Saturday, November 19, 2005

Chapter 20 (32,068 words out of 50,000)


My mom’s laying on the bed, a fucking tube in her nose and another one jacked into her arm, looking pale and frail as shit. I never realized how black her hair is, you know? I always kind of thought it was brownish. Maybe she’s dying it in her old age, maybe she wants to cover up the grays because I really don’t see any of those and she’s at that age where she should be graying. But it doesn’t look like a dye job – her hair is actually kind of vibrant. When these older folks start dying they get dependant on it, they don’t ever want to spontaneously show gray one day and let people know they’ve been lying to them every fucking day. So they start dying their hair once a month. Once a week. Next thing you know they’re dying their hair as often as they use conditioner. Everyday they look in the mirror and everyday they see a new gray hair sprout. They get obsessive, they dye that shit until their hair turns all brittle, it starts to feel like straw and it falls out, clogs the drain with pieces of hair that feel like fucking razor wire. So I don’t think my mom’s dying her hair, yet, it’s too black – it’s at that dye-job a day phase if she was doing it. It’s not like my mom knows shit about shampoo – it’s not like she uses Frederic Fekkai or anything like that, she probably gets the fucking five-dollar mega bottle of Suave over at CVS and pours in on her head by the pint. So, her hair looks so black because her skin looks so white – it’s a fucking illusion. Yesterday I was sitting here staring a my mom who looks like she’s gotten hit by a fucking truck – quadruple bypass – doctors are amazed she survived – Agatha looks more run down than both of us – My mom is crying constantly, apologizing, telling me I was always a good boy – telling me my father was an asshole for not seeing it – asking me every day if he called, if he came to visit while she was asleep, I could lie but I keep telling her “no” because it makes her happy – a martyr needs to suffer to perform their job correctly and my mom loves to suffer – and as I’m sitting here, I’m trying to think of an angle. I felt good, before this, you know? I felt like I finally broke Agatha. I was starting to feel like, once I got her, she was worth hanging around for the uninhibited sex alone – but she’s a smart one and I don’t want to be around when she snaps out of where I put her. Who would have thought she was so masochistic? She’s ashamed of it, it’s buried pretty deep, but the sight of blood, of other’s people pain, really seems to get her off. She’s probably wet right now, staring at my mother, thinking of taking a break and going to the bathroom so she can viciously masturbate. She’s been a livewire ever since I beat the fuck out of Chris, she’s been giving herself without even thinking, anything I want. Seriously, if it wasn’t for the fact that she was a fucking barrista, if she had something beyond coffee and great fucking to give to me, I would seriously considering marrying this bitch for a couple of years. But for now, with my mother, I kind of look back at the past month, assessed where I’m at, look back at her and assess what just happened – how I can use this – and I came to one firm conclusion.

This shit is like Christmas.

I’m not going to lie, I don’t particularly like seeing her like this. I don’t particularly like the roll I took on but if I didn’t I probably would have lost Agatha just when I broke her, before the coup-de-grace or the cull-de-sac or whatever the fuck you call it to signify the fact I’m two months away from destroying this bitch for good. This shit is expensive, my father has crappy insurance and it’s not like he has a medical reimbursement account or anything like that, it’s not like he would give a fuck enough to send in the paperwork if he did have one – especially not when his son – his wife’s child – has been inspired by Jesus enough to take care of the fat cow – that I’m finally deciding to pull my own weight and pay them back for the years of love and affection and the financial and emotional support he gave me. SO he’ll let me handle it, he’d rather she died anyway – so he won’t have to live in sin anymore, the Lord Jesus Christ is more forgiving of your indiscretions when your wife is dead, after all. Your own morals don’t count for much; it’s a matter of how your actions are perceived by a guy that’s been dead for almost two-thousand years.

This shit, right here, my mom – she’s my out. I fucked up this past month. Cynthia, for instance, was not going to invite me to anymore parties. She didn’t say that, to me at least, but you kind of have to look at how she is – the whole racial guilt thing, throwing parties to make up for it – and the last thing she wants is to have to deal with is two people acting like a couple of the “jail-bound niggers” she deals with everyday at one of her parties. I heard some of these uptight fucks that were at her latest party actually sought therapy because they witnessed me pounding Chris’ face in – they’re even trying to stick her with the bill. Sometimes I’m so embarrassed to be white, honestly. But I call her up to apologize again – she’s cold to me. But, being a good socialite she asks how I’m doing, assuming I’ll catch her coldness and rush off the phone. But, instead, I get into my mom. About how her health has been deteriorating and it finally came to a head on Thanksgiving when she had a heart-attack in my fucking dining room. And Cynthia’s listening, uncomfortable, guilty – realizing she wasn’t giving me a fair shake, she wasn’t giving me the chance to explain myself. She’s not only a bad lawyer, she’s a bad friend – a bad host. She’s having a party in two weeks, a Holiday party no-less – those are always fun – and Agatha and I are invited again. That’s good, too, because by the end of January I’ll be working the field again and I’m feeling good about my ability to get some new contacts, get back in touch with older ones, I just need to make use of the mom-card and everything will be fine – no-one denies the mom card because there are two basica feelings we have towards our moms: we love them or wew feel guilty about hating them. That’s it. Black and fucking white. Getting to put my mom in play was like it was my fucking birthday.

Same with my job – David, Bob, David and Eric had enough of me. David, my main supervisor, wasn’t having fun outside of work with me anymore. I didn’t want to get hookers or get into bar fights or go to strip-clubs, I didn’t want to pay for his blowjobs anymore. I wasn’t going to Yankee games because I was fucking sick of hearing him cheer against them. It was never really fun, but I tolerated it for the corporate seats – either way I stopped going. The marketing meeting, the one in Atlanta – I wasn’t even invited to that shit. They said they had to work hard – fucking bullshit. They had some guy under-qualified guy in for an interview that didn’t exist yesterday, little snot-faced looking twenty-two year old punk – he was probably capable of partying but that doesn’t mean he’s capable of making their lives a fucking party, that’s my gift. Either way he was interviewing and they were all smiling because they can’t really tell the difference between that fucking kid and me – but with all the shit going on they thought I was damaged goods. The Thursday before I was likely getting laid off I went into David’s office, told him that I’m excited we won the Atlanta contract, whatever the fuck it was, and how I was excited about the kick-off meeting – I found some new strip-clubs in the area where the girls will fuck your brains out in exchange for some coke. David just kind of brushes me off, he doesn’t give a fuck, as far as he’s concerned I’m out of here tomorrow – but then I push on. I tell him how I need this. I tell him about the mom shit. I get him to relate, I’ll take nine-to-one that says David was a late nurser, sucking his mom’s tit until he was seven, sleeping in bed with her until he was at least eleven or twelve. I know she died last year and he took a fucking month off from work. A MONTH! You tell me he and his mom didn’t have a “special relationship” that consisted of the lonely divorcee bitch dry-humping her only son in the late night hours while Johnny Fucking Carson wore a goddamn turban and red fan mail or whatever the fuck he did during that ridiculous skit. So I’m telling Eric this, thanking him for his patience, making jokes about the nigger nurse my mom has – relating to this fuck on his level and you can see the conflict. It’s as if his old girlfriend is telling him that she wants to come back and she’s doing one fuck of a good job proving it’ll be just like it was before it got bad – fucking better, actually. It’ll be like perverted fucking Care Bears banning together and doing their Care Bear Stare to pull more ass than ever deemed imaginable. He finally caves, tells me he understands, tells me I should have come to him sooner, took some time of – anything. He tells me I should book my trip to Atlanta – he changes his mind and calls the travel agent for me, tells me he’ll take care of everything, I should just go home – be with my mom. Friday comes and goes and I’m not laid off. Monday comes and the new guy shows up to work, the new me, and he’s pretty miffed that the office he was promised isn’t available – he’s getting set-up in a spare conference room.

“Joseph – can you change the TV? I hate the news.” I’m not going to lie, I’m really not – this isn’t easy. I sit here and stare at the TV with my mom – it’s a Tuesday fucking night, Tuesday nights are the new Thursday. I could be out scoring, having some fucking fun. Shit, I could even be back home with Agatha dressing her up like a nun and fucking her in the ass. We haven’t done that yet but I doubt she’ll say “no” at this point. But instead I’m with my mom because it’s too important to let this character lapse. This is my out, this is my penance for fucking around the past month – this is my fucking meditative retreat designed to remind me that you need to work for this shit. SO my mom asks me to change the station every hour and I do and then she cries, says how good I am and how much she doesn’t deserve it. She tells me to go home. I refuse. She tells me not to look at her. I give her a kiss on the forehead. She tells me not to worry. She tells me she’s going to be fine. She tells me not to worry about the hospital bill – she tells me that she’ll pay it – she tells me she’ll find a way to come up with a couple of tens of thousands of dollars. And I deny it all, I tell her I’m here to help her out and she starts to cry again. She says how she should have died. She says she’s such a burden. She promises me she’ll get healthy. She promises me she won’t abuse this second chance. I tell her I’d love her regardless but if I had a choice I’d rather she wouldn’t die yet – I’d rather she stick around for a while. This starts the whole cycle over again.

This is my forty fucking days in the wilderness.

But I got my second lease on life. I’m back in command, I got Agatha’s number, the bitch lost. It’s even nice to have my mom back – a charity case to keep me grounded – kep me caring about something. I’m smart enough to gaze inward, see that I’ve been missing that. We all have our complexes, I’m no exception. I’m not that detached, you know – I need someone that I can give to not because of what I get in return – I need a fucking charity case for the sake of having a charity case – and who better than my mom?

I can admit to this.

I can admit to what this all is.

Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been a year since my last confession.

This is my repentance. Now I can get back to what I was doing.


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