My Mother's Son
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As I struggle to rejoin the world of the conscious, I realize that I
have
slept for most of the day. It was originally just a temporary method to
rid myself of a terrible headache, but once in progress it developed
into
full- fledged REM. Only figuratively of course, I didn't actually dream
anything. My guess is that my brain shut itself down for repairs.
I know that I must sit up or I will fall asleep again. I've already done too much of that. Not that the action of sleeping itself would be so bad. It’s the non-action on dealing with my problems that's the killer. Sleeping expends time that I can ill afford because the passing hours are somewhat of a precious commodity to me. That may sound crazy, but throughout my entire life up until the past few days, I have travelled through. I've wasted too much time where I shouldn't have, and spent too little on where I should have. It is true that I am only seventeen years old and probably have many decades ahead, but the fact is that I've wasted most of those seventeen years. Many would look upon wasting their childhood and teenage years as somewhat natural. But on the same scale, if someone were to waste ages 20- 37, it would be seen as a mortal sin. Then why are the two examples so different? However, I'm nowhere near alone in this judgement. Everybody feels that they've wasted their lives in some respect, its human nature. For some it can be as indifferent as sleeping in on Sundays or spending time on the Internet. For others, however, it is a very serious issue, such as spending many years at a job they despise or not spending enough time with a family member. Nevertheless, they go on with their lives, only giving occasionally thought to the waste. 'I'll do it next week', or 'I just don't have the time right now' are some of the more popular excuses, although some rely on the old 'I cant change my life now.’ No matter the excuse, the time continues to be wasted until the day comes when it’s too late to reconcile. The person looks back, longing for the days of old and what could have been. But all they see is an unwanted future were things aren't as they had dreamed. But as always, it is impossible to turn back the clock. The family member is now long gone and the job retired from. All of those moments that could have been spent talking over coffee with their favourite aunt are permanently wasted to sitcoms and soap operas on TV. Deep in thought, I lazily gaze out the bay window to the apartment building across the street. I specifically focus on one apartment where only a blue glaze penetrates the window. Without doubt it’s a television, as it is in almost every home at this time. However, beyond that it’s anybodies guess. What is the family like who is watching it? Is the television a babysitter, or merely a distraction? Is it even a family at all? Unfortunately, I will never know. Another night, another show, more hours of wasted time to be regretted in the future. At least it’s them and not me. I slowly shift my gaze from the apartment across the street to our television set, which stands alone in a corner of the room. Where it stands is in a way a testimonial as to its status in our household: a supreme being. Not standing next to something else because it is too good for anything else. It’s a mentor in our household, not to mention an indiscriminate entertainer and an intellectual superior. Well, at least in the case of Gary and mom. Most of the programs are hardly intellectual, but they’re sheer genius when compared to the elders in this house. If a show they watch has even one snappy line, I automatically know it will pop up in their vocabulary within the next few days. Maybe our society will degenerate to the lowest common denominator where all wisdom is derived from television. Its possible that we would not be able to relate to real life situations without comparing them to something that happened on any number of television sitcoms. Our one goal in life would be to get hit in the crotch so that we could compete for the ten thousand-dollar prize on 'Americas Funniest Home Videos'. How sad. Annoyingly, my train of thought is broken by the apartment door opening. Without looking, I know its mom; the clicking of her high heels gives her away. I'm not sure what to say to her after crushing her spirit last night. I want to say something thoughtful and apologetic, yet I want to be mean spirited and make her cry. My feeling towards her are not sorted out yet. They're still running free in my mind. I want to hate her, yet I want to love her. I want to hit her, yet I want to hug her. If only there were a book of guidelines stating what you should do after your mother tells you of your conception, then drops a bombshell on you. Maybe I should avoid the topic all together and go with something much smoother. I decide upon the smooth, “So, when does Gary get off?” There is no formal response, only the noise of shoes hitting the floor. "I hope not too soon. It’s so much less skanky when he’s not here.” Actually, that gives me a thought. Maybe everything’s been too much for him and he took off like all the losers before him. Could I be that lucky? I decide to be direct, “Did you break up with Gary?” Again, there’s no answer. I am unable to hide the excitement in my voice, “Well, did you?” The sound of footsteps trudges towards the living room. Suddenly from around the corner, somebody appears. "No we didn't." Gary seethes as he takes a seat on the coach. Uh oh, faux paux. He picks the remote up from the coffee table and turns on the television. The usual 7:00 pm fare is on, syndicated sitcoms, late news shows, 'Jeopardy'. He settles on the latter, possibly to test his intellect, but more likely to measure his lack thereof. Among the subjects are Soft Drinks, American Cities, and Shakespeare, the first being the only one in which he might be remotely intelligent. I really don't care for Jeopardy, although it is one of the few television shows that doesn't pander to the lowest common denominator. Actually, I find it depressing when others know so much more than I do. I could give you an intelligible answer to most world history questions, but I'd be as dumb as they came if the subject was 15th century paintings. “Are you going to watch this?” I question rudely. "Yes I am," he pauses as if in a state of confusion. "Shouldn't you apologize to me? He surprises me in his bluntness, “For what?” "For what you said when I walked in the door and you thought that I was your mother." “Are you kidding?” I laugh. "No, I'm not," he snarls. "That's too bad then." He looks towards me, “Did you mean what you said?” “What do you think?” "No, I want to know what you think," he pauses. "You've hated me from day one. I've tried so many times to break down the wall between us, but I cant do it all by myself. I've taken you to baseball games, to hockey games; I've tried everything. I've been with your mother now almost a year. At first I thought that you were just a rebellious teenager, but you haven't changed. I don't know what to do with you anymore." "You don't have to do anything." "There you go again. You're always so defensive against everybody. Nobody is out to get you despite what you may think," he pauses to draw a conclusion, "I want to be you friend, not your enemy." "Then good luck because you will never be my friend," I turn towards the television. "I don't like you, I never have and I never will. Despite that, you are not my enemy. You must care about your enemies even if only in hate. That takes energy," I shake my head. "Energy which I wouldn't waste on feeling something for you." He shrugs, "I can't change your mind, so think whatever you want to. I'm tired of trying to live up to your undefined standards, so I'm not going to bother to try to anymore." "That's entirely your choice. I don't really care what you do or don't do.” "That's the right attitude," he notes condescendingly. I attempt to answer one the questions on Jeopardy, "What is Birmingham." "No," Gary tries to act intelligent. "It’s Meridian." “What is Meridian?” "That is correct." How impressive, Gary actually knew the answer to one of the questions. Maybe he isn't a complete invalid. "See, I'm not stupid after all. There goes your theory." I draw a quick conclusion, "You're from the south, I'm not. If I was I probably could have answered that question too.” "Fine then. To prove it to you, I'll answer the next one." "This Californian city was state capital from 1849- 1851." "San Jose," he confidently answers. “What is San Jose?” "That is correct." Gary looks towards me, arrogantly grinning. "So what," I downplay his accomplishment, "All that proves is that you know the United States. The U.S. is only a small part of the world. It figures that you'd be so closed minded." "You can’t give me any credit, can you? No matter, I don't need you approval," he attempts to damage my ego. "Nor I yours," I snarkly reply. He appears to be angered that he has not yet agitated me, so he tries again, "Just like your mother and I don't need your approval to get married." "Of course you don't," I react logically, "You're both consenting adults, it’s not as if you need a note from your parents." He’s stumped as to a reply. Now to go one step further and make him angry, “You won’t be able to invite any of you cousins though. They'll get jealous that you're marrying outside the family." "You know," he growls. "I really hate it when you crack jokes about people from the south. We're not a bunch of inbred- slack jawed yokels." "Am I supposed to cower now that you're angry?" He turns away and takes a deep breath, "You're not going to get to me, not this time." I turn to a previous subject, “I just can’t wait for that wedding, can you?” He turns cynical, “Why, what do you have planned?” “Why must you be so pessimistic?” I egg him on, “Why in the name of God would I try to ruin the wedding for you? My soul purpose in life is to see you and mom happy." "Happy in hell," he adds. "Whatever," I sigh. He looks towards me again, "Don't you dare try anything at this wedding. I want it to go off without a hitch, and there's no fucking way in hell you're ruining that for me and your mother. She deserves to be happy. Don’t you want to see her happy?” I respond very seriously, "Yes, I want to see her happy. However, she will never be happy with you. Never. You’re wrong for her. I know it, and deep down, she knows it." He shakes his head, "I'm the best thing that has ever happened to her. She’s happy now, unlike when I came into her life. She was a mess. She drank and chain-smoked her days away. She never ate, she didn’t even bother to take care of her body. In the last year she’s stopped smoking, cooled the drinking, started eating better and she‘s working out. If anything I’m her saviour, not her downfall. I can only wonder as to how big of a role you played in her drinking and everything else." I am completely shocked by his speech. Not necessarily by his accusation, but that he was able to string together that many sentences to form a coherent paragraph. His facial expression turns to shame, "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that." To play along, I play the revenge card, "And you're a fat ugly bastard with a bitch for a mother." I pause. "Oops, sorry, shouldn't have said that." His mouth falls open in shock. "What, is it suckling time ? Your mother's way down in Mobile, you'll have to go hungry." His expression turns from shock to anger as he fully realizes my words, "Don't ever put down my mother. She’s the finest woman on the face of the planet and you ain’t nobody to put anybody down." I mock his southern accent, "If she’s what passes for fin in Mobile, I ain't never going there. I wouldn’t make it out alive, being a Jew and all.” Gary turns his head away from my direction, seemingly trying to calm himself. Then, in an instant, he backhands the side of my face with enough force to knock me off the coach and onto the floor. As I fall, I bump my head on the side of the coffee table, which leaves me with a slight cut. I hit the floor on my back with a thud. I don't feel any pain, not even from the cut. What I do feel is a raging urge to beat his face into an unrecognizable blob. How dare he hit me. I do not belong to him, I’m not of his relation. I’m not an object to be abused. Is he not afraid of the consequences ? Those not only legal, but also those physical ? Does he think that I won’t return the favour ? Consider it returned. He leans over me, "Oh my god, are you okay ?" I don’t move. He shakes my face, "Are you awake ?" In a swift move, with all of the strength that I have, I nail him dead on the nose. He is knocked back and hits the wall opposite me. He slides and lands on the floor. I quickly stand, "You son of a bitch. Don’t you ever touch me again. If you do, I will kill you. I will take a knife and stab it directly into your heart and watch you bleed to death in agony because I don’t care about you at all. The only thing I wish for you is death.” He has no response. He is too busy nursing his bleeding nose to put together a statement. I decide to go to my bedroom to let him regain his composure. Half way down the hall, a hand grabs my shoulder. I turn around. "You never hit your elders. Don't you have any manners ?" Before he is able to hit me, I grab his hand in midair, "Didn't I warn you not to hit me?” "I hate you," he finally admits. "Good, at least its mutual," an unexpected burst of tears escapes as I turn back to my bedroom. I take one step, then I feel an intense kick into my lower back. I lose my balance and stumble towards the end of the hall where I hit the wall. My head painfully jerks back as I fall to the floor. This time there is a physical pain, exactly where I hit my head only seconds earlier. As I slowly reach up to examine it, there is a sharp pain in my side. Not initially sure what it is, I open my eyes to see Gary kicking me in the ribs. Each of his words is accompanied by a blow, "Don't you ever hit your elders you worthless piece of junk." He finally stops. The pain is extremely intense and I realize that I cannot hold on, so I let myself go.
I reawaken to see Gary in the dining room talking to somebody on the
phone,
his back facing me as if to tell me that I am not worthy of his eyes. I
can’t hear what he is saying because I can’t hear at all. Maybe he
kicked
me in the head. The pain is still intense, but I‘m being overcome by a
numb feeling. I raise my hand to once again examine my cut, only to
realize
that it has grown bigger. This side of my face is also scrapped and is
very painful to the touch. My arm hurts to move and my breathing is
laboured.
He really showed me.
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