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.
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