Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Put Your Teeth Back In & Call Me Sunshine
When you’re young, meeting people is relatively easy. You meet your friends in your neighborhood, or in school. It was simple. Being an adult, the game is played in a different arena. You have to seek out new connections at work, online, or (sadly) at a bar. Eventually it does happen, but in the haste to create a community you’re bound to make some mistakes.
I had moved to Seattle in 1995 immediately after graduating from Ole Miss. I moved in with my best friend Jen, found a job, and for the most part sat in my apartment waiting for life to happen. It was pathetic. I soon became depressed, gained 30 pounds, and considered moving back to Mississippi where I already had a tight community of friends. It was finding a job that saved me.
I found employment at Mediplex Rehab. Mediplex was a brain injury rehabilitation facility. My job title was Rehabilitation Specialist. I was excited about the position as it provided validation that my Psychology degree was worth something. Even if that something paid only eight dollars an hour. I didn’t care. I had just left Mississippi where I was cleaning houses for five dollars an hour. I thought I had struck gold; however, I quickly learned that you cannot pay anyone enough money to wipe the ass of another individual. That amount of currency just doesn’t exist. In addition, I felt like I was in a good place to meet people as my co-workers were all around my age, in school, or had just graduated. Aaron was one of those co-workers. Being that Aaron was a Gay, and I was a Gay we were either destined to fall in love, or be the best of friends. At least that’s the way the Straights thought it should happen. Initially, I thought they might be onto something as I found Aaron quite charming with a wicked sense of humor; however, like all relationships (romantic or otherwise), it takes time to see someone for who they truly are. As my therapist said, “Everyone has a mask. Just be sure you like what you see when it comes off.” I agreed, once the mask comes off, people are either so in love with you that they don’t care how blemished your soul is, or they realize you should be on a serotonin re-uptake inhibitor, and kiss your sweet ass goodbye. In less than a few month’s time I said goodbye to Aaron’s sweet ass. No regrets. Felt good. Still feels good.
On one particular evening Aaron had come over to my place for wine and nibbles. We were swapping tales of dating, when he revealed that he had been corresponding with a gentleman in Manhattan for the last several weeks. The man, whom we will refer to as Bruce, he met from an ad in the Village Voice. This was 1995, and well before online dating became mainstream. Bruce was a well-to-do investment banker who traveled to Seattle often, and was interested in making a romantic connection with someone in Seattle. I guess, in 1995, there was a real shortage of gay boys in Manhattan. Which never struck Aaron as odd, but had me concerned.
After several glasses of red wine, Aaron revealed that he just might be in love with this Bruce guy. I asked how this was possible without meeting him, and he said, “A spiritual connection transcends the physical.” That’s when I called him a cab.
Later that night, I was relaying Aaron’s story to Jen. Jen, a beautiful optimist when it comes to love, thought the idea of a bi-coastal relationship was sweet. I thought it was the drunken meanderings of a desperate thirty year old gay man looking to fill the black hole that he called his life with the attention of another freak who couldn’t get laid despite living in a large metropolitan area brimming with homosexuals. Jen said I sounded bitter. I said I sounded honest. She said she was worried about me. I said she should shut up, and have a drink.
Aaron’s long distance romance continued, and since this was before internet dating had been perfected, little Aaron was spending hundreds on long distance charges. He said it didn’t matter. “Love transcended money.” I was beginning to see a pattern with Aaron’s transcendence, and he was transcending himself right out of my life.
For Aaron the only thing that mattered, the only thing he could focus on, was the undying love he supposedly shared with Bruce. I wondered how this could be possible given that they had never shared the same space physically. I was concerned. Concerned that Aaron was losing, or lost, his grip, and more concerned that I actually gave a damn about such a damaged individual that I had only known for a few weeks. I needed new friends, a hobby, something to occupy my time other than the antics of a desperate homosexual. Hell, I already was a desperate homosexual. Why would I need to spend more time with another one?
The end finally came one fateful night at Re-Bar for Queer Disco. The Re-Bar was/is a small club that had rotating theme nights, and Thursday nights belonged to the Gays. Aaron and I were regulars, and on this particular evening; between pitchers of beer, and kicking up our heels, Aaron asked if I had seen Sleepless In Seattle. “Damn, and the night was going so well!” I thought. By this time in my life I had never ended a friendship over a film, but there is always the first time for everything. I told him that I had seen the film, and it had offended me with its typical bullshit about love between two stupid straight people. Not only was it fiction, but felt more like science fiction. My girlfriends would ask how I could not get caught up in the hopeless romance of it all? Easy, Tom Hanks + Meg Ryan = terror. I don't pay for terror. I get paid to endure it everyday. Have I mentioned that I manage a dental office?
So, Aaron went on to say that his life mirrored Sleepless In Seattle. He saw himself as the Meg Ryan character (of course he did) and Bruce as his Tom Hanks. My first thought was, “You poor, poor, sad man.” Followed by, “Ooh…Tom Hanks? Seriously?” Aaron stated that just like Meg’s character, the love he had for Bruce broke through the barriers of time and space. That nothing could stop their love from “flowering.” I asked, “Did you just say flowering?” Aaron nodded enthusiastically, and I ordered another pitcher of beer.
I really wanted to avoid the Bruce subject, but there is just no way to avoid a personality disorder. It’s like trying to dodge a bullet, or a drunk drag queen, you just can’t. Besides, I couldn’t understand how Aaron was still maintaining this long distance romance? According to Aaron, all one needed was a phone, cheap tequila, marijuana, and fine motor skills. Who knew the formula for love was so simple? I made a mental note.
After another pitcher of beer, and dancing to Salt-n-Pepa’s Push It, Aaron revealed that he was finally going to meet Bruce. I acted as if I cared.
“Really, that’s just great…for you.” He was completely blind to my lack of interest. Whether it was the beer, or his delusional transcendent beliefs, he was convinced that not only was he in love with Bruce, but that the world must love him as well.
Unable to resist, I had to ask the following:
“So, you must be very excited. Are you going to do anything special when he gets here?”
“Yeah, but I’m going to very busy for the next couple of months before he gets in. So I probably won’t get to see you very often, but I would love for you to go out with us while he’s in town.”
Like a Burmese Python with a rat dangling in front of me, I lunged...
“Busy with what?”
“Well, he wants me to do a few things before he comes out.”
The rat was looking really good, so I lunged again.
“What kind of things?”
“Oh, y’know pick up his favorite champagne, install a harness, and get dentures.”
It was one of those moments when my friend Darcie would say, “Rob, watch the face.” With my mouth agape, and my eyes bugged out as if I had a thyroid condition, I was beyond shocked. This was reaching a new level of “FREAK” that I had only read about, or seen in a Madonna video, but I never had the opportunity to engage with. I quickly noted all available exits.
Aaron failed to note my obvious concern, and without missing a beat he continued,
“Yeah, he’s really into getting his cock sucked.”
At first I thought, “Who isn’t?” then I remembered to blink, furrowed my brow, and said flatly, “Really? And you can’t suck his cock with teeth?”
“Well, of course I can, but that’s not how Bruce likes it. I know it’s a bit extreme, but it is for Bruce after all.”
Considering that I had invested the last three months listening to Aaron’s bullshit, and considering the amount of beer I had, the need to be polite evaporated. I stood up from the booth, looked down at Aaron, and said, “Aaron, walk with me.” I took him by his right arm, and once outside I asked, “You mean to tell me you’re seriously considering having all your teeth ripped out of your head, all in the name of cock sucking, for a man you have yet to meet face to face?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t find this a bit disturbing?”
“No.”
There was a long, long pause. I kept staring into his eyes in the hope that I could maybe see something that would give me some clue as to how I could ever have considered someone so twisted to be my friend. My search was fruitless.
Aaron, was now sensing my deep concern and disbelief. He became hostile.
“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that!?!”
There was nothing to say but, “I should go.”
Aaron was deeply hurt, and offended, and as I left him behind I heard him hiss, “What the fuck would you know. You’ve never been in love.”
I turned, and marched back to him. The look on my face must have been frightening, as he bolted for the door to the club. I grabbed his arm again, and spun him around to face me.
“Listen, Meg, if what you have is love I would rather remain a bitter, lonely old faggot, spending my days pissing my pants than end up like you. Good luck with Bruce, I mean Tom, and I sincerely hope he’s all that you need him to be.”
I walked away feeling as if I had just lost 100 pounds, then a feeling of disappointment hit me. I had completely forgot to ask Aaron about the harness.
I had moved to Seattle in 1995 immediately after graduating from Ole Miss. I moved in with my best friend Jen, found a job, and for the most part sat in my apartment waiting for life to happen. It was pathetic. I soon became depressed, gained 30 pounds, and considered moving back to Mississippi where I already had a tight community of friends. It was finding a job that saved me.
I found employment at Mediplex Rehab. Mediplex was a brain injury rehabilitation facility. My job title was Rehabilitation Specialist. I was excited about the position as it provided validation that my Psychology degree was worth something. Even if that something paid only eight dollars an hour. I didn’t care. I had just left Mississippi where I was cleaning houses for five dollars an hour. I thought I had struck gold; however, I quickly learned that you cannot pay anyone enough money to wipe the ass of another individual. That amount of currency just doesn’t exist. In addition, I felt like I was in a good place to meet people as my co-workers were all around my age, in school, or had just graduated. Aaron was one of those co-workers. Being that Aaron was a Gay, and I was a Gay we were either destined to fall in love, or be the best of friends. At least that’s the way the Straights thought it should happen. Initially, I thought they might be onto something as I found Aaron quite charming with a wicked sense of humor; however, like all relationships (romantic or otherwise), it takes time to see someone for who they truly are. As my therapist said, “Everyone has a mask. Just be sure you like what you see when it comes off.” I agreed, once the mask comes off, people are either so in love with you that they don’t care how blemished your soul is, or they realize you should be on a serotonin re-uptake inhibitor, and kiss your sweet ass goodbye. In less than a few month’s time I said goodbye to Aaron’s sweet ass. No regrets. Felt good. Still feels good.
On one particular evening Aaron had come over to my place for wine and nibbles. We were swapping tales of dating, when he revealed that he had been corresponding with a gentleman in Manhattan for the last several weeks. The man, whom we will refer to as Bruce, he met from an ad in the Village Voice. This was 1995, and well before online dating became mainstream. Bruce was a well-to-do investment banker who traveled to Seattle often, and was interested in making a romantic connection with someone in Seattle. I guess, in 1995, there was a real shortage of gay boys in Manhattan. Which never struck Aaron as odd, but had me concerned.
After several glasses of red wine, Aaron revealed that he just might be in love with this Bruce guy. I asked how this was possible without meeting him, and he said, “A spiritual connection transcends the physical.” That’s when I called him a cab.
Later that night, I was relaying Aaron’s story to Jen. Jen, a beautiful optimist when it comes to love, thought the idea of a bi-coastal relationship was sweet. I thought it was the drunken meanderings of a desperate thirty year old gay man looking to fill the black hole that he called his life with the attention of another freak who couldn’t get laid despite living in a large metropolitan area brimming with homosexuals. Jen said I sounded bitter. I said I sounded honest. She said she was worried about me. I said she should shut up, and have a drink.
Aaron’s long distance romance continued, and since this was before internet dating had been perfected, little Aaron was spending hundreds on long distance charges. He said it didn’t matter. “Love transcended money.” I was beginning to see a pattern with Aaron’s transcendence, and he was transcending himself right out of my life.
For Aaron the only thing that mattered, the only thing he could focus on, was the undying love he supposedly shared with Bruce. I wondered how this could be possible given that they had never shared the same space physically. I was concerned. Concerned that Aaron was losing, or lost, his grip, and more concerned that I actually gave a damn about such a damaged individual that I had only known for a few weeks. I needed new friends, a hobby, something to occupy my time other than the antics of a desperate homosexual. Hell, I already was a desperate homosexual. Why would I need to spend more time with another one?
The end finally came one fateful night at Re-Bar for Queer Disco. The Re-Bar was/is a small club that had rotating theme nights, and Thursday nights belonged to the Gays. Aaron and I were regulars, and on this particular evening; between pitchers of beer, and kicking up our heels, Aaron asked if I had seen Sleepless In Seattle. “Damn, and the night was going so well!” I thought. By this time in my life I had never ended a friendship over a film, but there is always the first time for everything. I told him that I had seen the film, and it had offended me with its typical bullshit about love between two stupid straight people. Not only was it fiction, but felt more like science fiction. My girlfriends would ask how I could not get caught up in the hopeless romance of it all? Easy, Tom Hanks + Meg Ryan = terror. I don't pay for terror. I get paid to endure it everyday. Have I mentioned that I manage a dental office?
So, Aaron went on to say that his life mirrored Sleepless In Seattle. He saw himself as the Meg Ryan character (of course he did) and Bruce as his Tom Hanks. My first thought was, “You poor, poor, sad man.” Followed by, “Ooh…Tom Hanks? Seriously?” Aaron stated that just like Meg’s character, the love he had for Bruce broke through the barriers of time and space. That nothing could stop their love from “flowering.” I asked, “Did you just say flowering?” Aaron nodded enthusiastically, and I ordered another pitcher of beer.
I really wanted to avoid the Bruce subject, but there is just no way to avoid a personality disorder. It’s like trying to dodge a bullet, or a drunk drag queen, you just can’t. Besides, I couldn’t understand how Aaron was still maintaining this long distance romance? According to Aaron, all one needed was a phone, cheap tequila, marijuana, and fine motor skills. Who knew the formula for love was so simple? I made a mental note.
After another pitcher of beer, and dancing to Salt-n-Pepa’s Push It, Aaron revealed that he was finally going to meet Bruce. I acted as if I cared.
“Really, that’s just great…for you.” He was completely blind to my lack of interest. Whether it was the beer, or his delusional transcendent beliefs, he was convinced that not only was he in love with Bruce, but that the world must love him as well.
Unable to resist, I had to ask the following:
“So, you must be very excited. Are you going to do anything special when he gets here?”
“Yeah, but I’m going to very busy for the next couple of months before he gets in. So I probably won’t get to see you very often, but I would love for you to go out with us while he’s in town.”
Like a Burmese Python with a rat dangling in front of me, I lunged...
“Busy with what?”
“Well, he wants me to do a few things before he comes out.”
The rat was looking really good, so I lunged again.
“What kind of things?”
“Oh, y’know pick up his favorite champagne, install a harness, and get dentures.”
It was one of those moments when my friend Darcie would say, “Rob, watch the face.” With my mouth agape, and my eyes bugged out as if I had a thyroid condition, I was beyond shocked. This was reaching a new level of “FREAK” that I had only read about, or seen in a Madonna video, but I never had the opportunity to engage with. I quickly noted all available exits.
Aaron failed to note my obvious concern, and without missing a beat he continued,
“Yeah, he’s really into getting his cock sucked.”
At first I thought, “Who isn’t?” then I remembered to blink, furrowed my brow, and said flatly, “Really? And you can’t suck his cock with teeth?”
“Well, of course I can, but that’s not how Bruce likes it. I know it’s a bit extreme, but it is for Bruce after all.”
Considering that I had invested the last three months listening to Aaron’s bullshit, and considering the amount of beer I had, the need to be polite evaporated. I stood up from the booth, looked down at Aaron, and said, “Aaron, walk with me.” I took him by his right arm, and once outside I asked, “You mean to tell me you’re seriously considering having all your teeth ripped out of your head, all in the name of cock sucking, for a man you have yet to meet face to face?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t find this a bit disturbing?”
“No.”
There was a long, long pause. I kept staring into his eyes in the hope that I could maybe see something that would give me some clue as to how I could ever have considered someone so twisted to be my friend. My search was fruitless.
Aaron, was now sensing my deep concern and disbelief. He became hostile.
“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that!?!”
There was nothing to say but, “I should go.”
Aaron was deeply hurt, and offended, and as I left him behind I heard him hiss, “What the fuck would you know. You’ve never been in love.”
I turned, and marched back to him. The look on my face must have been frightening, as he bolted for the door to the club. I grabbed his arm again, and spun him around to face me.
“Listen, Meg, if what you have is love I would rather remain a bitter, lonely old faggot, spending my days pissing my pants than end up like you. Good luck with Bruce, I mean Tom, and I sincerely hope he’s all that you need him to be.”
I walked away feeling as if I had just lost 100 pounds, then a feeling of disappointment hit me. I had completely forgot to ask Aaron about the harness.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Brass Balled Belles (Part Two)
It was 1987, we were living in Memphis, and I had just completed my new look for Fall. I was proudly wearing Bugle Boy pants (pegged, of course), with my three-quarter high top, black Reeboks. I completed the wardrobe with a random assortment of colorful button downs with socks to match. I had long, blond bangs that Mama and Daddy despised. Mama would often say, “Rob, no Southern man would ever do such a thing. You look ridiculous.” I was happy to point out that no man, Southern or otherwise, would tolerate being treated like a dog either, but she didn’t seem to mind putting me in that position. I received a healthy slap to the face for that remark, but it was her way of letting me know I was right. I do love winning. It makes me feel pretty.
One evening, as I was obsessing over the right sweater-button down-tie combination, Mama asked me to come into her sitting room. As Mama had once told me, “A sittin’ room is a place for a woman to gather her thoughts, perhaps journal and read. It’s like your father’s study, but with a more delicate, feminine touch.” More accurately, it would be a place to watch Cagney & Lacey, eat Butterfingers, skim through an assortment of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, and discover the wonders of home shopping. It would also be a drug den. A safe place to take enough prescription medication to cease all higher brain functions without interference from other family members, or the law. For Mama, the sitting room was her Happy Place, like Disneyland, only much smaller, and with smokeless ash trays because, as she once said, “Oh, I do enjoy smoking, it’s just the smoke I can’t handle.”
The sitting room was specifically designed to allow for maximum accessibility while requiring the least amount of movement. Think Japanese/German efficiency meets Laura Ashley design. Due to the fact that we were a military family, the dimensions of the room were certain to change, but they always possessed three essentials; a love seat, lazy susan and a refrigerator. The love seat was important as it was just large enough for one person to lounge upon; thereby, eliminating the possibility of having to share the space. Mama would say, “It’s not that I mind sharin’, I just can’t cope with the inconvenience.” The lazy susan, while designed for the kitchen table, was important as one could easily access a variety of medications with a simple flick of the wrist. It was the Carousel of Inebriated Delight. The refrigerator was the ultimate necessity as it meant no more annoying trips to the kitchen. A slight bend at the waist with an outstretched arm would be all that was required to access a supply of Coca-Cola, an assortment of puddings, and a variety of Pepperidge Farm and Sara Lee cakes. It was as if she was preparing for a trailer park nuclear winter.
I heard the call, “RRR-AWW-BUH!”, unaware that I was just in the next room.
“Ma’am?!?” I asked, sticking to the script. I counted to five, and then...
“RRR-AWW-BUH!”
I brought my head out of my doorway, looked to the right, and said angrily, “Mama, I’m right here! What is it?’ She looked up as if she thought my voice was coming from the ceiling. She was doing that echo locating thing again. I shook my head. “Mama, I’m right here!” I stood in the doorway, my hands balled into fists of frustration.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were there.” She smiled at me, swatted at some imaginary flying insects, blinked, and kept smiling. It was creepy. Nora Desmond creepy.
“What is it?” I asked coldly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I almost forgot.”
“Forgot? You just called me like...ten seconds ago.” I shook my head, rolled my eyes and waited.
“Don’t you be a smartass to me. You respect me, or else.” There was a dramatic pause. She shifted in her seat, adjusted her robe, shoved a Kleenex down her sleeve, swatted again at the imaginary insect and then...she was back!
“Now, I have somethin’ I want to show you.” She reached down, and from under the love seat, she brought out a bell. It was brass, and approximately six inches tall, possessing a hand-carved wooden handle. I had seen this knick-knack before. It was normally kept in the living room with the other vast assortment of decorative crap. Mama held it up next to her face, smiled at it and then back at me.
“What?” I asked. “It’s a bell.” I stared back, looking for an explanation that involved something more than creepy looks and jittery hand gestures. She looked like a drunk Vanna White clumsily displaying a vowel.
“Uh-huh.” she smiled and raised her eyebrows as if that would be enough of a clue.
I couldn’t say anything. If I did, it would just be cruel. I’m a bitch, but I do have a soul where Mama is concerned. Granted, it’s about as dark and dank as Charlie Sheen’s suite at The Plaza, but I do have one. I sighed, and waited for the explanation.
“When I ring this...” she picked it up and gave the bell a shake, because I had clearly spent my entire life without hearing a bell before. “You need to come to me.”
“What? Why?”
“This will make it easier.” she slurred. It was clear she had just had her Valium nightcap with a pudding back.
“Make what easier?” I demanded, but I was still whining.
“Watch your tone with me, mister.” she paused and glared at me. I took a deep breath, folded my arms and glared back. She went on, “This will make it easier for me to call you when I need you.” What teenager wants to hear that their Mama needs them? It made me wince, like watching Whitney Houston attempting to dance.
Mama always needed something, but her needs were now becoming life threatening. Just a week earlier I was forced into rush hour traffic on a Friday, in a thunder storm complete with flash floods and tornado warnings. All because Mama was out of cigarettes, and because she’s a lazy, self-absorbed, potted-princess whose only pleasure in life comes from making others miserable, but she’s great at parties.
I was 16 and had little experience maneuvering an automobile in a natural disaster. I had even less experience dealing with a Southern Belle with a drug habit worthy of street cred. I was driving the’76 Mercury at the time; a massive automobile that when coupled with inclement weather, and a stupid teenager, became more weapon than car. Matters weren’t helped by my extraordinarily long, blond bangs and a defrost mechanism that was permanently set to Rain Forest. I remember wishing for a barrette, and a paper towel. I think I even cried a little, but I would cry more after a 1985 Honda Civic came hydroplaning into me. The Honda was totaled. The Mercury barely had a scratch. Despite the hard evidence that God did not want me on the road, I pressed on, and retrieved Mama’s cigs. Flash floods and tornadoes pale in comparison to Mama without her nicotine.
The bell would dominate my home life for more than a year until the Spring of ’89 when Mama entered rehab for the second time. The first time didn’t count as Mama thought she was on a cruise. Only my mother would confuse group therapy with shuffle board. After rehab, Mama returned home dried out and pissed off. She hired a private detective to monitor my father’s activities, filed for divorce, and began packing up our home for a destination unknown. “I just need to do somethin’ with my hands, or I will go kah-ray-zay!”
It was ugly, but Mama was a new woman, and she no longer needed me to butter her toast, pour a Coke, or check her pulse. She was getting out more, and had even taken to spending her mornings at a variety of Shoney’s Restaurants around Memphis with her Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, Marilyn. Marilyn believed that the Shoney’s Breakfast Bar (that’s an all you can eat buffet for the those who need to know) was a great place to meet available men, but this was too ridiculous even for Mama. She once told me, “Marilyn is very sweet, but she’s also an alcoholic. She’ll go anywhere with a bar. Even if that bar is only serving cheese grits.”
Mama had become unstoppable, and for a few months I had grown to love her again. She was vibrant, exciting, and we laughed all the time. I didn’t care that my parents were divorcing. It seemed to be the best thing for all of us. Then the magic that is therapy worked its wonders and Mama and Daddy reconciled. All it took was a few emotional outbursts, mediated by a round little man with unusually large pores by the name of Dr. Epstein, for Daddy to assume the position (on bended knee) and Mama’s resolve melted away. Soon after, she bought a new dress, booked a church, and skipped down the aisle. I didn’t care. The bell was gone, and I was college bound. I had no worries other than I was 250 pounds, gay and completely lacking any self-esteem. I was pathetic on a grand scale. I still had great hair, though. Is there anything else?
We would return to Stuckey’s nearly five years after the mechanical claw incident, but Mama wanted to remain in the car while I fetched her a Coke and some fresh packs. Perhaps she was just too ashamed to venture in, or she truly had no memory of what happened when she said, “Rob, I would never enter an establishment that sold ‘logs’ of candy. It just sounds tacky, and as a Southern lady I do not do tacky.” I didn’t say anything when she sneezed and "popped out" a little gas. There was a brief moment when we exchanged knowing looks. She glanced away, acting as if she had just discovered something of dire importance in her purse. I could have made a snide remark, but...that would have been tacky.
One evening, as I was obsessing over the right sweater-button down-tie combination, Mama asked me to come into her sitting room. As Mama had once told me, “A sittin’ room is a place for a woman to gather her thoughts, perhaps journal and read. It’s like your father’s study, but with a more delicate, feminine touch.” More accurately, it would be a place to watch Cagney & Lacey, eat Butterfingers, skim through an assortment of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, and discover the wonders of home shopping. It would also be a drug den. A safe place to take enough prescription medication to cease all higher brain functions without interference from other family members, or the law. For Mama, the sitting room was her Happy Place, like Disneyland, only much smaller, and with smokeless ash trays because, as she once said, “Oh, I do enjoy smoking, it’s just the smoke I can’t handle.”
The sitting room was specifically designed to allow for maximum accessibility while requiring the least amount of movement. Think Japanese/German efficiency meets Laura Ashley design. Due to the fact that we were a military family, the dimensions of the room were certain to change, but they always possessed three essentials; a love seat, lazy susan and a refrigerator. The love seat was important as it was just large enough for one person to lounge upon; thereby, eliminating the possibility of having to share the space. Mama would say, “It’s not that I mind sharin’, I just can’t cope with the inconvenience.” The lazy susan, while designed for the kitchen table, was important as one could easily access a variety of medications with a simple flick of the wrist. It was the Carousel of Inebriated Delight. The refrigerator was the ultimate necessity as it meant no more annoying trips to the kitchen. A slight bend at the waist with an outstretched arm would be all that was required to access a supply of Coca-Cola, an assortment of puddings, and a variety of Pepperidge Farm and Sara Lee cakes. It was as if she was preparing for a trailer park nuclear winter.
I heard the call, “RRR-AWW-BUH!”, unaware that I was just in the next room.
“Ma’am?!?” I asked, sticking to the script. I counted to five, and then...
“RRR-AWW-BUH!”
I brought my head out of my doorway, looked to the right, and said angrily, “Mama, I’m right here! What is it?’ She looked up as if she thought my voice was coming from the ceiling. She was doing that echo locating thing again. I shook my head. “Mama, I’m right here!” I stood in the doorway, my hands balled into fists of frustration.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were there.” She smiled at me, swatted at some imaginary flying insects, blinked, and kept smiling. It was creepy. Nora Desmond creepy.
“What is it?” I asked coldly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I almost forgot.”
“Forgot? You just called me like...ten seconds ago.” I shook my head, rolled my eyes and waited.
“Don’t you be a smartass to me. You respect me, or else.” There was a dramatic pause. She shifted in her seat, adjusted her robe, shoved a Kleenex down her sleeve, swatted again at the imaginary insect and then...she was back!
“Now, I have somethin’ I want to show you.” She reached down, and from under the love seat, she brought out a bell. It was brass, and approximately six inches tall, possessing a hand-carved wooden handle. I had seen this knick-knack before. It was normally kept in the living room with the other vast assortment of decorative crap. Mama held it up next to her face, smiled at it and then back at me.
“What?” I asked. “It’s a bell.” I stared back, looking for an explanation that involved something more than creepy looks and jittery hand gestures. She looked like a drunk Vanna White clumsily displaying a vowel.
“Uh-huh.” she smiled and raised her eyebrows as if that would be enough of a clue.
I couldn’t say anything. If I did, it would just be cruel. I’m a bitch, but I do have a soul where Mama is concerned. Granted, it’s about as dark and dank as Charlie Sheen’s suite at The Plaza, but I do have one. I sighed, and waited for the explanation.
“When I ring this...” she picked it up and gave the bell a shake, because I had clearly spent my entire life without hearing a bell before. “You need to come to me.”
“What? Why?”
“This will make it easier.” she slurred. It was clear she had just had her Valium nightcap with a pudding back.
“Make what easier?” I demanded, but I was still whining.
“Watch your tone with me, mister.” she paused and glared at me. I took a deep breath, folded my arms and glared back. She went on, “This will make it easier for me to call you when I need you.” What teenager wants to hear that their Mama needs them? It made me wince, like watching Whitney Houston attempting to dance.
Mama always needed something, but her needs were now becoming life threatening. Just a week earlier I was forced into rush hour traffic on a Friday, in a thunder storm complete with flash floods and tornado warnings. All because Mama was out of cigarettes, and because she’s a lazy, self-absorbed, potted-princess whose only pleasure in life comes from making others miserable, but she’s great at parties.
I was 16 and had little experience maneuvering an automobile in a natural disaster. I had even less experience dealing with a Southern Belle with a drug habit worthy of street cred. I was driving the’76 Mercury at the time; a massive automobile that when coupled with inclement weather, and a stupid teenager, became more weapon than car. Matters weren’t helped by my extraordinarily long, blond bangs and a defrost mechanism that was permanently set to Rain Forest. I remember wishing for a barrette, and a paper towel. I think I even cried a little, but I would cry more after a 1985 Honda Civic came hydroplaning into me. The Honda was totaled. The Mercury barely had a scratch. Despite the hard evidence that God did not want me on the road, I pressed on, and retrieved Mama’s cigs. Flash floods and tornadoes pale in comparison to Mama without her nicotine.
The bell would dominate my home life for more than a year until the Spring of ’89 when Mama entered rehab for the second time. The first time didn’t count as Mama thought she was on a cruise. Only my mother would confuse group therapy with shuffle board. After rehab, Mama returned home dried out and pissed off. She hired a private detective to monitor my father’s activities, filed for divorce, and began packing up our home for a destination unknown. “I just need to do somethin’ with my hands, or I will go kah-ray-zay!”
It was ugly, but Mama was a new woman, and she no longer needed me to butter her toast, pour a Coke, or check her pulse. She was getting out more, and had even taken to spending her mornings at a variety of Shoney’s Restaurants around Memphis with her Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, Marilyn. Marilyn believed that the Shoney’s Breakfast Bar (that’s an all you can eat buffet for the those who need to know) was a great place to meet available men, but this was too ridiculous even for Mama. She once told me, “Marilyn is very sweet, but she’s also an alcoholic. She’ll go anywhere with a bar. Even if that bar is only serving cheese grits.”
Mama had become unstoppable, and for a few months I had grown to love her again. She was vibrant, exciting, and we laughed all the time. I didn’t care that my parents were divorcing. It seemed to be the best thing for all of us. Then the magic that is therapy worked its wonders and Mama and Daddy reconciled. All it took was a few emotional outbursts, mediated by a round little man with unusually large pores by the name of Dr. Epstein, for Daddy to assume the position (on bended knee) and Mama’s resolve melted away. Soon after, she bought a new dress, booked a church, and skipped down the aisle. I didn’t care. The bell was gone, and I was college bound. I had no worries other than I was 250 pounds, gay and completely lacking any self-esteem. I was pathetic on a grand scale. I still had great hair, though. Is there anything else?
We would return to Stuckey’s nearly five years after the mechanical claw incident, but Mama wanted to remain in the car while I fetched her a Coke and some fresh packs. Perhaps she was just too ashamed to venture in, or she truly had no memory of what happened when she said, “Rob, I would never enter an establishment that sold ‘logs’ of candy. It just sounds tacky, and as a Southern lady I do not do tacky.” I didn’t say anything when she sneezed and "popped out" a little gas. There was a brief moment when we exchanged knowing looks. She glanced away, acting as if she had just discovered something of dire importance in her purse. I could have made a snide remark, but...that would have been tacky.
Grits-n-Gossip Bonus Feature:
Buried Culinary Treasures From Mama's Pantry to Yours...enjoy.
Kentucky Colonels
1 box confectioners sugar
Bourbon (just bring the bottle)
1/4 pound butter
1 tablespoon undiluted evaporated milk
1 pound bittersweet chocolate
1/4 block parawax
Pecans
Combine in mixing bowl the sugar, butter, and milk. Shape by hand this fondant into balls about the size of a small English walnut. With the little finger, shape a cavity into the ball of fondant, making sure the sides and bottom of the ball are not broken. With a medicine dropper, fill the cavity with Bourbon - do not fill too full - pinch top together (extra fondant may be used to seal cavity)(bourbon must not spill out). Melt bittersweet chocolate with parawax over hot water. Chocolate mixture must be deep for dipping fondant balls. Place a bourbon-filled fondant ball on a fork and dip into melted chocolate. Remove from fork and place pecan half on top.
Kentucky Colonels
1 box confectioners sugar
Bourbon (just bring the bottle)
1/4 pound butter
1 tablespoon undiluted evaporated milk
1 pound bittersweet chocolate
1/4 block parawax
Pecans
Combine in mixing bowl the sugar, butter, and milk. Shape by hand this fondant into balls about the size of a small English walnut. With the little finger, shape a cavity into the ball of fondant, making sure the sides and bottom of the ball are not broken. With a medicine dropper, fill the cavity with Bourbon - do not fill too full - pinch top together (extra fondant may be used to seal cavity)(bourbon must not spill out). Melt bittersweet chocolate with parawax over hot water. Chocolate mixture must be deep for dipping fondant balls. Place a bourbon-filled fondant ball on a fork and dip into melted chocolate. Remove from fork and place pecan half on top.
Friday, November 5, 2010
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