I’m in front of the TV helping my sister Marsha punch out paper doll clothes when I hear my Mom scream, “Oh my fucking God!” I look up.
Holding Margie, her youngest child just three years old, against her chest, Mom runs full-throttle down the hall, through the living room and out our front door. My oldest brother Howard jumps up, bangs out behind her, and a second later I shoot out behind him — already Mom’s at the end of our building. Clearly something bad is wrong. Read the rest of this entry »
George asks me for help with Mable. I tell him I’ll meet him in her room in five minutes.
When I get there George has already laid her on the bed. He’s red-faced and aggravated. Mable’s rearing up and taking big roundhouse swings at him. “Mable, Mable,” I coo. “Calm down, Mable.”
“Oh God, Honey, I’m glad to see you. This big bastard is… ”
I gently wrap Mable’s wrists with my hands. George pulls down her pants. “What are… ?” Mable’s mad. “Honey! Let go of my hands so I can knock hell out of this bastard.”
I work at a nursing home. I arrive there today at the last minute. I open my car door and immediately a rooster greets me.
Yep. A rooster. I work off of Hurstbourne Lane. There’s miles of shopping, heavy traffic. It’s an area where you don’t expect to encounter roosters.
This one’s red, a bit on the thin side and doesn’t want to let me pass. I fake to my right and then cut left to get around it. I enter a side door and find the usual mob gathered around.
“HI, BILL!” Wilson screams. I fall and trip over old people while trying to get to the time clock before it clicks 2:31.
Ahhh, I made it. It’s then that I notice how hot the place is. The new air conditioner is still not installed. I put my book bag down.
Reba sidles over and rolls her eyes up at me. “I’m glad you came curry curr standin’. I need to go to daddy’s and fortitude with you maybe.” Read the rest of this entry »
When I was 8 years old, my mom caught me playing with her makeup and jewelry. Arms loaded with boy’s white socks and underwear, Mom kicked open the door to my room. “Honey, I need to put . . . ”
She was stunned to see me in eye shadow and lipstick and wearing several of her beautiful necklaces. I’d also clipped on some blue and green earrings that looked like sparkling dragonflies.
In an instant, Mom’s face went angry and hateful. She dropped the clean and folded laundry and before I knew what was happening, pounced on me.
“GODDAMN YOU!” she screamed. She hit me hard on the side of my head an earring skipped across the polished wood floor. “You little fuckin’…” Read the rest of this entry »
My sister-in-law, Sharon, her friend, Kim, and I are having a “Fantasy Party.” I’m not supposed to be a part of it because I’m male, but the Fantasy Party rep girl has bent the rules. I’ve been smuggled into all-girl wedding and baby showers and the like before, so it’s not all that unusual that I’d do this.
My mom has been tricked into going. Sharon and I have led her to believe it’s a Tupperware party.
Sharon and I park in front of her apartment. Mom is at the door and ready to go.
She gives Marsha some last minute instructions. I unlock the back door and Mom climbs into the car.
“Mark is throwing a goddamn fit,” she says.
Mark is my brother. He is mentally retarded and doesn’t like to let Mom out of his sight.
I back up and point the car in the direction of Kim’s house, where the party is going to be.
“Don’t worry about Mark,” I tell Mom. “He’ll be fine for a few hours without you.”
“Is Bonnie coming?” Mom asks.
“Yes. I talked to her a couple of hours ago. She’ll be there.”
“Good,” Mom says.
I’m happy, too. I always have fun with Bonnie.
Mom sits back. “I’m kind of glad to be going to this,” she says. “That stuff you buy in the store — it ain’t nothing like Tupperware. Sharon, do you remember the tumblers that you used to could get? They were like eight different colors and they came with a caddy thing. I hope they still have those. I’ll get me a set. And I used to have this really nice container you could store your cold cuts in after you opened them. I hope they have those too.”
I have dinner almost ready when I realize there is nothing but water to drink and I also need bread. I walk to the buffet in the dining room. Me putting my wallet in my back pocket and sliding into some shoes catches Danny’s attention.
“Where are you goin’ Dad?”
“I’m going to the Conven… “
Just the two syllables send the child into a sort of panicked tailspin. He runs. He darts and zigzags. He races down a hallway. He dashes back.
“Where’s my shoes, Dad?”
Dan is 3-and-a-half-years-old, and he loves Convenient Food Marts. These are little gas stations and stores that have sprung up on every corner in our city. They stay open 24 hours a day. And more than Disney World, more than boats or blue vans like Papaw’s, Danny loves Convenients. He calls them “The ‘Benient.”
“Listen to me, Danny. I’ll only be gone for like five minutes. I’m going to run straight in to the store and then back out. You stay here with Eric.” Read the rest of this entry »
Before starting the laundry I walk from room to room and look for soiled things that didn’t get sent down the shoot. There’s a dishtowel in the kitchen and a pair of smelly white socks on the living room floor. I climb stairs and enter the bedroom I share with Sam. I walk to the rumpled bed and pull out the tucked-in sheet. More white socks and several pairs of Sam’s underwear fall to the floor. On the left side of the bed, Sammy’s side, I pick up a pair of jeans.
Sammy’s Levi’s feel small in my hands and smell of mulch and sweat. Knowing he’s likely left change or a comb in them I absently search pockets. In a front left pocket I pull out what appears to be five torn ticket stubs. They’re a bright green color.
I frown.
Why would Sammy have tickets to a Haunted House in his pocket? And why five? Why would they have last night’s date on them? Sammy worked last night… he said…
Suddenly I know the whys. Sam didn’t work. He lied. For months now… he’s been lying.
I sit on the side of the bed. I look down at his jeans in my lap and again marvel at how small they are. Almost like a boy’s jeans. A garment belonging to someone not old enough to cheat on you. Read the rest of this entry »
George works with Tim. Tim’s just a kid with a face that looks like it’s made from leftover parts, sweeping a floor, but I get a feeling about him. My guts say he’d be fun, a good guy to know and a good friend. George and I invite the young man to Denny’s. Soon, he becomes part of a growing posse I’m unwittingly putting together.
At the time, only I drive. George, Dan and Tim are all without licenses, or cars, or both, and when there’s a get together or outing, I am ringleader and chauffeur. I go around and pick everyone up.
The third time I pick Tim up he steps onto a cluttered porch and a tall, thin boy — considerably younger than Tim — steps out behind him. Watching Tim approach the car, I wonder why the boy on the porch looks angry.
To kick off this, my first BGWBVS, your friend Brizzle, weary blog-jockey to the world, would like to take you back to 1984…
And I’m driving down Third Street. Danny –comfortably situated in the back seat of my new Olds Derby Calaise –is almost nine years old. Right now he’s perplexing both me and his teachers by refusing to write anything down on paper. The child feels, if things are for sure in your head then there’s just no point in writing them down. He thinks you should be able to just say answers out loud. I glance over at Barbra, my daughter who’ll soon turn five seated next to me. She’s had a big day and is noticeably tired. I have to have her back by 6:00 on Sunday evenings, her mother insists… No Billy, not 6:01. 6:00 sharp. Understand Billy?
I understand perfectly.
After making a left turn, I drive by Our Lady Of Mount Carmel church where I once coached a mixed softball team called the Misfits.
I feel sad. Another weekend’s closing too soon.
I glance back at Danny in my rear view mirror. He had an empty notebook opened on his lap. Hours ago I gave him an assignment, or made a sort of deal with him and told him if he would put ten things down on paper he wants I’d pick one and buy it for him.
I love Danny and Barbra so much I could bust…
I love my Olds too. The first car I’ve ever owned that someone else didn’t own first. It’s sharp. A color not exactly pink and not exactly brown called Rosewood and it handles easily.
I’m also pretty smitten with Gregory Popp and Alison Moyet who just started singing on the car radio. Everyone knows I love Danny and Barbra and my new car but no one –and I mean absolutely no one –knows I love Gregory and only Danny knows I love Alison.
Alison Moyet is a singer. A big girl with a big voice. Gregory Popp is this guy at work who does something in the computer room for Dave Furnish. He’s tall and lanky and grins a lot. I mean Gregory is tall and lanky and grins a lot, not Dave Furnish. Furnish is short and doughy and always looks worried. Popp’s the exact opposite. Rangy and always happy. Sort of part man and part Praying Mantis in denim jeans. He smells like lime and doesn’t know I’m alive…
Mom would say Gregory’s just another narrow-assed boy, nothing out of the ordinary and she’d be right but for me it’s his unspecialness that makes him so special. To me. And I guess the narrow ass doesn’t hurt.
Gregory makes me feel like I’m invisible. If I had breasts he wouldn’t. A couple of nice tatas would be enough to make him hang on my every word. I could wrap him around my… whatever it was I wanted wrapped.
Alison Moyet’s voice swells, and an unseatbuckled Barbra moves closer to the dashboard. She half closes her eyes and the AC rushing from the car’s wide open vents gently blows back her hair and gives boost to her powdery, clean smell.
Smiling, I reach around her to turn up the volume. In the rear view mirror I see my son shake his head.
I don’t care. Allison is something special.
I pull in front of a brick house and wait for Alison to finish before getting out of the car. I go around and help Barbra step out. After gathering her things I take her hand and we walk down a drive and around to a back garage apartment.
I’ve returned my little girl four minutes late but the ex –Barbra’s mother –lets me slide. She isn’t warm but she’s not cold either.
On the way back to the car an uncle of Barbra’s, one of the ex’s brothers and I pass each other. He’s a sprawling, blonde and blue-eyed U of L football player and he also makes me feel invisible.
I climb back into my car.
Danny’s moved to the front seat and now it’s him sitting beside me. There’s not a single mark in the notebook still open on his lap. I pick up one of my son’s hands and see his nails are filthy. I sigh. Since he’s just going to get dirty again my son also sees no point in bathing.
Twenty minutes ago I was hanging on a peg at a place called PeekWorld. Now I’m on the front seat of a silver Dodge Dakota — an SLT four-door with an extended cab — being driven much too fast by a young guy who, after a lot of pensive looking around and pacing and considerable comparison and debate, purchased me for $79.95, plus tax.
Oh wait. I should tell you I’m not a person; I’m a sex toy — a masturbator, actually. More specifically, I’m an artificial vagina. My name is Debbie XS11. Read the rest of this entry »
