3 Hours

Due to some unforeseen circumstances, I was given the opportunity to spend roughly 3 hours with my mom in her car with just her today.  Now, this might not seem like a big deal.  Parents and kids often do things together even once that kid is an adult.

We all know that something happens to women when they have kids... they become crazy.  Then, as each new year turns on the calender, they become worse than the previous year.  So, once a kid like me is in his early 40's, that mother is full blown annoying and crazy.  This is an exact science and millions of middle aged kids throughout time can attest to this fact.

Now, without getting into detail on why part of my day was spent with her and keeping these unforeseen circumstances as vague as possible, I want to garner some sympathy so anyone who happens to read this can feel my pain.

Let's begin with our trip to Bookmans.  This is some creative thrift store that buys and sells books, records, CDs, movies and musical instruments.  This was my first time in this place and I would have been quite impressed if this was 1987.  The reason this was our first place on our big adventure was because mom wanted to sell some old records that have been gathering dust for decades.  She was under the impression there is a big market for John Denver and other mediocre artists records. 

We arrive at Bookmans.  All of her records are in a huge box.  I, being the super strong and caring son, agree to hide my shame and carry it into the store for her.  After catching my breath, I place the box on the counter and then, mom takes over.

"Good afternoon, Sir.  I have some great treasures in this box.  There are records in here that will make you tons of money.  These are collector's items and I want your best price," mom confidently tells the hippie hourly wage worker.

"Go ahead and have a seat, Maam.  It will take us some time to go through each one and see if any of these are worth anything to us", the hippie replies. 

Mom agrees and decides this is a good time to use their bathroom.  Me, on the other hand, looked around to see what was on their shelves and quickly determined that 1987 seems ridiculous considering how technology has evolved since then. 

I, then, sit down in some retro church pew to get on the internet on my phone to kill time.  Before too long, I start feeling like everyone was staring at me.  So, I looked up and noticed a tacky lion statue was right in front of me.

This fucking lion just stared at me and it wouldn't stop.  When you are already annoyed, a staring lion statue doesn't make me less annoyed. 

After deliberating over whether or not, I should smash that lion statue or simply admire its handiwork, I realized I had been sitting there for 45 minutes and mom was still in the bathroom.  She was taking a shit.

Finally, she emerges from the bathroom with a retarded grin on her face and blames stress for her ill placed timing to poop.  She then walks up to the counter to discuss "big business" with the hippie.

"Maam, we went through all your records and there really isn't much here we can turn around and sell.  However, we will give you 50 cents for the Englebert Humperdink record", the hippie bravely tells my over confident mom.

"You've got to be kidding?" she replies with anger and shock.

The next 10 minutes have been erased from my memory but it was basically, mom negotiating over 50 cents.  The final result was she got 50 cents and the hippie agreed to take the rest of her records off her hands and give her $2.00 in store credit. 

In other words, we spent an hour together so she could make 50 cents and take a crap.

Next stop, the gas station.  Long story short, Arco sells gas for $2.54 a gallon.  That wasn't good enough for mom.  Twenty minutes and 6 miles later, she stops at Costco because it's $2.52 per gallon for gas.  The next 30 minutes was nothing but her bragging about how she saved a quarter despite wasting all that time and gas looking to save a quarter. 

Okay, to be fair; she did make a whopping 75 cents between her record she sold and driving around looking for the cheapest gas station. 

Last stop, dinner.  This involved her crack house of choice:  the casino. 

We walk in the door and some indian welcomes her by her first name.  She's the Norm from Cheers of casinos, apparently. 

Because she's a regular patron there, she had $35 comped to her for a free meal.  Our dinner was free, basically.  Mom spent the whole time on the phone discussing her dog with a friend.  The phrase "my little angel" was used repeatedly as she spoke on the phone.  I was done eating before she even began due to her lengthy phone call about her sweet little piece of shit angel dog.


I know that 3 hours in one day with a parent is a luxury for some.  I also know that an annoying mom is better than a dead one.  That said, I wouldn't wish this day on anyone.  And I didn't even mention her non stop talking in the car about God knows what nor did I mention that she just got her car back today after totaling it a month ago and still found a way to swerve onto a sidewalk because she's the worst driver ever. 

Lucky for her, no one was on the sidewalk she found herself driving on.  Unlucky for me, I wasn't. 

Hero-despite

There are certain things I've never wanted to witness. 

I think my reoccurring thought back on a Thursday in September of 2003 was, I just want one more day. 

Maybe it was my God complex where I tend to believe I can fix people or change the course of what's intended to come.  Or maybe, it was just pure unfiltered guilt.  Whatever.   I know my thought process that rainy Thursday afternoon was no different than anyone else in that overcrowded church. 

My last image of him is blurry.  It's because he was walking away from me with slumped shoulders, head down and a slow gait.  I quietly refer to that image as dead man walking.  He was.  Ten days to turning 33.  He was a defeated man.  

I remember thinking, I will never see him again.  I pride myself in being right.  I am not proud that I was right 24 hours before he left this earth.

One thing I have never wanted to witness was someone I love and care about become defeated.  I hoped and still hope, I don't witness that again.  It haunts you at the most random of moments:  an old song, a familiar building, an alcohol induced moment of longing, or just at 2:30 on a Wednesday morning 12 years later for no particular reason. 

Time heals nothing.  Don't kid yourself.  Those images or memories may become blurry as time moves on but that void only deepens.  Because best friends, family, spouses, first loves, whatever... they are all irreplaceable when they or we move on.  

I often write about my old black lab, Buddy.  I had a dog after him.  I don't write about that dog.  He was no Buddy.  I've had best friends since 2003, I don't write about them.  Certain people own a piece of us long after they are gone.  That piece is taken with them wherever we go after this place.  And the piece of them we own, its stuck right here as a lump in our throat and sometimes, it even surfaces as an awkward smile.  I know this because I can get choked up and smile at the exact same moment when I replay that blurry image of my self defeated best friend walking away for the very last time.  Really, that image has evolved over time.  For years, it was just a weak dead man walking.   Now, he's that wounded gun shot cowboy slumped over on his horse fading off into the sunset at the end of an old western.

He's my hero. 

Despite, so much. 


It was just weeks ago, I muttered moms are dropping like flies.  It's as if everyone my age has a lost a parent recently.  My family, my support system consists of one person:   my mother.  We don't have the warmest of relationships.  She's not the most nurturing, either.  I'm probably not the greatest son.  Whatever.  It doesn't matter.


I think I'm going to die. 
That sentence came across my phone today from my mom.  We live in a world where affection, pain, love, intimacy and fear are articulated by human fingers instead of human voices.  My almost natural reaction was to text her back and ask why.  Almost.

I called her.  She was crying.  I mean, sobbing.  It doesn't matter why but I can say that her reasoning for those inconsolable tears were born of self defeat.  She was ready to give up.  Sixty something years of bad luck or poor fortune or whatever has taken its toll on her. 

She's the reason I don't believe in karma.  Bad things always happen to her.  Sometimes, they are consequences of her own actions but nonetheless, she never gets a break from the universe.

One thing, I have never wanted to witness was my mom feeling defeated.  And I did, today.  This little reminder how fragile and vulnerable she really is broke my heart.  I'm powerless.  We all are.  My God complex is futile.  My pure unfiltered guilt is just an unnecessary anchor.  I learned that today as I listened to her choke on her despair. 

One day, she will be gone.  I will be turning to all my friends who have lost their own; hoping for comfort or at least, just to listen to me.  Really, no one can comfort us when we lose certain people.  Our job is simply to listen.  And I know, I will need those caring ears to simply empathize with me as I tell them...

She was my hero. 

Despite, so much. 





  

Window Shopping

Inadequate mannequin posing on display.  An inanimate skeleton with emotions in disarray.  He's barely noticeable except for the occasional sashay.

"Look mommy, he's got daddy's eyes". 
Precocious little girl is in for a big surprise. 

"Honey, he's just a mannequin; not a human in disguise." 

Mommy's little monster thinks mommy is full of lies.

Curiosity grabs him by the tail.  Down he goes, now everybody knows that the mannequin is really frail. 

"Look, mommy, I told you he was real". 
Precocious little girl is a future puppeteer. 

Bloody mannequin, with broken pride, has a superficial headache. Everybody's friend is someone's potential mistake. 

Untalented mannequin ponders his existence.  An inadequate skeleton is at his best when he keeps his distance.  He's barely noticed as the crowd walks on by.  Precocious little girl refuses to objectify.  Thank God for mommy's little monster and her misguided persistence. 

Inadequate mannequin with his daily mundane routine.    An impassioned specimen has become somewhat of a machine.  Precocious little girl stops to make him laugh.  Inadequate mannequin recaptures his self esteem. 

Inadequate mannequin posing on display.  He's not real, just make believe as some will say.  Inanimate skeleton may doubt his worth or ability on any given day. 

Window shopping will always be an exercise in futility except to the mannequin on display. 

 

Writer's Block

I need some inspiration break my heart.  My imagination has gone dark.  I need some motivation break my heart.  My imagination needs a spark.

Mock me, mockingbird.  Stalk me like I'm a celebrity.  I could use your abuse, my beautiful muse.  I can handle the ugly truth.  Sting me, honey bee.  Bring back my creativity.  The liar's liability is plausible deniability.  Ego overfed.  Return my words to my head.  Catch me in a butterfly's net.  Snatch me in a spider's web. 

I'm floating on peaceful waters.  Rescue me, sinking ship.
We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip.
Sabotage the summer with winter's grip.

I need some inspiration tell me you love me.   My imagination has turned ugly.  I need some motivation tell me you love me.  My imagination has lost its beauty.

Save me, beauty queen.  It's always raining.  God's wet dream.  Break the mood  from nothing to something.  I can always find beauty in a sight unseen.  Crush me, elephant in the room.  My identity is my non de plume.  Ego underfed.  Return my words to my head.  Catch me in a moment of weakness.  Exactly with your sweetness.

I'm sinking with the ship.  Rescue me, peaceful sea.
Release my artistry, winter's grip.

Sting me or bring me honey, my busy bee.  Something is better than nothing.
Tick tock, broken clock
Ego overfed
Return my words to my head, writer's block.

Hypothetical Dinner for Two

Hypothetical dinner for two.  I've got a rhetorical question for you.  What if, years ago, I was on this menu?  Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Hypothetical glass of champagne.  To celebrate my impeccable disdain.  Do you ever think about me?  In between your perfect life and the mundane.
I'm only curious, of course.

Hypothetical ring on your finger.  An admission this juxtaposition may linger.  You say I'm just beating a dead horse.  And I am agreeing, of course. 
Hypothetical awkward silence at first.  The best laid plans of men are rarely rehearsed.  I'll lean on a cinematic impulse.  I'm just dreaming, of course. 

Hypothetical misstep.  Let's refer to it as regret.  A rhetorical quip escapes from my lips.  Do you wish we had not met?  Did I waste too much of your youth?  Indifference is hard to translate but easy to interpret.  Ambivalence, my dear, should never be a secret.  I can handle the truth.  I'm just kidding, of course.

The honeymoon is over, hypothetically speaking.   As we grow older, I find us more intriguing.  The further apart, any signs of affection are often misleading.  We can argue about life but only one of us is breathing.  I'm drowning in hyperbole again.  With certainty, it's just a matter of when.  No one has ever been killed by a dead horse.  Hypothetical remorse is just rhetorical, of course,

Hypothetical dinner for two.  I've got an unconventional question for you.

Do you miss me? 

Cold Cold World

How's it going to end?  Everyone wants to know.   Show me all your faces before I let go. 

Come, come, come, fire me.  Being human isn't all its cracked up to be.  Come, come, come, hire me.  I can be the sweetest devil heaven has ever seen.  

It's a cold cold world, throw the saints into the sea.   While you're at it, discard me. 

How's it going  to end?  We all want to know.   Show me all your sins before I let go.  Mr. Brightside can't satisfy you.  (Not like me.)  Mr. Big Shot can't pacify you.  (Not like me.)  Come, come, come, fire me.  Being yours is too lonely.  Come, come, come, hire me.  I can be a part time anything. 

It's a cold cold world.  The butterflies don't have wings.  The bees make honey and love, it stings.  It's a cold cold world, throw the saints into the sea.  Take God out of the children and have them pray for me. 

It's a cold cold world, take me as I am.  Take the children out of God and you just have an angry old man. 

How's it going to end?  We're all dying to know.  Let me swim with the saints before you let me go.  Come, come, come, over and over again.

Thanks for being my Friend

Thanks for being my friend.

It's easy to gloss over that phrase when a friend speaks it.  I never did.  His vulnerability was as rare as his sobriety. 

I've got a lot of respect for the vulnerable.  Well, I do now.  It's almost heroic, certainly courageous, to be vulnerable.  Be it, a writer.  Or an addict.  Or a single mother.  Anyone, really.

In this narcissistic age of selfies, materialism and an obsession with celebrity, vulnerability is a lost art.


Make it rain, she said.  In not so many words.  The irony of that phone call was I standing in pouring rain surrounded by friends led by the man that would years later thank me for being his friend.   The details aren't really that significant now.   All I remember was her vulnerability.  She wanted comfort.  She needed it. 

Years later, he said, make it stop raining.  In not so many words.  The details don't matter now.  All I remember was his vulnerability.  He was drowning.  Literally.  Well, he did drown.  Figuratively.

Because time fucking flies, I reflect on the two most meaningful people and moments of my life and remember their vulnerability above all else.  And I realize just how powerless we are.  We can't make it rain nor can we stop it.


I don't thank those I love enough for being my friend.  I am not sure any of us ever do.  I think we take each other for granted as if we are entitled to friendships.  I can count my friends on one hand.  As a man that once had countless friends, that is hard to admit.  But I have to.  My vulnerability is really all I have to give to anyone. 

Back in 2003, the last words of that friend were I will see you soon.  I knew he was goddamned lying.  As I watched him fade off into the distance into the home he would never leave again, I wanted to thank him for being my friend.  I didn't.  I couldn't.  It's my greatest regret. 

I couldn't save him.  I had nothing to offer of substance, really.  I couldn't stop the rain, so to speak.  But I did have the power to thank him.  And I didn't. 

Thanks for being my friend.

Twenty four hours before his last breath, seated across from me in a small family owned pizza place, those words randomly came out of his mouth mid-conversation.  He didn't pause to wait for a response.  He stated those five words and then finished his story about God knows what.  I can't even tell you what we talked about during those three hours over dinner but I do remember that quick proclamation he made. 

As I stated, his vulnerability was as rare as his sobriety.  As was mine at the time. 

Fast forward now twelve years later and it's really my last memory of him.  Well, it's the only one I choose to remember.  Everything else is inconsequential now. 

I could sum up everything I attempt to write with one sentence: Thanks for being my mom.  Thanks for being that girl I fell in love with at the age of sixteen.  Thanks for being my dog.  Thanks for loving me now.   Thanks for loving me then. Thanks for choosing me when you deserve better.  Thanks for missing me when I'm not around.  Thanks for seeing something in me I don't see in myself.   Thanks for being one of those friends I can count on one hand.  Thanks for being one of those countless friends of long ago.

Everything ever written is either a proclamation of gratitude or a genuinely heartfelt apology. 

Everything written is either a cry for the rain to stop or a veiled supplication for the rain to begin.

Thanks for being my friend should be everyone's last words.  Anything else is meaningless.