The International Writers Magazine - Dreamscapes
Mother Was A Sex-Craved Pill Popper
And I Loved Her Very Much
Alan M. Danzis
youre Genevieve Mandible Trumans baby daughter?"
I was an eight year, three month, and six day old little troublemaker
admiring my new pigtails in the cracked and smudgy hallway mirror when
my mother came home in a pair of ripped black jeans with big, explosive,
huge, earth-shattering, turn-the-TV-off-get-rid-of-the-kids-and-lets-go-have-some-drunk-rough-and-kinky-sex-for-hours-onend
news for my father: she was getting an enormous, colossal raise as well
as a very modest equity adjustment.
The only problem: she didnt know what the heck an equity adjustment
My father, who was currently occupying his beloved couch impression
which he had been grooming and honing with his gigantic beer
ass for years mumbled something about it being another raise
that companies tend to give out when they feel guilty about underpaying
someone for so long.
"So, its like, a double raise?" my mother asked.
"Yes, dear," my father replied, "Now, go do a temperature
adjustment on that turkey and macaroni casserole."
A few years and a few equity adjustments later, my High School drop-out
parents with varying addictions (including a penchant for gambling)
quickly became typical New Jersey yuppies in a modest, slightly new
five bedroom house in the suburbs. It wasnt long before my grumbling
father and increasingly tan mother were forced into feeding an additional
mouth in the form of a whiny, four-eyed brother; paying a below minimum
wage salary to a stuttering, kleptomaniac, big-breasted immigrant from
Costa Rica named Rena Pepé; and picking up football-sized piles
of crap from a gigantic female Saint Bernard named Margo with a nasty
little habit of slobbering on my parents bed like a jimmied open
NYC fire hydrant on a hot day.
In our basement which quickly became the dumping ground for a
twice-played-on Ping Pong table, broken Christmas ornaments from three
decades ago, and treadmill Mom used when she was going through her I-wonder-if-men-still-fantasize-about-me
phase my father constructed a crude and rickety bar for himself.
Over the period of six months, he slapped together:
plywood from a tree in our backyard struck by lightning
an old Toyota bumper he snatched from the town junkyard
paint my brother swiped from his elementary school custodial
closet while the janitor was sipping ten-year old scotch out of a filthy
old tennis shoe under the basketball bleachers
some Plexiglas from the top of our neighbors broken foosball
nails my sister stole from the Hardware Store she worked in while
her manager was looking up the skirt of a woman reaching for a toilet
brush on a top shelf
and hundreds of Guinness bottle caps that my father had been
collecting since he was five.
It wasnt before long that my father, with the aid of his collapse-prone
bar, managed to turn his rare, infrequent, occasional drunken stupors
into full-blown, intervention-requiring alcoholism. Jealous that he
was the only one in the family with a demoralizing and debilitating
obsession, almost overnight, my mother decided to become addicted to
prescription pills; I guess she desired horrified, tear-stricken glares
from her young, impressionable children as well.
A few months into my Freshman year of High School, my mother moved out
of what they "lovingly" called "the master suite."
The nanny that spoke less English than our gardeners sixteen month
old son took up her third of the bed a day or two later; my mother didnt
mind though, seeing as she slept soundly in her in own room on the third
floor with four small Chihuahuas on $2,200 Chanel sheets. Besides, provided
that Dad kept shelling out the money for the cosmetic surgery
which became so intense and so drastic, Joshua, Brianna, and I could
barely tell it was her Mom was privy to any of her husbands
whims, fantasies, and blatant marital indiscretions.
On Joshuas twentieth birthday, after losing a Superbowl bet to
Bri, my younger brother had our beer-swigging, adulterating, and increasingly
abusive and abrasive father committed. Even before Dads first
meeting with the world renowned psychologist Dr. Schwemp, the two of
them began a book-dueling war. Simon and Schuster versus Random House;
it was the talk of all the People magazines of the world.
Over the period of thirteen and a half months, their individual ghost
writers each slaved over competing tell-all-books about our decrepit
and long-suffering mother that were so scathing, she was forced to seek
sanctuary at the Betty Ford Clinic.
When Bris book finally came out in August of 93 a
full month before Joshuas the tabloids began running almost
weekly pictures of my mother attending the funerals of several beloved
entertainers and black professional athletes that had been rumored to
have been her lovers over the years. Each and every single one seemed
to run the same cover picture: a close-up of my mothers face,
veiled in black, and her white-gloved hand holding a silk, monogrammed
handkerchief (probably worth $450) that she used to dab the tears from
her mascara-streaked face while her butler held Lippy, her favorite
Chihuahua, decked out in a blank veil and topcoat.
Over the next four years, I moved up in the sales world going from entry-level
assistant account executive to senior vice president in just over seven
quarters. Bri continued to pursue an acting slash modeling slash school
teacher slash waitress career while looking for Mr. Right in every single
bar, club, and dive in lower Manhattan. And Joshua sat on my couch and
slept a lot. We saw Dad once a year on his birthday and Mom as Christmas.
Not long after that it, it became every other Christmas.
It was in December of 99 when my mother died of her inevitable,
completely predictable, and painstakingly boring drug overdose. She
was laid out in a $14,750 coffin she picked out eleven years ago when
she saw a movie about some woman that died in a plane crash and her
uncaring children decided it would be cheaper to cremate her. All her
friends those of which who actually showed up kept whispering
how she looked less like herself and more like a pitiful drag queen
doing a Sarah Jessica Parker impersonation while hopped up on methamphetamines.
youre Genevieve Mandible Trumans
baby daughter?" the slightly drunk 29-year old trying to pick me
up asked again, as his fingers lightly tapped his smudgy glass filled
with vodka and tonic.
"Well, Brianna was for a few years, but then I took over,"
I replied, dabbing some foundation on my face as I checked out my reflection
in the mirror behind the bar, "Ive been holding down that
position for about the last twenty-seven
I mean twenty-four years
"Well, I had to be somebodys daughter right?"
"Yeah, but I mean, Genevieve"
"I hate to burst your bubble, buddy, but her real namefirst
off, was not Genevieve. It was Sophie.
"Second, her actual breasts were buried miles beneath the surface
of those two nuclear reactors.
"Third, she had more venereal diseases around her mouth than a
forty-five year-old ex-queen of porn that sucked on more sticks than
the Tootsie Roll Pop Owl
"She had more abortions than a High School senior that sells her
body for jeans and thongs money at the Mall of America
"And she saw more gentlemen callers than a twelve-year old Russian
prostitute named Olga living in the Bronx.
"Fourth, her money ran out about the same time they raised the
price of Xanax.
"And finally, during the winter, she didnt shave anywhere.
Oh yeah, thats right, good-old seductive, sexy, and voluptuous
Sophie was definitely lazy about keeping the old carpet clean."
I took a shot of tequila after spilling all that to the poor, unsuspecting
stranger. The man didnt say anything for a minute. Then: "You
must have really hated your mother, huh?"
"Well, she was a two-bit whore," I said, "But then again
she was my mother."
"Doesnt mean that you had to love her."
I took a sip from my drink.
"How could I not love a mother that used to get up at five in the
morning just to wash every shred of lettuce for a salad she made me
for lunch every single day? How could I not love a mother that taught
me the fine art of having just a long enough slit in your skirt so that
you never have to pay bus fare? And how could I not love a mother that
kissed me on the forehead and told me she loved me every night that
I lived in her house, no matter how drunk, stoned, or tired she was?"
As I paused for a moment to think about the time my mother beat up the
seven-year old boy on the playground that called me chubby, I see Brianna
enter the bar. I wave her over with my hand and start collecting my
things as she heads my way.
"It was nice meeting you," I tell the man in the business
suit who lost any shot in hell of getting my number the second he neglected
to offer to pay for my drink.
"Nice meeting you, too," he says, not even looking up from
his vodka and tonic.
I head over to Bri and we hug and kiss each other on the cheeks and
ask each other how our days been. As we sit down at a table and
the waiter comes over, I glance over and notice that Briannas
slit in her dress is about three and three quarters inches long; as
the waiter comes back with our drink and stares lovingly at my sisters
long, slender legs, I cant help but think Mom would be proud that
we were probably getting about ten dollars knocked off our bill at the
end of the night.
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