My Mother's Son: Chapter 2
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I wake up to find myself in a rather awkward position. My hands are
neatly
tucked behind my neck and my legs are crossed. I slowly stretch my sore
legs so as not to hurt a muscle. Finally comfortable, I think back to
the
previous night and to my dreams, which are experiences often foreign to
me. When I do dream, I am anxious to remember and record it, so as to
have
some vision of what would be a possibly better life. Thinking long and
hard, I come to the conclusion that I have been left dreamless once
again,
as I usually am.
In an ere of disappointment, I slide my legs off the rickety iron bed and onto the floor. The sound of a rusty doorknob turning drills into my head. I slowly look up. My mother stands in the doorway, looking like Germany after World War II. “You’d better get out here. The cat shit all over the living room floor and you’re cleaning it up.” “Just what I wanted to do,” I note sarcastically. “What?” she snaps back. “Nothing, forget about it.” “Couldn’t be much more,” she says as she closes the door. “There’s no way I’m cleaning that up,” I contest. “The cat only does it because Gary beats her, the bastard.” My thoughts are broken by my mother calling me from the kitchen. “Get out here now!” she screams. Uncharacteristically obedient, I stumble off the bed and proceed to the kitchen. There she stands, a frying pan in hand. “Clean it up!” she screams. “You’ve got to be crazy if you think I’m cleaning that mess up,” I spit. “I’ll show your crazy if you don’t,” she threatens, raising the frying pan over my head. “Fuck off. I’m not cleaning that up. If Gary wouldn’t beat the shit out of the cat, she wouldn’t do that,” I challenge her, but conceding a bit, taking a step back. “You’re treading on really thin ice here, don’t push it.” “When am I not treading on thin ice with you?” I ask rhetorically. She breathes, trying to conjure up a fresh threat, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do what I say, or else.” “Or else what? You’ll beat me with the frying pan? That’d be something different. You usually just go for the belt buckle.” “Just don’t push me. I’m having a bad day and you’re making it worse.” she says, laying the frying pan down on the counter and taking a seat by the table. “So I guess that means you’re going to start your drink-a-thon early today?” I continue to push her patience. “No wonder I drink. With the way you drive me up the wall, the pope would be an alcoholic." “Don’t blame your drinking on me. You’re the alcoholic. Maybe if you wouldn’t bring so many assholes into your life, you’d be able to stay sober for more than two consecutive hours.” “Gary’s a really nice guy and I love him. Can’t you respect that?” “That’s why there are dents in the wall from him throwing you against them.” “That’s none of your business. And besides, it doesn’t happen that often. He’s a good guy 99% of the time. I’ve never had that.” “And you wonder why,” I walk towards my bedroom. “Where are you going?” she yells. “You have a mess to clean up in the living room.” “I don’t think so. You’re down on your knees all the time, you may as clean up the mess while you’re down there,” I retort as I walk to my bedroom. “You’d better start pulling your weight around here or else you’re out!” she yells from the kitchen. “Fuck you too,” I slam the door. “Don’t you do that to me!” she runs down the hall and throws the door open. “I am your mother. I deserve respect!” “Tell your fucks that first.” “You little bastard,” she raises her hand to me. An almost uncontrollable anger appears in her eyes, alas one that I have seen many times. It no longer scares me, but rather makes me laugh. And I do. Just the thing to make her more angry. “Go ahead,” I challenge her. “You’ll regret it.” She slowly lowers her hand and somberly walks out of the room. Arriving in the kitchen, she notifies me that she’s leaving. I’m not paying attention to her. My thoughts drift throughout my mind, as they always do, taking me to places that I have visited so many times. Some of these places scare me, yet some comfort me. Thoughts of leaving home run wild through my imagination. But whom would I turn to? I can’t trust anybody that I know, or is it that I don’t trust anybody at all? Years of hardship and mental abuse have taken their toll on my fragile mind. Trust no one is my personal motto. The only person you can trust is yourself, because you can’t stab yourself in the back. I calmly reach to the telephone, which stands on the edge of my bed. My fingers feel the buttons as if wondering what to do next. The truth is that I don’t know what to do. There is nobody to call. There is nowhere to run. Only to run away from this apartment and to never look back. I walk to the closet and pick up a duffle bag that is inauspiciously waiting underneath a pile of untouched books. It is already filled with a variety of things, most of which are essential for survival. Taped on the back wall of my closet if a picture of my mother, put there many years ago. I spit at the image in anger. I fell somewhat relieved, yet the need to escape is still driving me. I yank at the duffle bag, knocking over the pile of books. Freeing it, I open the bedroom door and proceed down the hall. My mother is sitting back on to me. She didn’t leave like she said she was going to. She lied to me. I'm absolutely shocked. I move very quietly so as not to grab her attention. I pick up my shoes and open the door. “Where are you going?” she startles me. “Like you’d care anyway.” “Be like that then," she concedes in a lazy voice. "I really don’t care." “Didn’t think so.” I respond, slamming the door. The hall is dark and empty; no natural light touches it at any point, giving it a morbid feel. More than half of the dim fluorescent lights are smashed out, the remnants scattered dangerously on the floor. The paint peels from the ceiling to the carpet, as if the walls are crying. The hall runner is stained with urine and mud, looking like it hasn't been cleaned in a decade. The hall is a perfect match for my mother, old, worn, smashed and crying, yet still being used over and over again. Maybe that's why she's stayed in this building for so long: the atmosphere is a metaphor for her life. I zoom down the stairs as quickly as I can, my body barely keeping up with my own two feet. I don't want to look back; I don't want to have a second thought. I just want to get out, because I know that if I do stop, if I do look back, I will go back. Not because I think that I can make it work with her, but because I'd convince myself that I had nowhere else to go. I've done this before, reached the bottom of the steps and looked back. Every single time I resigned myself to walking back up those stairs, returning to the apartment, apologizing to her, then silently waiting for the next time. I can't do it again. I walk out onto the street, wondering where exactly I'm going to go. I don't have any friends; I was always too involved in thinking about my own pain to bother to make any. And I could never bring them over for lunch or supper, that would be the end of everything. I'd walk in with John or Sarah, talking about our latest math assignment, with the best of intentions to treat them to a nice lunch, some TV, something to make them stay. But then my mother would stumble out of the bedroom, drunk or high, having taken way too much of whatever she chose to numb her life with that day. My friend would be mortified, I'd die of embarrassment, and it would all be over. So no, I don't have any friends to run to. Just when I need somebody the most, I'm all alone. I continue walking down the street, still clueless as to what to do. I don't have anywhere to go, not even family. Nobody lives in the city anymore. I suppose I could go to a shelter, but that's a last resort for me. Shelters are for drug addicts and alcoholics, not for people running away from them. Maybe I should send my mother into one, at least then I wouldn't have to live in fear in my own bedroom. But some how she'd find a way to get back onto her feet, she always does. Struggling through life half assedly, she's gotten her self back up more times than an old man with erectile dysfunction. I could trot myself down to Pont St-Charles and find an abandoned warehouse to hold myself up in. It wouldn't be very hard- it's the oldest and most declining part of the city. But I might have competition- it's the spot of choice for the city's homeless, where people go when they have no other choice. Falling apart themselves, they perfectly match the atmosphere of the neighbourhood. I turn a corner and start down Rue St-Jacques. It's a busy thoroughfare; most of the traffic is leading into the city at this time of the day. People going to their perfect jobs, leading their perfect lives, driving well-manicured cars. I only wish I could be one of those people with a car, so I could drive far away and never look back. With all of my worries and pains left behind me, I could start the life I've always wanted to lead. Find a girl, have a baby and give them everything I never had. That's my ultimate goal, to show my mother how it should be done. I look down an alleyway between two decrepit old buildings. There's a garbage dumpster, yet nobody seems to use it. Trash is strewn about; an old stuffed animal, a cereal box, some worn gloves. I decide to investigate further. Walking down the alleyway, it seems like the perfect place to hold up for the day. Just out of the way of modern life, just far enough from my mother that I wouldn't be tempted to return. Maybe if I stayed away for the night, she'll realize that something is fundamentally wrong in our lives, and will set out on a journey to make everything right. Who am I trying to kid? At the very least I can hope to hurt her somewhat, to return some of the emotional pain that's she's doled out to me over the years. As for making her realize anything, only god could accomplish that at this point. I cautiously step over the bags of garbage, noticing that there is a space behind the dumpster. This could be the perfect place to hide from the world, I think to myself; nobody would be able to find me here. Not that anybody would be trying to find my- my mother doesn't care, and nobody else knows me well enough to even be aware that I exist. All alone forever, seemingly destined to relive the life of my mother. I peer behind the dumpster to find a tiny shelter constructed out of old boxes and boards. Some young kids probably did this, relishing their few days of freedom that came with the recent holidays. But the whole scene is telling of the urban jungle that we live in. While children in the country side venture into the woods to build "forts" out of felled trees and brush, kids in the city venture into the alleyway, building architectural nightmares out of cardboard boxes behind a garbage dumpster. I swear to god, my children will not do this. They'll have the space to roam free, safe in the knowledge that their parents love them. Two things that I never had. Kicking the cardboard, a groan comes from within. Somewhat startled, I back off. "Qui est là?" I hoary voice yells from within, asking me who's there. "C'est personne," I answer, frightened, that it's nobody. A face appears from a corner of the lean-to. It's ragged, scruffy, with a full beard. It's the most frightening thing I've ever seen, including my mother before she has "her face" on. "You're not French," he matter-of-factly states, crawling out of the box. "No, I'm not." "I'm not either," he stands, dusting himself off. "Who are you?" "I'm nobody." "You're obviously somebody," he looks me up and down. "If you were nobody you wouldn't exist." "I should be going," I back away. "Don't go anywhere," he says, grabbing me by the arm. "You got any smokes?" "No." "Any liquor?" "No, sorry." "Then what the fuck are you out here for?" he demands threateningly. "Nobody comes out here unless they're on skid row." "I am on skid row," I challenge him. "No, you're a clean cut kid from the suburbs, you have no idea what skid row is like." "Really," I laugh. "You have no idea." "What's your story then?" he asks, wiping his nose with his hand. "My story?" "Everybody's got a story. I even got a story. It's about all I have left." I don't know what to tell him. I don't want to spend my whole day matching wits with a homeless addict, so maybe I'll give him the abridged version. "I come from a broken home," I look to the ground. "I'm running away." "Poor baby," he spits. "I see your kind down here all the time. Don't last a minute before they run home crying, back into the arms of their mothers" "That won't be happening." "I give you one day." I become impatient, "So what's your story? I'm sure it's the most harrowing tale since the holocaust." "Funny, you mention that. I used to study the holocaust at Concordia." "Yeah right, you went to Concordia. People with education don't live on the streets. They have jobs and families." "Class of 1997, BA in history," he smirks. "I'd show you the ring if I hadn't already pawned it." His response surprises me. Homeless people can be educated? This adds a whole new dimension to my warped worldview. I always thought that people were on the streets because they had failed at all else, they were the absolute bottom rung of society. "Then what the hell's wrong with you?" I ask cynically. "People with BA's get jobs, What happened to you?" "People with BA's might get jobs, but people with BA's and drug habits don't," he looks to the ground. "You can't exactly put heroine on a resumé." "How the fuck did you get hook on H?" "Don't talk to me like that." "I can talk to you however I want." "I just love it when you kids come out on the streets and run into people like me," he laughs. "Back home, you're the world's next great hope, ready to take on whatever comes your way. But out here you're on the bottom rung of the ladder. Stay long enough and somebody will be selling your ass for quarters." "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," I become defensive. "I've survived more than you could ever dream of." "You don't know the first thing about surviving." "Fuck off," I scream. "You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through. You have no idea." "You're just like all the rest that came before you," he laughs. "You won't survive five minutes out here." "Go to hell," I turn my back to walk away, having had enough of his bullshit. "Go on," he roars with laughter. "Run back to mommy, go cry to her. She'll make it all right." I walk away, thinking about what he said. Running back to my mother would be the last thing I'd ever do. For my own sake, I can't go back. Living anywhere, even as a prostitute hooked on crack, would be better than being dragged into the abyss by her. Going back would be suicide. Maybe slow and painful, but nevertheless, a certain death. |