'Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo,' and 'It's not that I have a whore problem, and it's not that I have a coke problem, it's just that my whore has a coke problem,' are two sentences that make me glad I have not died thus far of fatty liver or psilocybin poisoning or being shot by a pissed off boyfriend. Every time I think about the telephone, I crawl into my happy space and kick the crap out of the little kid hiding there because I don't like to be crowded, but then the receiver is thrust into my hand, and a half hour later I am relieved to have spoken with someone who lived a life somewhat similar to mine, knows the weather and abuses and familiar tragedies and appreciates how large a role cigarettes and lap seat belts played in our childhood, however unlikely it was we survived.
Also beatings followed by prayers, and prayers followed by tamales, and tamales followed by cases of Lone Star, and cases of Lone Star followed by long drives through dry, cool nights to Moody I cannot describe unless you spent mornings laying pennies on railroad tracks in central Texas and afternoons trying to figure out why the radio played so much goddamned Steely Dan.
Once, my aunt and uncle took us to wait in a parking lot for one of his friends for SOME REASON, and it was cold, so no one could roll down the windows, and the cigarette smoke was overbearing, and I cracked the window, and my aunt was convinced I would lead to their divorce, how DEMANDING I COULD BE, and I almost said to her, "I COVERED FOR YOU WHEN GRANDMA CAME HOME AND HELPED YOU STUFF TOWELS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DOOR BECAUSE YOU WERE SMOKING." She was only 16, in the body of a 24 year old, in the mind of 12 year old. God, poor thing. It's not like I blame her. Even as a 7 year old in a 27 year old memory.
We stayed in that parking lot for 2 hours, and I don't know what kids do for two hours on their own in a Chevy Nova in the middle of the night when the only toys they have to play with are a busted vent window and a bunch of beer can pull tabs, although now that I think of it, come on! Remember those old pull tabs, the ones with the notches? You could twist the ring off the lip and shoot it for what seemed like miles and miles, and if your girlfriend was Ally Sheedy, you might even use one somehow to make a long distance phone call to prevent World War III. Oh god, why didn't they tell us these things?
But when I am bitter about bliss, I remember that classic story about ignorance, the confused native asking the missionary, 'Wait. Now, if you hadn't told me about God, would I have still gone to heaven?'
'Well, yes.'
'Then why did you tell me?'
If I were the missionary, my stock answer would be, 'Because although I sometimes deny it, I REALLY like to talk to other people.'
4 comments:
If I ever wrote an opera I'd call it "Winfrey." Why? I don't know. Maybe it's because I grew up putting pennies on the other side of the tracks. Maybe it's because she always left us with Grandma and Grandpa so we didn't have to wait in the car. Maybe it's because she left him when we were five and six and she realized he didn't give a damn about us. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because I can leave no phrase unturned. It may be the lowest form of humor, but it's got nowhere to go but up.
I liked this. (I also liked your post.)
Hello, Brandon.
My mom was your aunt. We should find each other in a bar sometime and drink 'till we see Jesus, then demand an explanation. Or satisfaction. Either way.
I'm thankful you have a memory that goes back almost as far as mine (mental age notwithstanding). And for those times you are bitter about bliss, b/c you can make me laugh about it.
scott, pfft, everyone knows the lowest form of humor is UNDERstatement.
sir, your mom owes me an apology first.
julie, laughing at pain is the best way to make it go away, although it will eventually come back and throw rocks through your bedroom window. damn.
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