Brass Balled Belles (Part One)

There is nothing quite as bracing as speeding down an interstate in a 1976 gold, Mercury Grand Marquis on a 95 degree, August, Mississippi day, with the windows sealed, while someone chain smokes for the entire 250 mile journey.  It's like being trapped in a tobacco stained coffin with a V8 engine. 

Mama smokes about two packs a day, and she smokes anywhere at anytime.  Nothing can be done to stop her.  She's a Category 5 hurricane of smoke and ash.  Warning labels haven't stopped her.  Her posse of physicians haven't stopped her.  Keeping vigil while friends turn into cancer-ridden raisins hasn't stopped her.  At the moment she says she's quitting, but as I've told her, "Mama, you can't wear a nicotine patch and smoke in an attempt to quit.  It just won't work, as one actually has to not smoke in order to succeed." She rolls her eyes, tells me to "leave her alone", covers her ears and lights up.  What do I know?  I'm just a college educated individual who understands the value in following the instructions on the package.

It was on one of these 250 mile family excursions when Mama insisted on stopping at a road side Denny's-like establishment better known as Stuckey's.  For the un-initiated, a Stuckey's is a national chain of roadside diners known for their pecan logs, and stream of consciousness poetry.  I lied.  They're only renowned for their pecan logs, but I am sure someone at some time has waxed poetic about those ooey-gooey logs of chewy cardiac arrest goodness.  Originally, she just wanted to use the restroom, pick up a fresh pack (her term for cigarettes) a Coke, and a pecan log.  A pecan log from Stuckey's is a Southern delicacy.  It is a tube sock of corn syrup, vanilla, caramel (car-a-mel is a three syllable word by the way, and it is not pronounced car-mel), and pecans.  Daddy and I remained in the car while she was left to fend for herself. Normally, I fend for Mama, but since I am unable to void her bladder for her...she was on her own.  If Mama could have me pee for her...she'd have me do it.  She's that kind of lady.

What was to be a ten minute layover, slowly began to move into the thirty minute arena.  Daddy was growing uneasy, and insisted that I venture into the Stuckey's and retrieve Mama.  I was a bit apprehensive as Mama had been on a Valium bender.  This was typical if she knew she would have to remain upright for a period lasting longer than ten minutes.   I didn't know what I would find once I went in.  For all I knew she would be sleeping while still on the toilet.  Her head resting peacefully on the wall of the stall, a lit cigarette hanging from her red, Clinique lips.  If only I had remembered my camera...

As I walked into the restaurant (loose term), I first noticed how quiet it was.  There was more noise coming from the interstate, than inside.  The place was packed, and all the patrons were staring at something to my right, but not in my line of sight.  I turned, and found Mama attempting to manage a claw vending machine that served as a graveyard for cheap, polyester stuffed animals.  She had her sights set on a blue pig with wings.  Then there was the sound of one very agitated female, and it wasn't Mama.  It was coming from a greasy, pig nosed, fat woman behind the dining counter.  She was striving to give Mama directions, "Move it to the right, ma'am!  No, your right! I said your right!"

I initially turned to leave, but I knew that returning to the car without her was not an option.  I was going to have to walk over to her, and remove her from the machine.  To complete my mission, I would need to draw on a similar experience I had had concerning our Shih Tzu, Muffin, and a Slim Jim; only Muffin didn't have opposable thumbs.

"Mama, what are you doing?"  I hissed.
"Huh?" she replied.  She was looking around the restaurant as if I was some disembodied voice. She resembled a bat attempting to echo locate.  She rocked back on her heels, took a bite of her pecan log, a drag off her cigarette, and went back to her task without even acknowledging me.  Mama has always managed to multi-task.  Her skills at managing an automobile, a Coca-Cola, and a Kent 100 are legendary.
 
"Mama, we need to leave.  Now."
"I'm not goin' anywhere until I get somethin' for my grand babies."
"Mama, you can shop at home.  That's what the t.v. is for, remember? We are leavin'.  Right now."  She ignored me, and went back to maneuvering the claw.  The greasy, fat pig-woman behind the counter was still yelling, "You need to put in more quarters, ma'am!  It ain't gonna work without money, ma'am!"  Her tone was beyond patronizing...she was viciously mocking her, and I was beginning to sweat.  I yelled over to Pig Nose, "Ma'am, I have it under control!"

"Mama, let go of the machine, get your logs, and let's leave."  At the time, the humor of that comment was lost on me.  I went to forcibly remove her hands from the controls.  She turned and slapped me.  I was surprised.  She had struck with lightning speed.  Where do these Valium-induced-ninja skills come from?  Amazing.

"Don't you ever touch me like that again! I am your Mama, young man!"
"I'm well aware of that unfortunate fact.  Now, let's go." I said firmly. For whatever reason Mama let go of the machine, and slowly started to gather the various items that surrounded her.  It was fascinating how quickly she was able to take root.  She was slowly turning Stuckey's into her sitting room.  "C'mon...that's right...get your logs...c'mon...Daddy's waitin'..."

I took her by the left hand, waved at the pissed pig-woman behind the counter and said, "Thank you. You've been so kind.  Seriously, have you thought about a career in the penal system? You'd go far."  She sneered at me, turned around, and scratched her ass.  Her way of initiating a mating ritual, I'm sure.

Always Mama's wing man, I've been known to toast her bread (no butter when she has an upset stomach), change the channel on the television (Daddy didn't believe in remote controls, "That's what you're for!" he would say.) and to slap her back into consciousness before she caught herself on fire.  Once I missed a day of school because I couldn't wake her up.  At the time it was terrifying, but now I look back on that day and I think about how happy she must have been. Who wouldn't trade a few brain cells for a several hours of near comatose, uninterrupted sleep? People pay good money for that kind of ride.

During the 18 years that I lived at home, I thought playing indentured servant was what all kids contended with growing up.  It was just an everyday occurrence.  My sister, Big Sissy, has also carried on the same tradition with her children, and now her grandchildren.  I call it S.P.D - Supine Princess Disorder.  This is defined as a pathological listlessness in which the mother in question believes she is completely incapable of doing such complicated tasks as, standing, walking, or the most dreaded...bending over.

By the time I was fourteen Mama was growing tired of calling for me.  Calling for me would involve her screaming my name (no matter where I might be located in the house) until I appeared at her side to do her bidding.  "ROB!" she would bellow in her deep, tobacco marinated, Southern drawl (which adds several more syllables to a one syllable word). It reads like this: "RRR-AWW-BUH!"  This is repeated several times with the volume increasing until I am within her line of sight.  Once in her line of sight she can then, comfortably, issue her command(s).

As I got older I would return her bellow with a, "Ma'am!?!", but she would never answer.  I would wait (usually a five second beat), and then she would call again, "RRR-AWW-BUH!", and I would yell out, "MA'AM?!?" increasing my volume to match hers until it became a long distance match of dueling "Rrr-aww-buh's" and "Ma'am's."

"RRR-AWW-BUH!"
"MA'AM???"
Five second pause...
"RRR-AWW-BUH!"

"MA'AM???"

Five second pause...

"RRR-AWW-BUH!"

"MA'AM???"

Eventually, I would give in, and inevitably ask the same question that I would always ask, 

"Why don't you just tell me what you want, so I don't have to walk across the house, up the stairs, just to find out that you want me to get you a Coke?"

"Because, when I call you you are to come to me...not shout at me like I'm some sort of street walker.  I am your mother, and you will treat me with the respect I deserve."

Having grown tired of this conversation, Mama decided to employ a different form of paging system.  A device that not only would be more demeaning than her current method, but a device that would lessen the inconvenience of a caloric burn, and if Mama can spend a day without burning a calorie, that's a good day.

To Be Continued...

Grits-n-Gossip Bonus Feature:  

Buried Culinary Treasures From Mama's Pantry to Yours...enjoy.

Halloween Treat 2010 - Buttermilk Candy

2 cups sugar

1 cup buttermilk

1/4 cup of butter (1/2 stick)

1/2 teaspoon of soda

2 tablespoons white corn syrup

A lot of pecans

1 teaspoon vanilla

Mix and heat over medium heat in a large pot until it comes to a boil and thickens.  Set off heat and add vanilla.  When lukewarm, beat until thick as for fudge.  Pour out into buttered plate.  This candy turns a rich brown before your eyes!

 

Baby Jesus Will Cap Yo' Ass!

He looked like he could pack more gay up his ass than Liberace chewing on a cock ring at a Cher concert, but he would tell you that he wasn't a faggot.  No.  He wasn't one of them.  Even though he sported blond highlights, and proudly swung huge silver hoops from both ears; no one would think he liked cock.  Better yet, they certainly wouldn't think he was gay if he took his daddy's baseball bat and drove to "the city" to teach a few fags a few lessons.  No.  He wasn't gay.  Not at all.  His name?  We'll call him Baby Jesus.

There was the sound of someone scurrying up from behind, then a painful slap to our backs.  At least we thought it was a slap, and it certainly hurt, but not enough to double us over. We turned to look at the asshole who had just interrupted our gorgeous day.  Expecting to find someone we knew, we were greeted by a face that was completely unfamiliar.  The unfamiliar face looked just as befuddled as we did, only difference was that he was the one carrying the bat.

It was one of those seemingly rare days in Seattle where the weather is warm, and there isn't a cloud to be seen.  The kind of day that reminds you just how beautiful the city is despite the many grey months we endure year after year.  It was April 27, 2004 and we were looking forward to leaving the month behind after our car was stolen, I came down with Shingles, and crack heads had taken to crapping outside our apartment building on a regular basis.  It had not been a good month.

It was a Tuesday, and I had the day off from the office.  We were walking back from the grocery store, holding hands, and  laughing the way you do when you're with someone you adore.  We probably looked like an ad for Atlantis Cruises, only without the tans, the six packs, and the vacant eyes, but we were happy on a level that would make your teeth hurt.  We had no idea that we were being followed by a pack of young, zealot Christians who were in town on some mission to save the Institution of Marriage because The Gays were out to steal it from them.

From Baby Jesus' expression he didn't expect us to still be standing, nor did he didn't expect us to tower over his 5'2" frame.  Think Prince, just without the Cuban heels.  You would also think that, given his heavenly connections, Baby Jesus would know to do some basic reconnaissance.  I'm no hit-man, but possessing a working knowledge of one's target should be a pre-requisite. He glanced up at each of us and whispered, "Knock that shit off." I looked at my guy Aster, and asked, "What did he say?" but there was no time for him to reply.  Baby Jesus had no time to clarify, he had other homos to beat up, so off he ran.  Minutes would go by before I realized that he was referring to the two of us holding hands.

I would dare to speculate that we were a threat to Baby Jesus' pseudo-heterosexual-machismo-Christian values, and he was doing what he thought Big Brother Jesus would have wanted him to do, because that's how Jesus would handle such a situation.  I'm sure that all Christians are familiar with the chapter in the New Testament where Jesus grabs a baseball bat, finds a couple of cute gay boys, follows them home from the grocery store, sneaks up behind them and beats them to a bloody pulp.  Yeah, who could forget that one?  Such a bit of true inspiration.  I was so inspired by Baby Jesus that I had a t-shirt made that read, "Don't fuck with Jesus, 'cuz he will cap yo' ass."

Until I was fifteen, religion never played a large role in my family.  In fact, Daddy was the one to explain the meaning of Biblical myth to me when I was ten years old.  We would attend church twice a year at Easter and at Christmas, but that was about it.  Today, Daddy is frightened of death, so a few years ago he made it his mission to find Jesus again (as if he had been hiding in the sofa cushions all these years) and can now quote the Bible whenever he deems it appropriate, which could be at any given moment.  Mama?  She loves Jesus, but she appreciates Him the way you appreciate an old relative who has come to visit...you love seeing them, but you love seeing them leave even more.

Christ would play a much larger role in my life once we moved to Memphis, and then a much smaller role once I left.  It was 1985, Daddy was still in the military, and I was placed in a private, Baptist high school.  It was the same high school featured in the Blind Side only the real name of the school is Briarcrest.  At Briarcrest, students were required to take a year of Bible study (think history class only the George Washington character turns water into wine) and we were required to wear our Sunday best every Wednesday for Chapel.  Chapel was 30 minutes devoted to the Baptist way of doing things, and if you didn't like the Baptist way, then be prepared to walk through the gates of Hell.  Simple.  Easy.  Efficient.

It wasn't as if it was just fire and brimstone at Briarcrest.  Some days were especially titillating as we would periodically have guests that would come and testify.  These events were  promoted under the guise of clean, healthy fun, which has always proven effective when dealing with teenagers.  On occasion, we would receive visits from semi-partially-somewhat talented-pro football stars; budding, gelded, Christian pop stars, and former-junkie-born-again body builders.  They were all obsessed with two things:  secular music and our genitalia.  According to the Baptists we were a rock-n-roll-sex-obsessed lot that must be tamed, and the only way to tame us was through the blood of Christ.  I found it disturbing, but I had nothing else to do.  The school sought to utilize the testimony of these guilt ridden, emotionally retarded, stupid people because they clearly had suffered, and through their suffering they had a direct line to God which could ultimately save our souls from damnation.  Of course we (the students) couldn't possibly have the same connection to God, because of our swollen, inherently evil, out of control gonads; so we required a regular spiritual neutering, and spaying, if our souls were to be saved.  Emotional scarring - at least you'll never need plastic surgery.

Mama helped to put it into perspective for me after one particularly frenzied Christ-filled day, "Shu-gah, the Baptists said the same thing to me when I was growing up.  Don't pay any attention to them.  You're a polite, sweet young man.  You're not going to Hell for listening to Madonna.  Your Daddy might send you into the next life, sooner than you'd like, for bleaching your bangs, but you are not going to Hell because of the music you listen to.  That's just ridiculous."  I think that would be the last coherent thing she would say to me. 

Amongst our academic leaders, homosexuality was also a topic of frequent fascination, and discussion.  It was right up there with abortion, and how long our hair was.  As a boy at Briarcrest you were not permitted to let your hair touch your shirt collar, because that meant you were a tool of the Devil.  Given their fascination, I developed a weekly routine where I would come home from school, go to my room, and pray for God to change me, because I was not made in His image.  I was diseased, mentally disturbed, and bound for Hell; however, if I prayed with a furious, determined conviction, God would change me and I could live a life with more blessings than I could count.  It was like Jehovah Power Ball.

By the Spring of 1987 I felt that Jesus and I were the best of friends, so I arranged for a swim in His purifying waters, which were conveniently located, in a huge porcelain tub, at our church.  Who knew we had the Jordan piped directly in?  Exciting.  My baptism was originally appointed for late '86, but Mama had spent the previous night huffing nail polish remover, so we rescheduled.  At the time,  I was under the firm belief that if I were to be baptized, not only would I no longer be gay, but I would no longer have to suffer through another P.E. class.  "With God, Nothing Is Impossible."  (Luke 1:37)  That  Monday morning proved otherwise as I still thought Simon LeBon was hot, and I still couldn't hit a volleyball with any athletic prowess whatsoever.  "Yep.  Still gay, and not interested in balls...of the inflatable variety anyway."

That same Sunday (Easter to be specific, because I wanted a big turnout) Mama declared that she would never return to church again after she suffered the ultimate in Southern woman humiliation.  I like to refer to it as the  Fashion Debacle of '87.  Mama was exiting the church in her new, purple Neiman Marcus Easter dress, when she ran into a woman wearing the exact same frock.  Both of them managed to suppress their looks of sheer horror as only a proper Southern woman can do.  Daddy and I just stared at the two of them.  We knew this was not good.  Both women regarded the other with nervous, plastic smiles while simultaneously emitting a round of laughter that could only be interpreted as, "I-can't-believe-how-much-I-am hating-you-right-now-but-I-can't-say-anything-because-we're-on-the-front-steps-of-the-church- and-the-minister-is-right-there-and-I-really-want-to-pull-your-hair-and-make-you-bleed-but-then-you-would-file-assault-charges-and-I-am-a-lady-so-I-will-just-stand-here-and-continue- to-laugh-nervously-until-I-can-find-some-way-of-gracefully-exiting-this-ridiculous-comedy-I- have-found-myself-in." They were bizarre, mirror images of purple, pink and baby blue geometrical shapes with clenched teeth.  Both with their super-sized brunette coifs, and unbelievably red lips.  They looked like Patrick Nagle threw-up on them.  Mama never wore the dress again.

I graduated from Briarcrest two years later, went to college, lost 60 pounds and quickly learned the benefits of critical thinking.  I also learned to dance with my hands in the air and with pride in my evil, little soul.  At least I know Hell comes with a great soundtrack.
 

As we headed back to the apartment that beautiful day, I remember thinking, "Damn.  I really don't want to go to French class tonight."  Then the bat hit us with Aster taking most of the blow to his upper left arm.  Had the bat been just a few inches higher Aster would have lost most of his face, and be eating his meals with a straw while watching reruns of the Teletubbies.  I only suffered a nasty bruise, but mentally, I was just as broken as Aster's arm.

After issuing his pathetic demand to "Knock that shit off." Baby Jesus dropped the bat, spun around and ran.  Well, I wouldn't call it running...maybe skipping with a tad of urgency.  He reminded me of the kid in first grade who smelled like poo.  The same kid who, when confronted with his odorous qualities, would sob uncontrollably and run home wildly swinging his arms from side to side.  Aster and I looked at each other in disbelief.  Completely dumbfounded.

"What just happened?"  I thought.  "Wait, that tiny little asshole just hit us with a bat and told us to 'knock it off'.  What the hell?  Wait!  We were just hit with a baseball bat!"  I made a start to go after him.  What I was going to do once I got to him I had no idea.  It just made sense:  We were just assaulted.  Someone hit us with a baseball bat.  Someone hit us because we were holding hands."  I needed to go after him, but Aster had the same idea.

"What are you doing?"  I asked him.
He countered.  "What am I doing?  What the fuck are you doing?" 
"I'm going after him!" I shouted.
"The hell you are! I'm going after him! You go call the police!"  Aster ordered.  I just stared at him.  In the two years we had been together, I had never heard him take that particular tone.  A tone that demanded recognition and immediate obedience.  Any other day I would have thought it to be kind of hot, but this wasn't a joke, or a mild flirtation.  This was Aster laying down his law, and I wasn't prepared to debate him.  I just kept staring at him.
"GO!"  He screamed, and I jumped to it.

I ran to the entrance to the apartment building.  I clumsily pulled at my left pocket to pull out my keys.  They caught on the fabric.  I pulled, but the more I pulled the more ensnared they became.  Wrenching them away I unlocked the door.  In the elevator, my mind was attempting to make sense of what had just occurred.  "We were so close to the door.  We were so close.  So close to home. Why?  What was he doing here?  Get to the phone.  Call the police.  Yes!  Call the police."

Exiting the elevator, I made the right turn to head down the short hallway to our apartment.  I struggled with the lock.  I couldn't get the key in the lock.  I was shaking.  It took both of my hands to get the key in.  Running into our home I grabbed the phone.  I had a mobile on me, but I completely forgot about it.  Post-Traumatic I.Q. Drop is how I refer to that moment.

Thoughts were coming at me at an alarming rate, and at times were completely nonsensical, "I should call the non-emergency number.  No one was hurt.  Wait!  Are we hurt?  I feel okay, but what about Aster?  This isn't an emergency.  We're okay.  We're okay.  I'll call the non-emergency number.  WAIT!  Fuck that!  We were hit by a fucking baseball bat.  911!  Call 911!"  I dialed.  I looked out the windows facing the street.  "Where's Aster?  Fuck!  I hope he's okay.  The sky is so blue.  Oh, those plants need more water.  Where do these dust bunnies come from?"  Then the voice, "911, please state the nature of your emergency?"  The voice belonged to a woman, and she sounded like a chorus of angels.  I started to tell the Chorus what had just occurred, that Baby Jesus was on the loose, and he was very upset, but he had great taste in jewelry, and then my voice started to crack and I couldn't speak.  I was fighting the insane need to cry.  My entire being was telling me to lie down, curl into a ball, and sob...that's when The Chorus became persistent. She encouraged me to tell her everything, to stay calm, and give her every detail.  When I gave all the information she told me, "Just stay calm.  I've got a car on the way."  She asked if I would like for her to stay on the line until the police arrived.  I told her "no", I needed to find my guy. 

With his arm broken, but feeling no pain...only anger, Aster attempted to run after Baby Jesus, but Baby Jesus was really fast in his little-itty-bitty Nike's, and was already in the brown Volvo by the time Aster reached the top of the hill.  Feeling defeated, Aster then started back towards the apartment.  I remember him coming in.  We embraced, and waited for the police.  I can't remember what was said between the two of us.  I can remember the dust bunnies, but not what we talked about.  Odd.

When the police finally arrived they did their best to act like they cared, but no one was bleeding.  I think they really wanted someone to be bleeding.  We told them all about Baby Jesus and what he had done, but we were just a couple of fags that got what they deserved.  At least, that's how I perceived their reactions.  What did I want them to do...hold me?  Perhaps the cops did care?  Who can say?  I just wanted them to be as outraged as we were.  For them it was just another day at the office, but without all the bleeding.

We finished filing our report with the police, and Aster was quickly seen by his doctor.  He suffered an unbelievable bruise, and a fractured humerus.  His arm was placed in a sling, and he was given narcotics and told to rest.

For whatever reason I went to work the next day.  I didn't know what to say when asked, "How was your day off?"  Where do you even begin a conversation about being hunted, and attacked, and who wants to hear it?  Granted, we can laugh about how ridiculously pathetic Baby Jesus' assault was, and we can be grateful that he was a bed wetting coward, but it's the visceral awareness that such hatred exists that has given me pause (even today) before leaving my home, or holding my guy's hand in public.


Baby Jesus was never heard from again.  I guess he had better things to do than hide in Volvos and stalk unsuspecting homos.  There was no follow-up by the police.  I provided a brief interview to a local, weekly periodical but the story didn't have enough drama to be worthy of such a rag.  Pity.  I thought Baby Jesus Swings Bat - Hits a Homo would be a top seller.

There would be a rash of further bashings in the coming weeks.  One incident was particularly horrifying as a man was harrassed, beaten and slashed with a broken vodka bottle outside of a local gay bar.  The man, Micah Painter, survived but his attackers were only convicted from one to five years for the assault.  The assailants all identified as Evangelical Christians. 

It's been six years, five months, and 25 days since the attack, and while life has only gotten better (immensely so),  I do think about that day more often than I would like to.  How could I forget that on Tuesday, April 27th at 4:30 in the afternoon a gutless invertebrate slithered up from behind and struck the one I love with a baseball bat?  How do you suppress that? 

It is because of this incident that I will never again know just how sweet it is to hold Aster's hand with such sweet, complete abandon.  If only I had some miraculous premonition that we were at risk,  that something like this could happen; maybe I would have held on just a bit tighter, appreciated it a bit longer, and maybe I would have been quick enough to take that tiny asshole by the neck and show him the true meaning of God's mercy. 

The next few weeks brought the love, and support, of so many fantastic people.  It also brought more baked goods than I care to remember.  What is striking is that these people expressed more concern for our well-being than my own family.  Some of these individuals we barely knew.

I'm not a religious person, never will be, but if God is love than I've certainly come to know her through David, Juli, Amy, Haewon, Anna & Stefan, Deb, Eric, Darcie & Stu, Tee & Scott, Brenda, Kari-Mae & Jeff, Bardin, Travis & Carrie, Anna S., Angela & Matt, Anne, Elaine, Linda, Laurie, Dr. B., and Jen.  All of them (and so many more) were there for us.  So, it does get better, and if you feel like it isn't...I know a brilliant group of people who are more than ready to cap an ass for you.  Just let me know...

Speed Dating Dumb Monkeys

By the time my 31st birthday arrived I had dated most of the squalor that littered the streets of Seattle.  There should have been a sign on my ass that read, "Caution - Vehicle Makes Frequent Stops" or "Caution - Men Working Both Sides of The Vehicle"  As Mama once said, "Shu-gah, once you quit lookin', that's when the right person will come along."  Short of gouging out my eyes, I had no idea what she meant by that statement.  Was I supposed to not look to date, or was I supposed to look like I wasn't looking?  It was very confusing until a friend of mine said, "Love will come your way, but by the time it does, you'll be so bitter your asshole will pucker at the mere mention of a date."  He's a social worker. 

I had just started dating when I came out to my parents.  Daddy said, "As a homosexual you will lead a very lonely life."  I then asked, "Are you trying to be rude, or just stupid?"  To which he replied, "Boy, you better get your head outta your ass, before I do it for you."  The thought of my father physically removing my head from my rectum always made me giggle, and this day was no different, but I prefer to avoid pain, so I quickly apologized.  The gracious thing to do would have been to ask him to clarify what he meant by "lonely".  Was he implying that I would not be able to obtain, and maintain, long term relationships with people I would consider friends (because gay people are known for being socially inept) or was he referring to the inability to maintain a long term intimate/romantic relationship with a person of the same sex because gay people are just inherently indecisive?  I've never wanted for friends ('cuz I'm pretty) or for romance (because I'm a slut) so what part of "lonely" was he talking about?  I'd like to ask, but Daddy (being a fine, high-ranking, military officer) has a strict don't ask, don't tell policy.  I'm permitted to be gay, but I'm not permitted to talk about being gay.  It's so odd.  My entire family knows I suck dick, but as long as they can't see the dick, they're "okay with it."  If only I could get them to apply the same discretion to their affection for Kenny Chesney, and malt liquor beverages.

When I came out to Mama she said, "Really?  Are you sure?  I had no idea." For Southerners, ignorance is sometimes viewed as the only polite avenue to take when confronted with a subject they view as awkward, like weight loss/weight gain, or in this case homosexuality.  I knew the game Mama was playing, so in exasperation I replied, "Mama, I practically grew up at the Clinique counter.  I listen to Madonna, and (at times) crochet."  She simply muttered, "Oh, you're right.  Well, have you tried a woman lately?"  As if women were like an iPhone, and Steve Jobs had just announced a new model.
"...because you know you didn't like sour cream, and you gave that a try, and now look at ya...you just can't get enough of it."
"Mama, you realize that you're comparing my sexual orientation to a condiment, and you just said I was fat."
"I'm just tryin' to make sense of it all, and you're not fat...you just should think twice before wearing horizontal stripes."
"Mama, I don't need you to 'make sense of it'.  All you need to do is love me."
"Oh, shu-gah I will always love you...no matter what, but never wear that shirt again."

For Mama, dating was never an issue simply because she was smart, and gorgeous.  For a woman in the South, in the 1950's, this was a deadly combination.  Deadly for men at least.  In high school she belonged to an elite group of belle's that called themselves The Fickle Five.  According to Mama, these young women were both feared and admired, "...which is the best possible way for people to think of you if you ever want to get what you want."  Her words, not mine.  Intrigued by her story, I asked why this group called themselves The Fickle Five.  Mama, without an ounce of humor, said, "Because we were five beautiful girls who were out to enjoy the company of men.  Why be partial to just one when there were so many to choose from?"  Recently, I set those words to the tune of Carol of the Bells, because Christmas is the giving season, and Mama was a giver.

Of course, the mistakes I've made in my dating life have everything to do with me, and nothing to do with the men I've chosen.  At least that's what a therapist told me.  He's dead now.  Perhaps my first mistake was permitting straight people to set me up.  Straight people are under the impression that if two individuals are gay they need nothing else in order to form a successful, long term relationship.  If that were true I would still be dating the first guy I slept with.  Well, I think slept with is a bit of an exaggeration.  It was more like I fell on top of him, and spent the night there.  I blame beer.  It was Beer Bust at the Cha-Cha Palace that particular night, and when I bust beer, my frontal lobe shrinks up like a piece of fatty bacon, I end up dancing on tables, and French kissing straight girls.  I didn't plan to wake up on top of a guy named Todd, who drove a Cadillac, and forgot to firmly secure his toupee.  Until that point, I had no idea that my sexual prowess was powerful enough to evaporate rubber cement.  Granted, until that point, I had never had sex before, so clearly a standard was set.

The last time I let a straight person set me up I was employed as a rehab assistant at a brain injury recovery center.  When a co-worker learned that I was gay he wanted to arrange a blind date with a lesbian friend of his.  Upon learning this, I asked, "Why would I want to go on a date with your lesbian friend?"  He replied, "Well, she's gay and you're gay, so I just thought..."  It was at that point that I held up my right hand, shook my head, and walked away.  This was stupid on a level I had never encountered before, and given that we were working in a brain injury facility, it helped to provide some perspective as to just what kind of stupid I was attempting to communicate with.  I soon recommended that Mr. Matchmaker be evaluated for possible admission to the program.  I didn't succeed, but he never spoke to me again.  I win.

Not getting any closer to solving my romance dilemma, I decided that I would peruse the personal ads both in print and online.  It proved to be a wasteland for the emotionally disturbed, and morbidly obese.  What follows is what I like to call the Personal Ads You Never Meant to Answer, But You Did:


1.  Dumb Monkey, no thumbs, who enjoys manic-depressive episodes, night terrors and infidelity, seeks attractive, gullible Southerner for mind games and dress making.
2.  Architect with black soul, and great hair, seeks same.  "Oh, it is true...architects can only erect buildings."

3.  Angry political activist with foul body odor, seeks attractive, desperate soul for nights of drunken brawls, and slug sucking.  He thought the slugs would have a hallucinogenic effect.  He works for the post office now.
4.  Materialistic, balding, albino, bullet-head with no neck seeks casual relationship for decorating tips, and booty calls.  "It's three a.m., so I know this isn't about chintz."
5.  Sessile sea creature needs lonely Piscean food source for pleasurable consumption.  I'm not opposed to a thick, stocky, athletic build; however, I can't cope with men who are so large that they possess yeasty epidermal folds, cope with various skin conditions, and a gut that doubles as a kilt.  I'm just not built like that.


I even made an attempt at speed dating.  For those of you who have been in a coma for the last 15 years, speed dating is the process by which a select group of desperate people gather in a public forum, like a bar, (because if you're going to be humiliated the best place to be is in a bar with unlimited access to booze) and proceed to evaluate each other in quick succession.  You have less than five minutes, while one-on-one, to determine if there is a match.  If you find someone agreeable, and they feel the same, you make plans to see each other again, or just stalk them.  It was just as awful as the personal ad experience, only more efficient.  During these dates it was clear that most of these men subscribed to AARP Magazine, and preferred to speak to my crotch as opposed to actually speaking to me.  I did manage to meet one cute guy, but he had image problems.  The kind of problems that arise from watching too many episodes of Queer As Folk.  He complained of being oversexed, underpaid, and deserved to drive something more substantial than a Honda Accord.  When I told him he should probably seek counseling, get a new job, and look into an auto loan; he said, "Well, that's just what I expected you to say."  We had known each other for five minutes.  

I met my husband a few months later.  By that time I had completely given up on finding a man, and made plans to start collecting cats.  My friend, Eric (a vet who was opposed to collecting cats) asked if I had ever met his friend Aster.  I said, "What the fuck is an Aster?  No.  Never mind.  I don't want to know.  I just want a drink and a dance, and then I'm going home."  At least that's how I felt until I walked into the bar. Upon walking in I looked over to the dance floor, and I spied this handsome guy getting his groove on.  At that moment, Eric pointed in handsome-guy's direction and said, "Oh, look...that's Aster!"  I blushed, and made a run for the bar.  "That's Aster!?!"  I asked.  Eric laughed and said, "Oh, yeah!  That's him!"  "I can't talk to that!  He's too damn cute!"  Eric laughed again, and said, "Oh, yeah...he's cute alright, and you're going to talk to him."

Twelve years later we're married, own a cat, and share the same clothes.  While the journey to find my guy was filled with more ugly than a Tea Party rally, it was well worth it.  Mama was right, and Daddy could not have been more wrong.  Mama might be crazy, but every once in a while she gets it right.

Lickin' Your Lips & Showin' A Little Leg

Southern charm is a spell I can weave all-to-well; however, it hasn't always paid the bills, nor did it help me get through college in less than five years, but it is an item I like to have in my holster should the need present itself.  Selling sex toys was just that need.

A few years ago I had the honor of being a bridesmaid.  No, I did not wear a dress (not that I didn't think about it). I stood with the bridal party during the wedding as I was a dear friend of the bride.  That wedding is another story.  It was at one of the many pre-wedding functions that I was advised by one of my fellow bridesmaids to leave dental office management behind, and move into the exciting field of sex toy parties.  Her thought was that if I could sell dentistry, I could certainly sell sex, and wouldn't that be far more entertaining? While my cohort meant well, she should have said, "Oh, you would be fantastic at hosting x-rated Tupperware parties for sexually frustrated straight women on the verge of a divorce, or menopause.  You'll also be forced to deal with oversexed single women who find the mere mention of  AA batteries to be an aphrodisiac; and you should be prepared to repeatedly say phrases like, 'It's important to remember that a moist vagina is a happy vagina.', and ask such questions like, 'Do you know where your clitoris is?  Does your man know where your clitoris is?'    It wasn't that I had a problem with using such language, I was worried that I wouldn't seem like the expert I needed to be when it came to the female anatomy.  I'm a gay man with a short attention span.  How was I going to convince the straight masses that I knew anything at all about proper clitoral stimulation, multiple orgasms, or titty fucking?  Luckily, the thought of public speaking drives me to succeed, so into research mode I dove.

I spent the next week Googling vaginas and Yahooing clitorises until my eyes bled, then I found a wealth of reading material both on the magic of the female anatomy, and these parties I was going to be hosting.  I eventually came across a company by the name of Sass-say Pah-tays.  A small company out of Minnesota that was doing bang-up business (yes, I did just type that) in the Mid-West, and were looking to bring their pah-tay to the West Coast. Feeling well-educated on the topic, I asked, "Who better to moisten that slippery highway of sexually frustrated housewives other than myself?"  So, I placed a call. The woman that answered the phone was so excited she tossed her cheese curds, and went about telling me what a fantastic company Sass-say was to work for, and given that I was their first male sales consultant, I would definitely go far.  All I needed to do was buy over $1,000 worth of product and promotional items, which were mine to keep (lovely) and I would be on my way to making buckets of cash.  I like buckets...they're deep.

I received my first shipment of demo-goods within a week, and  I was also assigned a mentor.  Her name was Debbie.  She came complete with a Minnesota accent, and a can-do attitude.  I imagined that she wore rhinestone encrusted seasonal sweaters (including the Christmas ones that blinked), a multi-layered bob with blonde highlights, and she always smelled like freshly baked chocolate chip Nestle Toll House Cookies®.  I knew that Debbie would always be the picture of church-going suburbia even when she was swinging a cordless, battery powered, 12 inch, clear red vibrator made to look like a ferocious, clitoral twisting rabbit.  She was a giver.

Debbie and I only spoke once, but the one conversation we had lasted over two hours.  She said she didn't know a man could talk so much.  I said, "Well, I didn't know a woman could talk 'vibrators' the way others talk 'crochet'."  She giggled and snorted simultaneously.  At the time, I didn't know why she found that comment so funny.  I was being an ass, but she seemed to think I was as funny as Jay Leno.  Her words, not mine.

In our conversation, Debbie disclosed that Sass-say Pah-tays had not only saved her bank account, but her marriage as well.  Who knew that some strawberry flavored silicone, and fuzzy handcuffs, could save the institution of marriage?  Such a simple recipe for success.  After listening to her testimony, I told her my pathetic story about feeling trapped as a dental office manager, and that I saw Sass-say as an opportunity to escape, and in the process make people feel good about themselves.  She snorted at that, too.  Before we said our goodbye's she confessed that she loved me.  It was odd.  I never called her again.

Over the course of the next few weeks I corresponded with Debbie via e-mail (because I felt safer) about the many uses of the Sass-say products, and tips on how to sell myself.  Poor Debbie, she had such a hard time with selling me.  I guess the lack of breasts and a vagina really threw her.  Her advice was either out of a Hallmark card, "Just be yourself.  Oh, and serve up a hot dish." or out of Hustler magazine, "You should wear something tight, and definitely serve up a hot dish."  For those who may not know, a hot dish is Minnesotan for casserole.  I decided that I would go with just being myself.  Wearing something tight was a trend I rarely embraced, and it certainly wasn't embraced in someone's living room while I chatted up the advantages of personal lubricants.

My first party went well as it was a combination of gay boys and a few women that I knew. Everyone was well-behaved (within the parameters of the law), and they were kind enough to purchase a few items.  The second party was an interesting bunch.  This get-together consisted of practically every straight woman I knew in Seattle, and even though it was a Wednesday night, it was a rowdy night.  I kept waiting for the mechanical bull to appear.  They were a rabid pack of horny, martini drinking, hopeful-would-be-sluts out to heat up their love life.  They were fantastic!  I loved them.  They laughed at all my jokes, they contributed many of their own, and they bought nearly everything I had to offer.  Many were prepared to refer me on to their friends.  It could not have gone better, although I would have preferred less ass grabbing.

My third party was a bit awkward as I only knew a few people, and the majority of guests were recovering alcoholics.  Not that there is anything wrong with recovering alcoholics, it's just that they don't drink, and I do.  What would we talk about?  Just knowing I couldn't have a drink made my liver twitch.  While this party was free of booze, it went really well.  The crowd was lively, and no one grabbed my ass, and my math skills had greatly improved.  Sober is a good thing...sometimes.

I was only three events into my new business, and I was impressed with the amount of money and connections I was making.  As long as the referrals kept coming in, I was set to do well; however, there was one thing that would get in my way.  My penis.

Part of Sass-say's guarantee was that they would refer potential customers to me as they came available in my territory.  Plenty did, but these were women who didn't know me, and they were not prepared to receive a call from a man saying, "Hello!  My name is Robert and I am your Seattle area Sass-say consultant.  I would like to set up a time to talk about hosting a party for you and your friends..."  What these women were actually hearing was, "Hi.  I'm a big, scary man who wants to come into your home, stand in your living room and tell you about how hot, heavy, and sweaty you're gonna get using my vibrators."  Understandably, this did not lead to very many referrals.  I contacted Debbie who said she would let the company know, and get back to me.  Their solution?  Publish the next newsletter (The Sass-Say Beaver) with a detailed biographical article about me, and advise the call center to provide potential customers reassurances that I was not a certified sex offender.  Additionally, Sass-say requested that I provide a brief autobiography, and submit it for review in time for the next Beaver publishing.

A few days later I received a call from Debbie, and with boundaries firmly established, I was actually looking forward to another lively discussion; however, she sounded distant, and cold.  She informed me that the gals at Sass-say weren't comfortable with my submission to the Sass-say Beaver.  Debbie said that it involved too many references to homosexuality, and given that their customer base was primarily located in a more conservative part of the country, it would be best if I re-wrote the piece to reflect that demographic.  I asked Debbie if she had read the article?  She replied that she had, and she added that she was not in agreement with her co-workers, but I would need to change the article anyway.

"Oh, goodness.  I know it doesn't seem right, sweetheart."
"It doesn't seem right?  There is no seem-ing here, Debbie.  You're telling me that this company that sells battery powered, vibrating butt-plugs wants me to remove a small, hilarious, paragraph about me being gay?  What, women who coat their husband's cock with Kama Sutra Chocolate Body Paint can't handle me mentioning my long-term, stable, relationship with my guy?"
"Well, we are a conservative bunch over in these parts."
"Well, I'm not going to change it."
"Oh, goodness.  Okay, but that means that we can't run the article.  Don't you want us to help you be successful?"  She was slipping into annoying sales mode.
"No.  What I want is for your superiors to take a trip outside the woods, and realize that the world isn't strictly comprised of white, Christian, heterosexuals.
"Oh my goodness!  Well, there's no need to get so upset, sweetheart."
"I have every right to be upset, and the fact that you can't understand why I'm upset just proves that I have no place working with you, or your company."
"Well, if that's the way you feel, sweetheart."  She sounded like my Mama, only sober.
"I am not your sweetheart."  I hissed.  I then hung up the phone, and promptly poured myself a Manhattan.  Gin wouldn't do.  This occasion called for bourbon.  

A few months later we were packing to move to our new home, and I came across the tricks of my old trade.  Some people enjoy looking at old photographs, letters, and mementos while they ready for a new home.  Me?  I was enjoying sifting through my library of dildos, vibrators, and cock rings until I came across my top seller -  the Jack Rabbit.  Jack is a vibrator with a little bunny on the shaft that wiggles its little ears at such a high speed it can cause loss of consciousness.  I gathered up Jack,  and the other toys, and with the help of a few drag queens, organized a swap meet. Within a couple of hours the remaining items left my home under the care of such celebrities as Ming Rio Hondo, Ida Slappedher, and Muffin Williamsburg.  It was a good day.

That evening Mama called to regale me with tales of her hatred for Democrats, and her love for George W. Bush.
"He's just so mis-understood.  He can't please everybody."
I changed the subject, "Mama have you ever used a Jack Rabbit?'
"No, sugar...that's what poor people eat."

One Angry Gin Soaked Muse (to go, please)

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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...