I was the only one remaining to carry on the family line. The Last of the Mohicans. I immediately thought, "Fuck my gay, fuchsia ass. How did this happen to me? What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Jesus Christ, I am so tired."
Attempting to drive while sobbing is never a good idea. Number one - you just look stupid, and I was already ranking pretty high on the stupid scale given my hair and my outfit. Number two - no matter how much you try...your hand will never, ever be as absorbent as facial tissue. Number three - you can’t really see, and you could kill someone; however, if Mama could drive with her knees while smoking a cigarette, and drinking a Coke, I could make it home without incident. It was in the genes.
In the house I was attempting to remove my Pizza Hut Gay Pride Gear, and use the phone at the same time. The line was dead. I then realized that I had not paid the phone bill...again. It's the 21 year-old-gay-male-dilemma: pay the phone bill, or pay the gym? The gym will always win.
I changed clothes, and ran to my neighbor's house to use the phone. He wasn't gay, and obviously didn’t belong to a gym given his penchant for bucket chicken and pork rinds.
Mama answered the phone. “Damn!” I whispered to myself. I didn't have the time to cut through the many layers of Mama's drug-addled brain. She was like a dense, Valium laced, Tiramisu of grey matter.
"Mama!"
"Hey, Sugar"
I thought, "Oh, she sounds lucid. How novel." At the time I didn't realize how sad the thought truly was.
"Mama, Pa is really sick. He's in the emergency room. You and Daddy need to get down here right away."
"Oh, I don't think that's gonna happen." she said in a calm, even, Stepford tone.
"What? Did you hear me?"
"Don't take that tone with me. I'm your Mama."
"I am well aware who you are, but like I said, Pa is really sick. He's in the hospital."
"Well, your Daddy is hurtin'. He's completely hungover. His friend, Arthur, you know...the lawyer (she takes a long drag on her Kent 100)...well, they got the idea they were goin' to find that armadillo that's been makin' a mess of the yard (exhaling Kent 100). Arthur seems to think they're delicious, so he wanted to marinate it, and put it on the grill. Well, they started drinkin’ at two o'clock and didn't stop..."
I looked around the room hoping that someone else was hearing this. Defeated, I put my ear back to the receiver. She was still talking.
"...and there they were, runnin' around the backyard like a couple of drunk monkeys..."
"Mama, as fascinating as Daddy's drinking games are, both of you need to get down here right now! Pa is going to die!" At that moment I knew it was true. He was dying. There was no time to keep talking about drunk monkeys. I had to go.
"Now, I am goin' to hang up this phone, and when I do, I expect to see the two of you at the hospital within five hours. Don't make me call again." With that, I hung up, and drove off to the hospital.
When I returned, I asked the nursing staff what room Pa was in. I walked in, but he was gone. I checked the room number. This was the room. I went back to the nurses station, and asked where he was. Initially, there was some confusion. I was about to ask if they had a lost and found when the nurse said he had been moved to intensive care. He was comatose, on a ventilator, and not expected to live through the night.
Within a couple of hours other family members began to arrive. Aunts, uncles, and cousins were all contained in a private room where we could all grieve without an audience, and without being a nuisance.
At some point, member's of Pa's church arrived. They were carrying plates of deviled eggs, and ham sandwiches. Someone even had the wherewithal to bake a lemon pound cake. It was all so timely, and well presented, that I couldn't help but wonder if the church somehow received some divine advanced notice that Pa was passing into the hereafter. Some kind of Jesus First Alert system that I wasn't aware existed.
Shortly after I cried my way through my second piece of pound cake (more evidence of my emotional eating disorder) Pa's doctor came into the Grieving Pen. A signature was needed by the next of kin. Pa had left specific instructions that he was not meant to be kept alive by any artificial means. It was time to let him go, and I would be the one to cut the cord.
"What? You want me to what?" I asked the doctor wiping the sticky cake bits from my mouth.
"It's what he wanted." He then moved to show me the paperwork. I stared at it, but nothing registered. I could have been looking at the Dead Sea Scrolls for all I knew.
"Go ahead. It's okay." Marilyn said. She had been sitting next to me. I had no idea how long she had been there. She squeezed my left forearm. I looked at her, hoping she would tell me to wake up; that this was just a preposterous dream, but she just stared back, her eyes welling with tears. She smiled slightly and said, "It's okay. Go ahead. Sign those papers, now. It's what he wanted."
That was all it took, just a few strokes of a pen, and I ended Pa's life. Daddy was nowhere to be found. The Last of the Mohicans indeed.
Pa was not the stereotypical grandfather. He wasn't particularly warm. On a good day, I would describe him as tepid. I knew he loved me, but he was more concerned with teaching me life lessons as opposed to hugs and kisses. When I was younger he would send me these two to three page essays about his ill-spent youth. These stories were morality tales. They included such important lessons as: Never Hitch a Ride On a Train with Hobos, Always Shake The Scorpions Out of Your Boots, and Remember That a Man Only Has Two Things: His Word, and His Credit. I was twelve. In those days, I spent my time reading Stephen King novels, watching MTV, and shoving Nutter Butter's in my hole. His lessons were a complete waste on me, but we shared a similar sense of humor, and as I got older, it helped to create a bond between us. We were more friendly acquaintances than family, but I loved him.
I was instructed to deliver Pa to the emergency room after a brief visit to his doctor who said that something was seriously wrong with his colon. I didn't get all the details as I was only half listening. I was more concerned with the ridiculous uniform I was wearing, and the impression I was giving others. Even under the most distressing conditions, I'm still a narcissistic asshole, but it's like Mama said, "As long as you know somethin' is wrong, it's permissible."
It was the summer of ’92, and I was waiting tables at Pizza Hut between semesters. During this time, I had the distinct pleasure of being one of the first to wear the new fuchsia uniform. I was my own gay pride parade with my fuchsia polo, and matching ball cap. Complete that look with long, dark red bangs, Linda Evangelista-styled eyebrows, and you have more gay than you can cram into a deep dish meat lover's pizza. You could choke on all the gay I was serving up.
After getting Pa settled at the E.R., and with Marilyn by his side, I told him I needed to head home, change clothes, and check in with my boss. The latter was a lie. I needed to call Mama and Daddy. I was told he was deteriorating quickly, and with Mama and Daddy living 260 miles north, they would need to leave immediately.
He looked at me and quietly asked, "Why do you need to change clothes?" I replied, "Have you seen me lately?" I stood back a few feet from the wheelchair so he could see the entire ensemble. Pa squinted, took off his glasses, and cleaned the lenses with his handkerchief, and said, "What the hell are you wearin'? Go on. Go home. I'm not goin' anywhere." I laughed. This was a good sign. He still had some sass to him. A few pills, some rest, and he'll be back to running stop signs.
I leaned down to hug him. I whispered, "I love you, Pa." and when I stood back up, he held fast to my right hand, pointed at me, and slowly uttered, "The Last of the Mohicans." I just stood there, telling myself not to cry. After all, I knew what he meant. I was the last son in the family. My brother, Spud, was my half-brother from Mama's first marriage. I was the only one remaining to carry on the family line. The Last of the Mohicans. I immediately thought, "Fuck my gay, fuchsia ass. How did this happen to me? What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Jesus Christ, I am so tired."
Attempting to drive while sobbing is never a good idea. Number one - you just look stupid, and I was already ranking pretty high on the stupid scale given my hair and my outfit. Number two - no matter how much you try...your hand will never, ever be as absorbent as facial tissue. Number three - you can’t really see, and you could kill someone; however, if Mama could drive with her knees while smoking a cigarette, and drinking a Coke, I could make it home without incident. It was in the genes.
In the house I was attempting to remove my Pizza Hut Gay Pride Gear, and use the phone at the same time. The line was dead. I then realized that I had not paid the phone bill...again. It's the 21 year-old-gay-male-dilemma: pay the phone bill, or pay the gym? The gym will always win.
I changed clothes, and ran to my neighbor's house to use the phone. He wasn't gay, and obviously didn’t belong to a gym given his penchant for bucket chicken and pork rinds.
Mama answered the phone. “Damn!” I whispered to myself. I didn't have the time to cut through the many layers of Mama's drug-addled brain. She was like a dense, Valium laced, Tiramisu of grey matter.
"Mama!"
"Hey, Sugar"
I thought, "Oh, she sounds lucid. How novel." At the time I didn't realize how sad the thought truly was.
"Mama, Pa is really sick. He's in the emergency room. You and Daddy need to get down here right away."
"Oh, I don't think that's gonna happen." she said in a calm, even, Stepford tone.
"What? Did you hear me?"
"Don't take that tone with me. I'm your Mama."
"I am well aware who you are, but like I said, Pa is really sick. He's in the hospital."
"Well, your Daddy is hurtin'. He's completely hungover. His friend, Arthur, you know...the lawyer (she takes a long drag on her Kent 100)...well, they got the idea they were goin' to find that armadillo that's been makin' a mess of the yard (exhaling Kent 100). Arthur seems to think they're delicious, so he wanted to marinate it, and put it on the grill. Well, they started drinkin’ at two o'clock and didn't stop..."
I looked around the room hoping that someone else was hearing this. Defeated, I put my ear back to the receiver. She was still talking.
"...and there they were, runnin' around the backyard like a couple of drunk monkeys..."
"Mama, as fascinating as Daddy's drinking games are, both of you need to get down here right now! Pa is going to die!" At that moment I knew it was true. He was dying. There was no time to keep talking about drunk monkeys. I had to go.
"Now, I am goin' to hang up this phone, and when I do, I expect to see the two of you at the hospital within five hours. Don't make me call again." With that, I hung up, and drove off to the hospital.
When I returned, I asked the nursing staff what room Pa was in. I walked in, but he was gone. I checked the room number. This was the room. I went back to the nurses station, and asked where he was. Initially, there was some confusion. I was about to ask if they had a lost and found when the nurse said he had been moved to intensive care. He was comatose, on a ventilator, and not expected to live through the night.
Within a couple of hours other family members began to arrive. Aunts, uncles, and cousins were all contained in a private room where we could all grieve without an audience, and without being a nuisance.
At some point, member's of Pa's church arrived. They were carrying plates of deviled eggs, and ham sandwiches. Someone even had the wherewithal to bake a lemon pound cake. It was all so timely, and well presented, that I couldn't help but wonder if the church somehow received some divine advanced notice that Pa was passing into the hereafter. Some kind of Jesus First Alert system that I wasn't aware existed.
Shortly after I cried my way through my second piece of pound cake (more evidence of my emotional eating disorder) Pa's doctor came into the Grieving Pen. A signature was needed by the next of kin. Pa had left specific instructions that he was not meant to be kept alive by any artificial means. It was time to let him go, and I would be the one to cut the cord.
"What? You want me to what?" I asked the doctor wiping the sticky cake bits from my mouth.
"It's what he wanted." He then moved to show me the paperwork. I stared at it, but nothing registered. I could have been looking at the Dead Sea Scrolls for all I knew.
"Go ahead. It's okay." Marilyn said. She had been sitting next to me. I had no idea how long she had been there. She squeezed my left forearm. I looked at her, hoping she would tell me to wake up; that this was just a preposterous dream, but she just stared back, her eyes welling with tears. She smiled slightly and said, "It's okay. Go ahead. Sign those papers, now. It's what he wanted."
That was all it took, just a few strokes of a pen, and I ended Pa's life. Daddy was nowhere to be found. The Last of the Mohicans indeed.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Did You Know The Devil Has A Thyroid Condition (Final Chapter)
It was early spring in 1982, and Mama was finally able to hold her head up. This was an accomplishment given that it had been bouncing about like a bladder on a stick for three months. In celebration, she made supper. Previously, Mama only cooked on three occasions: Thanksgiving because it was a family affair, and you wouldn't want to disappoint a pack of people you hate, and Christmas, because you wouldn't want to upset the Baby Jesus. The third occasion was New Year's Day where we would eat Hoppin' John, which is a dish invented by a one-legged man named John. I'm not making this up. It contains black-eyed peas, ham hocks, and anything in your fridge that is soon to expire. The dish is cooked in a Crock Pot until it looks like something that comes out of the backside of a mule. Why do we consume such ugliness? For good luck, of course. Besides, it tastes great with cornbread.
On this particular evening Mama was making her famous spaghetti. Well, it's famous now because no one has seen it since. This dish called for a pound of ground meat (lean of course, because my family is known for healthy living), overcooked pasta (because you wouldn't want to get bloated), and Prego pasta sauce (because Ragu tastes like candy). You knew it was ready when the grease floated to the surface. Mama also threw in some garlic bread just to get crazy. Of course she didn't actually bake the bread, that would be ridiculous. Who has that kind of time between fugue states?
I was enjoying this particular dining experience. I never enjoyed any dining experience with my family; however, the mood was jovial, and Mama was able to eat without assistance. It's really difficult to enjoy a meal when you have to remind your mother to chew. This was a good day.
As Mama began to clear the table, Daddy asked me about school. The light in the room seemed to dim a bit. I'm sure it was just a reflection of my soul. I know now it was just Daddy making conversation. He didn't expect me to answer with, "It's okay, I guess. Mrs. Boyd hasn't thrown anything in a while."
Daddy was taking a sip of his beer, and nearly spit it out. "What did you say?" Realizing what I had said, I immediately regretted it. Now, I would have to listen to all the reasons why I deserved what had happened.
I tried to weasel out of it, but there is no weaseling when your dad is a seasoned, high ranking military man who has served two tours in Vietnam, and one of them was because he volunteered. He didn't miss a thing.
"No. You said 'She hasn't thrown anything in a while.' What do you mean she hasn't thrown anything in a while?" Daddy always repeated statements whenever he was baffled. In just eight more years we would be having a similar conversation when I call him to let him know that his beloved 1978 Le Car caught fire, "Daddy, the car is on fire." and he will respond, "What do you mean the car is on fire?" Like when the words car and fire are used together you need any further elaboration.
So, I just started talking. I re-lived the entire horrible event for him. Daddy didn't say a word, and Mama remained remarkably focused on doing the dishes. Seeing her work at the kitchen sink was strange, disturbing, and inspiring. I would later have a similar experience while watching Olivia Newton-John's Physical video. When I finished telling the tale, Daddy asked if anything like this had happened before, and that's when I told him how Mrs. Boyd treated the other kids, and how she charged at me, sending me and my desk into a wall.
He then turned to Mama and asked, "Did you know about any of this?"
Mama lied, "He never mentioned it before." I was stunned. I couldn't speak. She just lied to Daddy. Who the hell has the balls to do that? This was when I discovered that my Mama had a pair of low-hangers. Big ones. Military issued.
"When did she do this?" he asked.
"Last year." I replied meekly.
He was obviously angry, and I was looking for the nearest exit. My feet were nervously kicking the table legs. The two shih tzu's (Muffin and Jeb) crept out of the kitchen. Probably going to the dining room to eat their own poo again. It was that kind of tense.
"Last year? Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because I deserved it"
"You deserved it? What the hell kind of nonsense is that?"
"Mama said I deserved it."
Mama quickly snapped around, and shouted, "I most certainly did not!"
I countered, "You did too! I told you about Mrs. Boyd and you said I deserved it!"
She tried to protest, but Daddy interrupted, "Wait a damn minute! Woman, you knew about this?"
"Oh, hell...how could I take him seriously? He's got such a crazy imagination sometimes."
"Imagination or not, the kid is not a liar!"
"For Christ's sake, it's not like she broke his arm or somethin'. He's fine." She lit a cigarette and glared at me as if I was the one responsible for making her into a lousy mother.
Daddy just stared at her. His brow knotted up with deep furrows. I used to wonder if I could get quarters in each of them, and if they would stick out.
He looked at me, and then back to her, and said, "What are you talkin' about? He's not fine. This entire situation is not fine ." Mama tried to scream over him as if sheer volume alone could get him to shut up, and finally understand that she didn't possess a soul, and should have never given birth in the first place. This was a tactic she also used whenever the credit card bills would arrive, but Daddy shut her down, "No! You do not get to talk! You do not get to deny this. You laid up in that bed for months suckin' on your thumb, while our child went to that school everyday with a monster, and you didn't say a damn thing. I don't wanna hear another word out of you." However, no amount of military might can shut Mama up when her character is questioned. The room erupted in screams, and they both left the kitchen to take the fight to their bedroom. I proceeded to get very intimate with a half gallon of Breyer's chocolate mint ice cream. I believe this was the moment that turned me into an emotional eater.
I have no memory of what else happened that evening. Either Mama drugged me (a strong possibility) or it was simply a result of post-traumatic stress. What I do know is that within a week of my confession, a social worker arrived at school to assess the situation. At the time I had no idea who this person was. Had I known she was coming, I would have baked her some cupcakes, sat her down, and performed a dramatic interpretation of my journal entries chronicling the events of the last two school years.
I remember that the social worker was an attractive woman who was annoyingly perky. She reminded me of Julie, the cruise director from the Love Boat only with orthopedic shoes, and chronic halitosis. She came into the classroom, introduced herself, (we'll call her Miss Sparkly) and then spent the next hour staring at us. Eventually, she took a position by my desk, and stood just off to my left periodically asking me patronizing questions about my studies. From what I could tell she was either drunk, or she honestly thought I was a ten year old girl with Down Syndrome.
During Sparkly's assessment, Mrs. Boyd was all sweaty, and her bull testicle eyes strained to stay in their sockets. Her bulbous, tiny, little ponytail was frayed, and she kept pulling on her bra straps as if one of her breasts were about to leap free from her. Every time Sparkly would ask a question, Mrs. Boyd would jump, blink nervously, and clumsily throw out an answer. I had never seen the Boyd-ster act in such a way. Once again, watching her was better than anything on television. Well, except for that episode of Dukes of Hazzard when Bo and Luke went skinny dipping, and their clothes were miraculously stolen. That was nice.
With Virginia Christian Academy under investigation, and Daddy transferring to the Air War College in Alabama (apparently Alabama is bedeviled by air war) I finished out the remainder of my school year, but before I left V.C.A., Mrs Boyd suddenly became my best friend, and I was the star student. I earned all A's, and somehow found the time to write, direct, and star in a stage version of Stephen King's Salem's Lot. Supposedly, Mrs. Boyd was so impressed by my artistic endeavors that she insisted it be performed at the annual V.C.A. Spring Open House. She would provide anything I needed in the way of costumes, sets, and even catering. I even received a standing ovation for all my efforts. Why? Because I deserved it.
On this particular evening Mama was making her famous spaghetti. Well, it's famous now because no one has seen it since. This dish called for a pound of ground meat (lean of course, because my family is known for healthy living), overcooked pasta (because you wouldn't want to get bloated), and Prego pasta sauce (because Ragu tastes like candy). You knew it was ready when the grease floated to the surface. Mama also threw in some garlic bread just to get crazy. Of course she didn't actually bake the bread, that would be ridiculous. Who has that kind of time between fugue states?
I was enjoying this particular dining experience. I never enjoyed any dining experience with my family; however, the mood was jovial, and Mama was able to eat without assistance. It's really difficult to enjoy a meal when you have to remind your mother to chew. This was a good day.
As Mama began to clear the table, Daddy asked me about school. The light in the room seemed to dim a bit. I'm sure it was just a reflection of my soul. I know now it was just Daddy making conversation. He didn't expect me to answer with, "It's okay, I guess. Mrs. Boyd hasn't thrown anything in a while."
Daddy was taking a sip of his beer, and nearly spit it out. "What did you say?" Realizing what I had said, I immediately regretted it. Now, I would have to listen to all the reasons why I deserved what had happened.
I tried to weasel out of it, but there is no weaseling when your dad is a seasoned, high ranking military man who has served two tours in Vietnam, and one of them was because he volunteered. He didn't miss a thing.
"No. You said 'She hasn't thrown anything in a while.' What do you mean she hasn't thrown anything in a while?" Daddy always repeated statements whenever he was baffled. In just eight more years we would be having a similar conversation when I call him to let him know that his beloved 1978 Le Car caught fire, "Daddy, the car is on fire." and he will respond, "What do you mean the car is on fire?" Like when the words car and fire are used together you need any further elaboration.
So, I just started talking. I re-lived the entire horrible event for him. Daddy didn't say a word, and Mama remained remarkably focused on doing the dishes. Seeing her work at the kitchen sink was strange, disturbing, and inspiring. I would later have a similar experience while watching Olivia Newton-John's Physical video. When I finished telling the tale, Daddy asked if anything like this had happened before, and that's when I told him how Mrs. Boyd treated the other kids, and how she charged at me, sending me and my desk into a wall.
He then turned to Mama and asked, "Did you know about any of this?"
Mama lied, "He never mentioned it before." I was stunned. I couldn't speak. She just lied to Daddy. Who the hell has the balls to do that? This was when I discovered that my Mama had a pair of low-hangers. Big ones. Military issued.
"When did she do this?" he asked.
"Last year." I replied meekly.
He was obviously angry, and I was looking for the nearest exit. My feet were nervously kicking the table legs. The two shih tzu's (Muffin and Jeb) crept out of the kitchen. Probably going to the dining room to eat their own poo again. It was that kind of tense.
"Last year? Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because I deserved it"
"You deserved it? What the hell kind of nonsense is that?"
"Mama said I deserved it."
Mama quickly snapped around, and shouted, "I most certainly did not!"
I countered, "You did too! I told you about Mrs. Boyd and you said I deserved it!"
She tried to protest, but Daddy interrupted, "Wait a damn minute! Woman, you knew about this?"
"Oh, hell...how could I take him seriously? He's got such a crazy imagination sometimes."
"Imagination or not, the kid is not a liar!"
"For Christ's sake, it's not like she broke his arm or somethin'. He's fine." She lit a cigarette and glared at me as if I was the one responsible for making her into a lousy mother.
Daddy just stared at her. His brow knotted up with deep furrows. I used to wonder if I could get quarters in each of them, and if they would stick out.
He looked at me, and then back to her, and said, "What are you talkin' about? He's not fine. This entire situation is not fine ." Mama tried to scream over him as if sheer volume alone could get him to shut up, and finally understand that she didn't possess a soul, and should have never given birth in the first place. This was a tactic she also used whenever the credit card bills would arrive, but Daddy shut her down, "No! You do not get to talk! You do not get to deny this. You laid up in that bed for months suckin' on your thumb, while our child went to that school everyday with a monster, and you didn't say a damn thing. I don't wanna hear another word out of you." However, no amount of military might can shut Mama up when her character is questioned. The room erupted in screams, and they both left the kitchen to take the fight to their bedroom. I proceeded to get very intimate with a half gallon of Breyer's chocolate mint ice cream. I believe this was the moment that turned me into an emotional eater.
I have no memory of what else happened that evening. Either Mama drugged me (a strong possibility) or it was simply a result of post-traumatic stress. What I do know is that within a week of my confession, a social worker arrived at school to assess the situation. At the time I had no idea who this person was. Had I known she was coming, I would have baked her some cupcakes, sat her down, and performed a dramatic interpretation of my journal entries chronicling the events of the last two school years.
I remember that the social worker was an attractive woman who was annoyingly perky. She reminded me of Julie, the cruise director from the Love Boat only with orthopedic shoes, and chronic halitosis. She came into the classroom, introduced herself, (we'll call her Miss Sparkly) and then spent the next hour staring at us. Eventually, she took a position by my desk, and stood just off to my left periodically asking me patronizing questions about my studies. From what I could tell she was either drunk, or she honestly thought I was a ten year old girl with Down Syndrome.
During Sparkly's assessment, Mrs. Boyd was all sweaty, and her bull testicle eyes strained to stay in their sockets. Her bulbous, tiny, little ponytail was frayed, and she kept pulling on her bra straps as if one of her breasts were about to leap free from her. Every time Sparkly would ask a question, Mrs. Boyd would jump, blink nervously, and clumsily throw out an answer. I had never seen the Boyd-ster act in such a way. Once again, watching her was better than anything on television. Well, except for that episode of Dukes of Hazzard when Bo and Luke went skinny dipping, and their clothes were miraculously stolen. That was nice.
With Virginia Christian Academy under investigation, and Daddy transferring to the Air War College in Alabama (apparently Alabama is bedeviled by air war) I finished out the remainder of my school year, but before I left V.C.A., Mrs Boyd suddenly became my best friend, and I was the star student. I earned all A's, and somehow found the time to write, direct, and star in a stage version of Stephen King's Salem's Lot. Supposedly, Mrs. Boyd was so impressed by my artistic endeavors that she insisted it be performed at the annual V.C.A. Spring Open House. She would provide anything I needed in the way of costumes, sets, and even catering. I even received a standing ovation for all my efforts. Why? Because I deserved it.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Did You Know The Devil Has A Thyroid Condition (Pt.3)
Before moving ahead with the next entry, I would like to acknowledge the grand scale of what was to be a short story. It seems to have grown beyond my expectations, but I'm going to let the muse take me. I just hope you stick around for the ride.
Waiting for Mama was always a pain in the ass. In waiting for her, or Daddy, I always had the feeling that I was an afterthought, and should I protest how long I had to wait, I was promptly told to "be quiet", or I would be walking home. As if it was my idea to ship my ass an hour's commute across town (practically into another state) just so I could star in another episode of Trailer Park Prison Daycare with a woman who clearly needed to up her dose of Thorazine, and was in desperate need of a new bra. Yeah, my idea.
Three o'clock came and went, but Mama finally arrived. As she pulled in, she didn't smile, she just stared at me. Not a good sign. This usually meant that she wasn't able to work in a nap between courses of Butterfingers, Cheez-Its, and the engrossing chapters of her new Reader's Digest Condensed Book featuring the fine literary stylings of Sidney Sheldon and Judith Krantz. Completely understandable.
I heaved open the behemoth of a car door to our 1976 gold, Mercury Grand Marquis (the two door version, because Daddy thought it was sporty) and took my place next to Mama. No "buckling up" necessary. This was 1981, and there was no buckling going on here. We'd have to wait three more years before Barbara Mandrell would guilt a nation into taking that kind of action.
I began to tell Mama about what had happened, "Mrs. Boyd got really angry at me, ran across the room, and shoved my desk into me."
Mama took a drag off her Kent 100. Flicked the ash into the ashtray, because it was tacky to dispose of one's ash out the window. Took another drag, and said, "Well (blowing smoke) maybe you deserved it."
I stared at her. Blinked a couple of times, and just kept staring. She didn't even look at me, she was too busy balancing her Coca-Cola with her left hand, her Kent 100 with her right, while miraculously managing to steer the car. When she did that, I would pretend that she was driving the car just by using the power of her mind. A rich fantasy life is a wonderful tool to have when one's own mother is more concerned with getting a fix as opposed to the life of her child. I could fantasize or chew my wrists. I chose the prettier of the two.
So, I deserved an unprovoked verbal and physical assault by some morbidly obese, carbuncle of a woman? I was completely without words. I thought my mother was supposed to take care of me. To look out for me. To keep me safe. To love me. If she thought I deserved it, then what was Daddy going to think? He surely would feel the same. He would be angry. He would punish me. I had already been enough trouble given the task of transferring me to a new school, and now (only a few weeks in) I was causing more trouble. I couldn't tell him. No. I would never tell him. I would never mention it. Mama was right. I deserved it.
For the remainder of the school year I didn't have another incident with Mrs. Boyd, and when school resumed in the Fall, I did just as before - I kept quiet and made no sudden movements.
My silence was broken the day we were told that we would be performing manual labor. Instead of recess, all students from first to fifth grade were handed buckets, and instructed to march, single file, youngest to oldest, out to the parking lot. We were then told to fill our buckets with gravel, and fill each and every pothole from the base of the winding driveway to the front door of our sickly, green trailer. Unbelievable. Was this part of the curriculum? Were our parents really paying for us to abandon our books in favor of road improvements? I would say nothing to Mama and Daddy. We deserved it.
As my fellow students and I toiled on, I began to complain (not so discreetly) about our new work-study-chain gang program. Mrs. Boyd heard my protests, and told me to "keep my mouth shut" as I was beginning to incense the other students. I guess she feared an elementary school uprising. After all, I did have the fourth graders harmonizing to my version of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.
Over a period of a week, we finished the driveway, and the chain gang was disbanded. The next couple of months plodded on by without further incident, but life at home would more than make up for it.
Shortly after we returned from Christmas break, Mama began seeing a chiropractor for her slipped disc. The story goes that the chiropractor did more harm than good, and Mama was prescribed huge doses of Valium, and two weeks of bed rest. She was thrilled, and immediately composed a newsletter to be issued to all friends and family in celebration of such an occasion. No gifts please.
With Mama in stasis, my mornings now began at four-thirty. I was on Daddy's time now, that meant military time. Daddy would have me to school by six o'clock, and then he was off to the Pentagon. I would not see him again for another thirteen hours. We would then crawl back home, eat Hungry Man dinners, do my homework, and the cycle would repeat for the next three months. Not the two weeks originally planned for. Seems that Mama preferred the company of little blue pills to that of her own family. I don't use pills. I find that gin and tonics are far more enjoyable, and they come with a garnish!
One month in, and my new schedule was exhausting me. I felt like the oldest ten year old on the planet. I remember thinking, "I wonder if Jodie Foster was this tired after Reagan got shot?"
While Mama continued to enjoy her semi-conscious state, Daddy was becoming more and more resentful with each 4:30 a.m. wake-up call. Initially, he would come into my room, sit next to me and gently pat my back until I woke up. By week four he would simply open the door, turn on the light, and tell me to, "Rise and shine, Turkey Butt! Let's move out!"
Given my life at home, my grades suffered, and in honor of my lower grade point average, Mrs. Boyd had planned a grand humiliation for me. If only there had been hats. Hats can really set the tone for any merry occasion.
The humiliation began with an invitation. Sometimes that happens, like the time I was invited to a Halloween party back in 2001, and I showed up wearing skin tight, black vinyl pants paired with a red, transparent, vinyl mock turtleneck (I worked out then) only to discover that it was a child's Halloween party. I spent the majority of the evening hiding behind a sofa while politely chugging Kool-Aid that was spiked with gin I had stowed in a flask. Sometimes it helps to be an alcoholic.
Mrs. Boyd calmly invited me to approach her desk, and to take a seat. My back was to the rest of the class. She then proceeded to review my work. None of the signs that the she was going to "Hulk out" were present. I remained very still, and only spoke when spoken to.
Mrs. Boyd didn't say anything. She just thumbed through a stack of papers. Sucking on her porky little index finger as if it were wrapped in bacon with a maple syrup glaze. Based on the smacking sounds, I believed it to be truly delicious. There was no noise in the classroom. No sound of pencil moving across paper. No sound of pages being turned. Only the sound of the Boyd-ster's incessant sucking and smacking.
She finally spoke, "Do you care about your studies, Mr. Jones?" I attempted to answer, but she interrupted, "Because I can't tell if you do care." Her tone was flat and even. Completely void of emotion. This was unnerving. I shifted in my seat. She tossed a piece of paper at me. It landed in my lap. It was one of my assignments, but it barely resembled my work as it had been hacked to death by the Boyd-ster's red, Erasermate 2.
"If you cared, your work would reflect that...don't you think?" She tossed another assignment my way. It looked just as festive as the first. I couldn't speak.
"No. I don't think you care at all." Her volume began to increase. I began to sweat. Her eyes were swelling, and growing more red as she continued to toss (what seemed like) countless pieces of paper my way. Her flat, even tone was growing hostile, and I began looking for the quickest way out of the trailer.
"And if you don't care, why should anyone care? Not me. Not your parents."
That's when she went from tossing my homework to throwing my textbooks. She threw them with such malevolence I thought she would start throwing them at me. I winced and ducked as each book flew over my head, and hit the floor. That was when the screaming started,
"YOU DON'T CARE! SO LET'S JUST THROW IT ALL AWAY! THROW EVERYTHING AWAY BECAUSE YOU DON'T CARE! YOU WASTE MY TIME! EVERYDAY YOU COME IN HERE AND WASTE MY TIME! YOU'RE JUST A WASTE OF TIME, SO LET'S JUST THROW IT ALL AWAY!"
She then grabbed any book she could get her hands on, and punctuated each of her words with each smack to the floor, "THROW" (SLAM) "IT" (SLAM) "AWAY!" (SLAM)
I just sat there, looking at my feet. Praying that I wouldn't cry. I pleaded with God, because that's what you're supposed to do when you're in crisis. You're supposed to pray to some old man that lives in the sky that nailed his own son to a cross. Who wouldn't seek solace with Him? It just made sense.
With my prayers unanswered, The Boyd-ster stood up, lumbered around her desk, and leaned into my face. I could still smell the Baby Ruth on her breath. Nose to nose she hissed, "Now, pick up those books, and get back to your desk, and show me just how much you do care before I throw you away."
The entire classroom was completely silent. All eyes were on me. I gathered my books and returned to my desk, but I didn't cry. I wouldn't give the Boyd-ster the satisfaction I calmly opened a book, and acted as if I was studying. I knew she was wrong. I knew that Mrs. Boyd was rotten to the core, but for some reason...I deserved it.
Yes. There is a Part Four. Grab a glass of red, and go with it.
Waiting for Mama was always a pain in the ass. In waiting for her, or Daddy, I always had the feeling that I was an afterthought, and should I protest how long I had to wait, I was promptly told to "be quiet", or I would be walking home. As if it was my idea to ship my ass an hour's commute across town (practically into another state) just so I could star in another episode of Trailer Park Prison Daycare with a woman who clearly needed to up her dose of Thorazine, and was in desperate need of a new bra. Yeah, my idea.
Three o'clock came and went, but Mama finally arrived. As she pulled in, she didn't smile, she just stared at me. Not a good sign. This usually meant that she wasn't able to work in a nap between courses of Butterfingers, Cheez-Its, and the engrossing chapters of her new Reader's Digest Condensed Book featuring the fine literary stylings of Sidney Sheldon and Judith Krantz. Completely understandable.
I heaved open the behemoth of a car door to our 1976 gold, Mercury Grand Marquis (the two door version, because Daddy thought it was sporty) and took my place next to Mama. No "buckling up" necessary. This was 1981, and there was no buckling going on here. We'd have to wait three more years before Barbara Mandrell would guilt a nation into taking that kind of action.
I began to tell Mama about what had happened, "Mrs. Boyd got really angry at me, ran across the room, and shoved my desk into me."
Mama took a drag off her Kent 100. Flicked the ash into the ashtray, because it was tacky to dispose of one's ash out the window. Took another drag, and said, "Well (blowing smoke) maybe you deserved it."
I stared at her. Blinked a couple of times, and just kept staring. She didn't even look at me, she was too busy balancing her Coca-Cola with her left hand, her Kent 100 with her right, while miraculously managing to steer the car. When she did that, I would pretend that she was driving the car just by using the power of her mind. A rich fantasy life is a wonderful tool to have when one's own mother is more concerned with getting a fix as opposed to the life of her child. I could fantasize or chew my wrists. I chose the prettier of the two.
So, I deserved an unprovoked verbal and physical assault by some morbidly obese, carbuncle of a woman? I was completely without words. I thought my mother was supposed to take care of me. To look out for me. To keep me safe. To love me. If she thought I deserved it, then what was Daddy going to think? He surely would feel the same. He would be angry. He would punish me. I had already been enough trouble given the task of transferring me to a new school, and now (only a few weeks in) I was causing more trouble. I couldn't tell him. No. I would never tell him. I would never mention it. Mama was right. I deserved it.
For the remainder of the school year I didn't have another incident with Mrs. Boyd, and when school resumed in the Fall, I did just as before - I kept quiet and made no sudden movements.
My silence was broken the day we were told that we would be performing manual labor. Instead of recess, all students from first to fifth grade were handed buckets, and instructed to march, single file, youngest to oldest, out to the parking lot. We were then told to fill our buckets with gravel, and fill each and every pothole from the base of the winding driveway to the front door of our sickly, green trailer. Unbelievable. Was this part of the curriculum? Were our parents really paying for us to abandon our books in favor of road improvements? I would say nothing to Mama and Daddy. We deserved it.
As my fellow students and I toiled on, I began to complain (not so discreetly) about our new work-study-chain gang program. Mrs. Boyd heard my protests, and told me to "keep my mouth shut" as I was beginning to incense the other students. I guess she feared an elementary school uprising. After all, I did have the fourth graders harmonizing to my version of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.
Over a period of a week, we finished the driveway, and the chain gang was disbanded. The next couple of months plodded on by without further incident, but life at home would more than make up for it.
Shortly after we returned from Christmas break, Mama began seeing a chiropractor for her slipped disc. The story goes that the chiropractor did more harm than good, and Mama was prescribed huge doses of Valium, and two weeks of bed rest. She was thrilled, and immediately composed a newsletter to be issued to all friends and family in celebration of such an occasion. No gifts please.
With Mama in stasis, my mornings now began at four-thirty. I was on Daddy's time now, that meant military time. Daddy would have me to school by six o'clock, and then he was off to the Pentagon. I would not see him again for another thirteen hours. We would then crawl back home, eat Hungry Man dinners, do my homework, and the cycle would repeat for the next three months. Not the two weeks originally planned for. Seems that Mama preferred the company of little blue pills to that of her own family. I don't use pills. I find that gin and tonics are far more enjoyable, and they come with a garnish!
One month in, and my new schedule was exhausting me. I felt like the oldest ten year old on the planet. I remember thinking, "I wonder if Jodie Foster was this tired after Reagan got shot?"
While Mama continued to enjoy her semi-conscious state, Daddy was becoming more and more resentful with each 4:30 a.m. wake-up call. Initially, he would come into my room, sit next to me and gently pat my back until I woke up. By week four he would simply open the door, turn on the light, and tell me to, "Rise and shine, Turkey Butt! Let's move out!"
Given my life at home, my grades suffered, and in honor of my lower grade point average, Mrs. Boyd had planned a grand humiliation for me. If only there had been hats. Hats can really set the tone for any merry occasion.
The humiliation began with an invitation. Sometimes that happens, like the time I was invited to a Halloween party back in 2001, and I showed up wearing skin tight, black vinyl pants paired with a red, transparent, vinyl mock turtleneck (I worked out then) only to discover that it was a child's Halloween party. I spent the majority of the evening hiding behind a sofa while politely chugging Kool-Aid that was spiked with gin I had stowed in a flask. Sometimes it helps to be an alcoholic.
Mrs. Boyd calmly invited me to approach her desk, and to take a seat. My back was to the rest of the class. She then proceeded to review my work. None of the signs that the she was going to "Hulk out" were present. I remained very still, and only spoke when spoken to.
Mrs. Boyd didn't say anything. She just thumbed through a stack of papers. Sucking on her porky little index finger as if it were wrapped in bacon with a maple syrup glaze. Based on the smacking sounds, I believed it to be truly delicious. There was no noise in the classroom. No sound of pencil moving across paper. No sound of pages being turned. Only the sound of the Boyd-ster's incessant sucking and smacking.
She finally spoke, "Do you care about your studies, Mr. Jones?" I attempted to answer, but she interrupted, "Because I can't tell if you do care." Her tone was flat and even. Completely void of emotion. This was unnerving. I shifted in my seat. She tossed a piece of paper at me. It landed in my lap. It was one of my assignments, but it barely resembled my work as it had been hacked to death by the Boyd-ster's red, Erasermate 2.
"If you cared, your work would reflect that...don't you think?" She tossed another assignment my way. It looked just as festive as the first. I couldn't speak.
"No. I don't think you care at all." Her volume began to increase. I began to sweat. Her eyes were swelling, and growing more red as she continued to toss (what seemed like) countless pieces of paper my way. Her flat, even tone was growing hostile, and I began looking for the quickest way out of the trailer.
"And if you don't care, why should anyone care? Not me. Not your parents."
That's when she went from tossing my homework to throwing my textbooks. She threw them with such malevolence I thought she would start throwing them at me. I winced and ducked as each book flew over my head, and hit the floor. That was when the screaming started,
"YOU DON'T CARE! SO LET'S JUST THROW IT ALL AWAY! THROW EVERYTHING AWAY BECAUSE YOU DON'T CARE! YOU WASTE MY TIME! EVERYDAY YOU COME IN HERE AND WASTE MY TIME! YOU'RE JUST A WASTE OF TIME, SO LET'S JUST THROW IT ALL AWAY!"
She then grabbed any book she could get her hands on, and punctuated each of her words with each smack to the floor, "THROW" (SLAM) "IT" (SLAM) "AWAY!" (SLAM)
I just sat there, looking at my feet. Praying that I wouldn't cry. I pleaded with God, because that's what you're supposed to do when you're in crisis. You're supposed to pray to some old man that lives in the sky that nailed his own son to a cross. Who wouldn't seek solace with Him? It just made sense.
With my prayers unanswered, The Boyd-ster stood up, lumbered around her desk, and leaned into my face. I could still smell the Baby Ruth on her breath. Nose to nose she hissed, "Now, pick up those books, and get back to your desk, and show me just how much you do care before I throw you away."
The entire classroom was completely silent. All eyes were on me. I gathered my books and returned to my desk, but I didn't cry. I wouldn't give the Boyd-ster the satisfaction I calmly opened a book, and acted as if I was studying. I knew she was wrong. I knew that Mrs. Boyd was rotten to the core, but for some reason...I deserved it.
Yes. There is a Part Four. Grab a glass of red, and go with it.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Did You Know That The Devil Has A Thyroid Condition? (Pt.2)
If I thought the exterior of my new school was foul, then nothing could have prepared me for what lurked inside. Essentially, I had been ripped away from a mainstream, modern, well-lit facility and placed in a trailer home with dark wood paneling (walnut I believe) and surfaces that would forever be covered in dust. There was a persistent, ever-present odor as well. At the time I didn't know how to properly describe it, but if it were a cologne, I'd call it Incontinence by Calvin Klein.
It was all so unexpected, and so disappointing. After all, I had been told that this was the place that would forever change me as a student. I would finally be the child my parents always wanted, but how could anyone be expected to accomplish such a task in a place that smells like ass? Who has that kind of focus? Even at nine years of age I knew I didn't. They clearly thought I was someone else.
Within minutes of my arrival, I took my seat, and I was given a 4 x 6 lined index card that noted various subjects and assignments. These cards were referred to as contracts. Doesn't Satan use those? I was then told to highlight each task as it was completed, and have the contract turned in within a four week period. Upon return, Mrs. Boyd graded our work, and then another contract was issued. Clearly, there was to be no individualized, personalized, or customized education within these walls. My parents were fools. What I wasn't told was that for every mistake I made I would be terrorized in one way or another. Why didn't someone think of this before? Children don't require actual instruction, they just need a list, a yellow highlighter, and emotional waterboarding to get them to succeed. So simple. So effortless. So unfortunate.
Initially, my interactions with Mrs. Boyd were mildly pleasant and brief. Very professional. While the other children were being threatened and initmidated, I kept my nose in a book and rarely spoke, but like any relationship, there comes a time when the masks come off, and the gloves go on, and thirty years later you find yourself sitting in front of a computer, blogging about it because it was just that awful, and therapy is just too damn expensive.
Early on, Mrs. Boyd's abusive behavior was an amazing thing to behold, and I started to look forward to it the way I did an episode of the Incredible Hulk; however, Mrs. Boyd brought more excitement because the Hulk was just an hour long show, and I had her for at least eight hours a day, five days a week. If only I had some Nutter Butters to enjoy while I watched.
Whenever angered, Mrs. Boyd's face would turn a deep, purplish red. Her nostrils would flare, and her lower jaw would then thrust forward giving her the appearance not unlike that of my shih-tzu, Muffin. Only difference being that Muffin wasn't preparing to eat someone's face off, she just wanted a milk bone. Mrs. Boyd's already bulging eyes would swell and become bloodshot. She would then leap from her chair, grab the instigator (the poor child) by the lower jaw while violently shaking their face, and would scream at them at full capacity. This would then cause the child to sob uncontrollably, wet themselves, and then spend the remainder of the day sitting in their own pee. Now, how is that for entertainment? Unlike the other children in the class, and as a credit to my penchant for drama, my first incident with the Boyd-ster would be far more theatrical just without wigs. I love a good wig.
It was a particularly cold day, just a few weeks into my internment, and I was obsessing over my dry hands. I hated dry hands the way others hate nails on a chalkboard. The only thing I despise more is velvet. Mama loved velvet. She adored it so much that she had every sofa, chair, and pillow reupholstered in velvet. It makes my skin crawl, my toes curl, and I have an uncontrollable urge to stick out my tongue. It looks more like a seizure as opposed to an aversion. So, in a vain attempt to keep my hands from drying out I would repeatedly wash them. Lotion? No. Men didn't use lotion. My father would have turned the hose on me if he ever found me greasing up with Mama's Vaseline Intensive Care. Not an option. I did think about licking them, but that was just obscene, so I would wash incessantly.
The classroom sink was just about ten feet to the left of my desk, and with me in the back of the classroom, I thought I might be able to make multiple trips without drawing any attention. A perfect plan.
The first visit to the sink went unnoticed. At least I assumed so, as Mrs. Boyd was entranced by an issue of People magazine, while she worked over a Baby Ruth as if it was going to propose to her. Normally, a good sign, but not on this day.
As I approached the sink for a second time, Mrs. Boyd yelled out, "What do you think you're doing? Sit down!" I began to answer her, because she did ask, and being asked, it would have been rude of me not to answer. It's just how I was raised; however, there was no time for Southern charm as she was already turning purple, the jaw was set, and the eyes were preparing to launch from their sockets.
As my lips were just forming a reply, she vaulted from behind her desk, and plowed her way towards me. Seeing this, I broke into a sprint and landed in my chair. It was instinct. What nine year old wouldn't bolt at the sight of some huge, raving posterior with unbelievably huge optical organs, lurching towards them at maximum velocity?
She was screaming the entire distance to my desk, "Don't you dare talk back to me! I TOLD YOU TO SIT DOWN!"
And as she wailed those words, she thrust out her arms, grabbed hold of my desk, and with all her farmhand, peasant-like might she sent the desk into my chest, and propelled me and the desk into the wall behind me. I caught my breath, and looked up to see her walking away. She was muttering something about who was going to do what, and when, and threw in such timely musings like, "not on my watch" and "you think you can just come in here and talk to me like that?" all while her enormous buttocks careened side to side, and her brown polyester pants strained to contain her. She was like some beastly, steroidal baboon so proud of re-establishing the pecking order.
When she sat her fat ass down, I let myself cry, but I found some consolation in knowing that my Mama would not let this woman get away with what she had done. I only had to wait until three o'clock, and the world would be right again. This would be my last day at this so called Christian institution.
The other children stared at me in pity, but not with disbelief. This was nothing new. I wasn't special. This was their everyday, and now mine.
To Be Continued...
It was all so unexpected, and so disappointing. After all, I had been told that this was the place that would forever change me as a student. I would finally be the child my parents always wanted, but how could anyone be expected to accomplish such a task in a place that smells like ass? Who has that kind of focus? Even at nine years of age I knew I didn't. They clearly thought I was someone else.
Within minutes of my arrival, I took my seat, and I was given a 4 x 6 lined index card that noted various subjects and assignments. These cards were referred to as contracts. Doesn't Satan use those? I was then told to highlight each task as it was completed, and have the contract turned in within a four week period. Upon return, Mrs. Boyd graded our work, and then another contract was issued. Clearly, there was to be no individualized, personalized, or customized education within these walls. My parents were fools. What I wasn't told was that for every mistake I made I would be terrorized in one way or another. Why didn't someone think of this before? Children don't require actual instruction, they just need a list, a yellow highlighter, and emotional waterboarding to get them to succeed. So simple. So effortless. So unfortunate.
Initially, my interactions with Mrs. Boyd were mildly pleasant and brief. Very professional. While the other children were being threatened and initmidated, I kept my nose in a book and rarely spoke, but like any relationship, there comes a time when the masks come off, and the gloves go on, and thirty years later you find yourself sitting in front of a computer, blogging about it because it was just that awful, and therapy is just too damn expensive.
Early on, Mrs. Boyd's abusive behavior was an amazing thing to behold, and I started to look forward to it the way I did an episode of the Incredible Hulk; however, Mrs. Boyd brought more excitement because the Hulk was just an hour long show, and I had her for at least eight hours a day, five days a week. If only I had some Nutter Butters to enjoy while I watched.
Whenever angered, Mrs. Boyd's face would turn a deep, purplish red. Her nostrils would flare, and her lower jaw would then thrust forward giving her the appearance not unlike that of my shih-tzu, Muffin. Only difference being that Muffin wasn't preparing to eat someone's face off, she just wanted a milk bone. Mrs. Boyd's already bulging eyes would swell and become bloodshot. She would then leap from her chair, grab the instigator (the poor child) by the lower jaw while violently shaking their face, and would scream at them at full capacity. This would then cause the child to sob uncontrollably, wet themselves, and then spend the remainder of the day sitting in their own pee. Now, how is that for entertainment? Unlike the other children in the class, and as a credit to my penchant for drama, my first incident with the Boyd-ster would be far more theatrical just without wigs. I love a good wig.
It was a particularly cold day, just a few weeks into my internment, and I was obsessing over my dry hands. I hated dry hands the way others hate nails on a chalkboard. The only thing I despise more is velvet. Mama loved velvet. She adored it so much that she had every sofa, chair, and pillow reupholstered in velvet. It makes my skin crawl, my toes curl, and I have an uncontrollable urge to stick out my tongue. It looks more like a seizure as opposed to an aversion. So, in a vain attempt to keep my hands from drying out I would repeatedly wash them. Lotion? No. Men didn't use lotion. My father would have turned the hose on me if he ever found me greasing up with Mama's Vaseline Intensive Care. Not an option. I did think about licking them, but that was just obscene, so I would wash incessantly.
The classroom sink was just about ten feet to the left of my desk, and with me in the back of the classroom, I thought I might be able to make multiple trips without drawing any attention. A perfect plan.
The first visit to the sink went unnoticed. At least I assumed so, as Mrs. Boyd was entranced by an issue of People magazine, while she worked over a Baby Ruth as if it was going to propose to her. Normally, a good sign, but not on this day.
As I approached the sink for a second time, Mrs. Boyd yelled out, "What do you think you're doing? Sit down!" I began to answer her, because she did ask, and being asked, it would have been rude of me not to answer. It's just how I was raised; however, there was no time for Southern charm as she was already turning purple, the jaw was set, and the eyes were preparing to launch from their sockets.
As my lips were just forming a reply, she vaulted from behind her desk, and plowed her way towards me. Seeing this, I broke into a sprint and landed in my chair. It was instinct. What nine year old wouldn't bolt at the sight of some huge, raving posterior with unbelievably huge optical organs, lurching towards them at maximum velocity?
She was screaming the entire distance to my desk, "Don't you dare talk back to me! I TOLD YOU TO SIT DOWN!"
And as she wailed those words, she thrust out her arms, grabbed hold of my desk, and with all her farmhand, peasant-like might she sent the desk into my chest, and propelled me and the desk into the wall behind me. I caught my breath, and looked up to see her walking away. She was muttering something about who was going to do what, and when, and threw in such timely musings like, "not on my watch" and "you think you can just come in here and talk to me like that?" all while her enormous buttocks careened side to side, and her brown polyester pants strained to contain her. She was like some beastly, steroidal baboon so proud of re-establishing the pecking order.
When she sat her fat ass down, I let myself cry, but I found some consolation in knowing that my Mama would not let this woman get away with what she had done. I only had to wait until three o'clock, and the world would be right again. This would be my last day at this so called Christian institution.
The other children stared at me in pity, but not with disbelief. This was nothing new. I wasn't special. This was their everyday, and now mine.
To Be Continued...
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