Rather then express concern over her darling son who was no-doubt going to be dying of hypothermia, instead I got berated for being an idiot and not calling a cab. I tell you, I was feeling the love.
She was still into the tarot cards at that point and, once again, gave me tales of all the whammying she was doing on the lottery. I once again noted that I didn’t exactly see piles of gold sitting around in her living room. Completely ignoring this observation, she used my comment as some sort of non-sequitur to steer the conversation towards the nine stray cats she was feeding these days.
“There’s Tabby, Fuzzy, Peachy, Hairy, Inky...”
“Yeah, I get it. Pinky, Blinky, and Clyde too I guess.”
“What kind of stupid names are those?” she countered as my pop culture reference apparently zoomed way over her head.
Soon, it was dinner time. There was no allowing me the privilege of treating her this time (what a shame) as I was ushered to the table and presented with a feast for the ages.
“Are the cousins coming over?” I asked, looking over the spread before me.
“Nope. Just us.”
“And you do know that I really can’t eat fifty pounds of food by myself, right?”
“Sure you can. You’re too thin!”
*Sigh*
Lest I sound like an ingrate over her preparing a metric ton of food for just the two of us, let me mention that it really wasn’t the two of us. I ate and she just sat there watching me. All she would do was insist that she wasn’t hungry and then ask me how everything was...roughly once every five seconds.
It was starting to creep me out, and I was beginning to think maybe I should consider calling 911 (of course the phone lines would be cut if I checked), when she again steered the conversation ninety degrees starboard.
“I always wanted six kids.”
“OK. You do notice you’re about five short of that, right?”
“Your father was always an asshole about it. Maybe I should get remarried and try again. What do you think?”
“I think if that’s your plan then you’re going to be changing diapers well into your nineties.”
“Don’t be an asshole too. Let’s have some dessert.”
Before I could protest, Mom brought out her cheesecake. Oh how I love that cake. It’s one-hundred percent artery clogging goodness, but tasting it is enough to fill you with no regrets over the ten years you’ve just shaved off your life. I thanked her for the slice of pie and once again asked her if I could have the recipe.
“I’ve already told you no.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a family secret!”
“I’m family!” I protested
“Fine. I’ll give it to you on my deathbed. I’m probably going to die soon anyway.”
“Oh not this crap again,” I whined, not wanting another “I could die at anytime,” speech that apparently everyone over the age of fifty loves to give.
“You’re being an asshole again! You must get it from your father. Maybe I’ll give you the recipe on my deathbed and decide to croak right before the last ingredient.”
“Can we stop talking about you dying?”
“Why? You probably can’t wait for me to die to get my recipe!” she continued ranting.
Once started on a rant, Mom usually doesn’t stop for a while, so I just sat there shoveling fork after fork of life-extinguishing deliciousness into my mouth.
Eventually I moved to put my coat on and leave.
“You’re not calling a cab?”
“No. It’s only two miles and I think it’s clearing up.”
“But it’s dark! You could get attacked.”
“This isn’t the Bronx, Mom. Who’s going to mug me, a little old lady and her two squirrel dogs?” Seeing the look on her face, I continued “Yeah yeah I know. I’m being an asshole like my father.”
“Fine, go ahead and walk. Don’t complain to me when something bad happens. I can feel it. I’m going to go and consult my cards.”
And with that she closed the door and I began to walk back. In a fitting closure to my visit; once again, halfway to my destination it decided to pour. Fucking whammy!
Easter 1999
It had been a few months since my last trip and Mom had been bugging me over the phone, so I decided it was time to fly east again for another visit. This time I wasn’t alone. Sharon and I had been dating for some months. Things were going well and she wanted to come along. I had tried to warn her off, telling her that Mom could be a little odd when she wanted to be. She had laughed, however, and said that everyone thought their family was a little weird. Oh well.
Our woes started at the airport right after we had landed. Despite having reserved a car weeks in advance, they had no idea who I was and thus had no car waiting for me. I spent an hour yelling back and forth with them, getting on the phone with a manager, asking for more supervisors, when apparently they finally tired of me and found a car. A much smaller car for twice the rate I had booked, by the way. It was a take it or leave it thing. Since the next option was to take a bus, there really wasn’t a next option. They had me over a barrel and knew it.
“Fine,” I grumbled, pulling out my Amex card and handing it over.
“Ooh sorry, sir. Visa only,” cooed the shit-eating grin of the salesclerk.
“I don’t have a Visa.”
“Cash always works too,” he replied, the smirk getting even wider.
So it was another half-hour hunt through the airport for a working ATM so that I could pay the fuckers their blood money and not have to spend the rest of my days living at Newark International.
Five hours later, we arrived at our destination. Yes I said FIVE hours. Someone had apparently decided to wrap their car around several others and, being that our luxury limo had no working radio, we drove right into the ensuing traffic jam.
All the while, Sharon was being overly (and annoyingly) cheery. She kept telling me that all the stuff we’d gone through was a good omen. The rest of the weekend couldn’t possibly be any worse.
Some days I wonder if she’s still telling her therapist that part of the story.
But I digress. We finally arrived at Mom’s place. She had insisted we stay with her this weekend, despite my better judgment (and her still having the same asshole landlord). Rather then asking us if we were OK and what could ever be the cause of our lateness, Mom instead greeted us with an abrupt, “It’s about time! Josh (the asshole landlord) needs some help and I told him you wouldn’t mind.”
Thus, rather then sitting and relaxing for a few moments, instead I found myself working as a day laborer; moving heavy lumber for a person I can’t stand. Wow, this trip was getting better and better. Fortunately Sharon helped me out. Or I should say unfortunately. She should have gone inside with Mom. It might have lessoned the shock a bit, or it might have just killed her outright. In retrospect, I’m not sure which would have been kinder.
First things first, though. We finished up, opened the door to walk into Mom’s place and were immediately set upon by a trio of tiny, growling dust mops. Oh, my mistake. They were Shih Tzu’s. “Don’t mind them,” Mom said. “I’m dog sitting this weekend.”
I was just beginning to ponder how much I was going to enjoy spending my weekend with a pack of angry rats, when I noticed that Sharon was being very quiet. I looked over and saw that she had turned white as a ghost. I was about to ask her what was wrong, when the reason struck me. Mom had redecorated.
As far as I am aware, my girlfriend of that time had only one phobia in this entire world: clowns. Spiders? Nah! Rats? Not even a flinch. Ghosts? Hah! But clowns? One day, early in our relationship, she had confided in me that they had terrified her since she was a kid. Now she found herself standing in her own little private Hell. Mom had coincidentally (I had never mentioned this fear to her...who knows, maybe the cards did), at some point in the last four months, decided that she was going to become a collector of all things clown-related.
It was literally everywhere. Clown dolls, clown plates, clown figurines, clown paintings, ad infinitum. I was pretty sure that if I walked into the bathroom, I’d see Bozo’s face staring up at me from the toilet, cheerfully inviting me to take a dump down his happy clown throat.
“Isn’t this great!?” Mom exclaimed. “I got everything dirt cheap at an estate sale.”
“What the hell, Mom?”
“Yeah I know. I can’t believe they were practically giving this stuff away. What a bunch of idiots!”
“Mom. Sharon is...”
“How rude of me! I’m so pleased to meet you,” Mom said, completely oblivious to the look of terror on my girlfriend’s face. “Come in. Sit down. I’ll get you something to drink.”
If you guessed that Mom handed her a drink in a clown mug, give yourself a prize. This was just getting better and better. Hell, I have nothing against clowns and even I was starting to get freaked out by the surroundings.
Mom eventually headed off to the kitchen to work on dinner, leaving me alone with Sharon, who was starting to finally look a little more alive.
“Sorry about this. I had no idea,” I sputtered. “We can leave if you want. Grab a hotel room.”
“It’s OK. I’m fine (she didn’t look fine). The whole thing just sort of took me by surprise,” and then, lowering her voice and gesturing around her, “Is this normal for her?”
“Not really. This is a little whacked out even for her.”
So we sat there for a bit until Mom called us in for dinner. It turned out be a nice dish of baked ziti with some meatballs and sausage. Odd though she may be, Mom can cook. We even got lucky and the clown plates didn’t make an appearance during dinner. Good thing too as I wasn’t really looking forward to watching a hobo clown staring up at me while it drowned beneath a small pool of sauce.
Of course, things couldn’t be too normal. Mom reserved half of the meal for the pack of squirrels she was watching.
“They don’t like dog food,” she explained
“Let them get hungry enough and I’m sure they won’t mind it,” I countered.
“They have sensitive stomachs.”
“They’re dogs, Mom. You know, descended from wolves and all. I’m pretty sure a bowl of Alpo won’t kill them.”
At this, Mom proceeded to turn away and start talking to the little gremlins as if I had somehow offended them. She told them to ignore me and enjoy their dinner, perhaps afraid that they would all go on a hunger strike from my cruelty. I’ve been around dogs most of my life. Let me just say it typically takes a bit more than a few words to distract them from a bowl of meatballs. But just to be safe, I made a deal with karma to try and feel bad about it if Mom called me a week from then, crying about how the poor little puppies had starved themselves to death because I was being a big fat meanie.
Following dinner, we were all ushered into the living room. Mom told me she had rented a movie for us to all watch. “What did you pick up?” I asked.
“Oh I don’t know. I asked the clerk at Blockbuster for a nice nature movie.”
She then proceeded to pop Twelve Monkeys into the VCR. *sigh* That lasted about as long as you’d expect before we found ourselves watching some insipid sitcom on ABC.
A few hours later it was finally time to turn in. Mom directed Sharon to the small guest room she had. After she left, Mom then said to me. “You can have the couch.”
“That’s fine, Mom.”
“I wouldn’t want you getting lucky and keeping me awake all night.”
“Mom!”
“You have nailed her, right?”
“MOM!”
“What? Everyone has sex. Even I ...”
“Enough! I’m tired. I would like to go to sleep.”
“OK, honey. See you in the morning.”
Mom turned out the light and went into her bedroom. A few minutes went by, then I saw Sharon open her door and motion me over. Well hey, maybe I’d be keeping Mom awake after all.
Instead I was practically dragged into the room. “I am not sleeping here alone!” she whispered to me. “Look at this place!”
Let’s just say that if Mom’s apartment was currently clown Hell, then this bedroom was the ninth circle of it. The room was a testament to bad b-movies. It was as if the producers of Tourist Trap, Demonic Toys, and Puppet Master all got together and decided to open a bed and breakfast, with maybe a little heaping of that one scene from Poltergeist thrown in. Yep, the room was filled practically to the rafters with all sorts of evil looking clown dolls, some of them close to life-sized.
“Must have been a hell of an estate sale,” I commented.
“And do you know why it was an estate sale?” Sharon asked, wide eyed. “Because these THINGS probably all came to life and killed the previous owner. You’re sleeping here with me tonight. If that happens, at least I know I can run faster than you.”
With my dreams of nocturnal activities dashed (even more so by all the lifeless doll eyes staring at me), I lay down next to Sharon and closed my eyes, hoping that I wouldn’t wake to a pair of white clown gloves around my throat. Fortunately, as this is neither a b-movie, nor a particularly cheesy horror novel, the night passed without further incident.
Come Easter morning, we were awakened by these little tapping noises outside the door. I got out of bed and opened it, only to be greeted by three rabid guinea pigs. Oh wait, it was just the Shih-Zhu's again. It’s a common mistake where I’m from. Oh yeah, before I forget, Mom informed me that one of the dogs was named Cuddles. Christ, if that doesn’t count as animal cruelty, then what does?
Mom was already up and in the process of making breakfast. When she saw me walking out of the guest room, she gave me perhaps the creepiest leer I have ever seen. I did my best to ignore it (and also ignore the need to immediately jump into the shower and wash off the dirty feeling I suddenly had about me) and settled down to grab a cup of coffee.
Sharon came out and Mom greeted her with a, “Sleep well?”, still wearing her grin.
“Not really. It was a restless night.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t get comfortable.”
I watched this back and forth exchange; Mom trying to dig for dirt, while Sharon tried to politely inform her that her guest room belonged in an insane asylum. Amazingly, neither was apparently picking up on the actual meaning that the other was implying. I just sighed and went back to my java.
We were supposed to spend the full day there, but Sharon told my Mom that our return flight had been moved up several hours and that we’d need to be leaving soon. As soon as Mom was out of earshot, I mentioned to her, “I’m pretty sure airlines don’t move flights up.”
She just gritted her teeth and growled, “They do now!” Getting the point, I quickly started packing.
We stayed long enough to grab an early lunch and then said our goodbyes. Once more, the traffic gods spit upon us and we wound up waiting again for an accident to be cleared. Three hours later, we finally arrived at the airport. The entire time Sharon had been quiet and I had left her alone.
Finally when it was time to board, I got up the courage to ask if she was OK.
Her only response, “You owe me...BIG!”
For that, I had no argument.
September 1999
Things were busy at work, so I didn’t get a chance to come back and visit again for a good half a year. Since it didn’t look like I’d be getting much free time afterwards either, and since the calls from Mom were starting to increase in frequency and annoyance, I decided to grab a non-holiday weekend and fly in.
This time I was on my own. Surprised to hear that? Neither was I. Let’s just say I was enjoying the single life again and leave it at that. Did my previous trip have anything to do with it? I’ll leave that for the philosophers to debate.
Mom’s asshole landlord was having some renovations done, so I was just going to grab a hotel room and meet up with her at some point.
> Interestingly enough, the entire trip in was without incident...a rarity for me. The flight was fine, my car was waiting for me at the airport, there was light traffic, and the hotel had my room all ready for me. Truth be told, I was actually starting to get a bit spooked. Good fortune tends to be as alien to me as high-speed internet is to the Amish. Fortunately (did I just write ‘fortunately’?), this streak of non-happenings was not to last.
Mom called me early the next morning. The plan was for me to meet her for a long lunch at a place in Point Pleasant (which I was sure I’d be expected to pay for...even in my wildest dreams of good luck, I had no delusions about that one). She was going to get a ride with a friend and meet me there.
I got to the restaurant and discovered that my thoughts of a quiet lunch with Mom were not to be. She had not only invited the person who gave her the ride, but another friend and that friend’s toddler as well. I won’t lie to you; this didn’t particularly please me. Aside from the fact that I was now sure I’d be picking up a pretty sizable tab, I will admit that under normal circumstances I don’t really like children. Kids tend to sense this and thus have this nasty tendency to do spiteful little kid things, like spend the afternoon kicking me in the shins. This is further exacerbated if the children in question have particularly dimwitted parents of the ‘my little angel can do no harm’ variety. I don’t mean to be a harsh judge, but those are exactly the vibes I was catching from little Damien’s mom.
I tried to enjoy my lunch as best as I could. On the upside of things, Mom pretty much left me to myself to chat with her friends. The downside, though, is that the other mom at the table ignored any basic concept of keeping her precious little bundle of joy in line. It’s hard to get much enjoyment out of any meal when you have a little demon-spawn sitting next to you. Especially so if he’s continually jamming his dirty little fingers onto your plate to steal your fries and then throwing them back at you. Of course French fried projectiles aren’t all that bad by themselves. Sadly, junior’s mom must have sensed as much as she then burned off a couple million brain cells to deduce that the only thing her larva was missing was a big cup of BBQ sauce to dunk his makeshift missiles into.
The Poptart Manifesto Page 9
