Memoirs of a Phat Chick

Class Pictures

2012-02-17T20:34:00.000-08:00

I saw the pile of folders on Mrs. Yakovich’s desk the second I arrived to class. I knew from the pale blue paper with clear, crinkly plastic window that our school pictures finally arrived. We would have to wait all day to get them and then be advised to open them at home with our parents. I was confident this year.

The year before had been a disaster. My mother, on a sewing bender, had made my outfit. A red polyester paisley suit with a white turtleneck, only to be exacerbated by the shortest haircut ever. A style my father coined the "Auschwitz".

This years picture would be near perfection. I obsessed about my outfit for days. I had a yellow sweater, maize to be exact, with brown pants with maize stitching and flowers at the cuffs. I was thrilled when I arrived at school and found Mrs. Yakovich had made a similar fashion choice. Finally, after six torturous hours, Mrs. Yakovich announced it was time, and, as I suspected, we were advised to wait and give the folders to our mothers. They were, of course, in alphabetical. Carl Asanti. Bonnie Butterfield. C’mon. Finally, Mary Ann Lisi, Michael Mallord, Erin McLaughlin. I clutched my packet to my chest and ran for the door.

I couldn’t wait to bring my packet home and spread out my pictures all over my bed, saving my class picture for last so I could savor each face, each outfit, each closed eye.

In my hurry I failed to notice Mrs. Spornack, on her bike, or her daughter Lily on foot. They were behind me as usual. Lily would speak to her mother in a loud voice, so I could clearly hear, that no one liked me because I was fat and always looked a wreck. This day I heard none of their snickering and hurtful comments. My mother had spoken to Mrs.Spornack on more than one occasion. She was smugly advised that kids would be kids.

Mrs. Spornack yelled ahead to me.

"Where’s the fire, Erin?"

"I want to get my pictures home. It may rain."

"Yeah, cause she thinks she looks good and wants to see. You should have seen her picture day, Mom. She thought she looked so cute."

"That’s not true. What do you care anyway?"

"Watch your tone," warned Mrs. Spornack.

I hated them both. They looked like ferrets.

Mrs. Spornack stopped her bike and took Lily’s pictures and went right to the class picture. Both burst out laughing. I did not let this sway me. I kept right on walking. I knew better than to run. I had heard their earthquake jokes before.

"Don’t bother hurrying, honey. I can’t imagine a bigger version of this could be better."

I stopped dead in my tracks.

“I told you, Mom. It doesn’t matter she always looks like a slob.”

“Well, honey, be grateful. It’s not all her fault. Her mother should be helping her.”

“Her mother’s ugly too.”

“Oh Lily! You’re terrible!” They roared with laughter.

Something happened in me at that moment. A rage came over me that I had never felt before. I turned around and started to punch Lily in the face as hard and quickly as I could. I had never hit anyone with such hate before. By the time Mrs. Spornack was able to get off her bike, Lily was bloodied and screaming and I was running home. I knew Mrs. Spornack would be close behind.

I came through the door and ran past my mother up to my room and to await my fate. Within minutes my doorbell rang. Mrs. Spornack was on my porch, holding her smug bitch of a daughter by the arm.

“Look what your animal did to my Lily.”

“Kids will be kids” was all she said as she shut the door in their faces.

I sat in my window and watched Mrs. Spornack and a bloodied Lily leave my porch. Mrs. Spornack turned to look back at the house. We made eye contact. I gave her the finger. I wasn't entirely sure what that meant but I knew if pissed Fran off when people did it to him.

My mother never mentioned the visit from the Spornack's and they took an alternative route home from then on.

I still needed to see my pictures for myself. I opened the package careful not to make too much noise. If they were as bad as Mrs. Spornack said I wasn’t going to give them to my parents. I was still ashamed of last years photos. I pulled out the main 8x10 that would be put in the frame over last years debacle. My heart sank. My hair was a mess. My new shag haircut had not held up during dodgeball and it was sticking up everywhere. And why didn’t I remember to smile with my mouth closed? My crooked teeth were ugly. And why did I smile so wide it made my double chin look even flabbier? What the hell was I so happy about anyway?

Maybe the class picture would be better.

I scan the picture row by row. Mrs.Yakovich looked beautiful. Opal and those ears, Robbie and his crazy cowlick, Frankie in his suspenders. The next row was all girls. Lily Spornack, pre-beating, in a red glittery shirt and fake smile, Lisa with her giant forehead, Jessica Forman, whose father had backed over and killed her little brother the summer before. Then it happened, I scanned my own face. I was stunned. In a sea of seeming misfits, I was a true stand out. I was fat, unkempt and sloppy.I looked worn, old. Mrs. Spornack had been right after all. I had tried so hard. I felt almost cute and put together and maybe even pretty. How could I have been so wrong? There was only one thing to do. I went into my brother’s perfectly neat and arranged desk and found a red marker and a pair of scissors. I carefully opened the folder that housed the atrocity and in my very best handwriting recorded the names of each of my classmates. The space provided for my own name would remain empty.

I proceeded to remove my picture from the rest. I took my brother’s safety scissors, he was too young for sharp objects, and carefully cut between Jimmy Cervone and Ronnie Shomsky to my own picture. I scooped out my image and flushed in down the toilet. I had to. I went back to the side of the folder where I had carefully recorded the names of my classmates. I saw the blank space that would hold my name on all the other class pictures.

I imagined some would say my name and some would say fat girl. I was confident some of the pictures would be defaced with blackened teeth and ghostbuster circles.

I took my red pen and wrote my name in its proper place. I may not want to look at myself but I did exist. Didn’t I?

Micky Caselli

2012-02-16T20:23:00.000-08:00

Micky Caselli lived across the street from me. He was the only child of a meek and abused English teacher and a sadistic, alcoholic father. I never saw either of them. I was in high school before I ever laid eyes on Mrs. Caselli, after 15 years as her neighbor. I knew her story, and she mine, we both kept them to our selves. She and Micky were perpetually injured, something everyone just became accustomed to, devastating in retrospect.

Micky was six years my senior. He had a basketball hoop in front of his house, an otherwise bleak place. I would come over, sheepishly, cookies in-hand, hopeful I would earn my keep if I bore gifts. A sleeve of flower shaped, fudge filled cookies would be my entrance to his company. Micky told me that I didn’t need to come over with cookies and that if people only wanted to be my friend because of what I had to offer, they were, in fact, no friend at all. He always stood by that theory. He never made me feel like a pest or unwanted in any way, but we always ate the cookies, me sitting on the curb, him shooting baskets.

Micky taught me how to box when I was 6 years old. He said with a smart mouth like mine I’d be using my right hook as often as any Golden-glover.

“Ok, you little smartass, let’s see if you’ve got anything to back up that mouth! Move your feet! Get your hands up!”

He’d swat at me until I’d take a legit swing at him.

“There she is! That’s what I want to see!”

He laughed. With a broad, genuine smile on his face, told me I was wild. He was a regular kid, filled with joy, until the fender of his father’s white Impalla turned the corner. Time would freeze for him in front of my very eyes. I didn’t understand the abrupt, daily death of my sage trainer, but it was palpable. I couldn’t comprehend the cruelty that lived in his house but I watched it arrive, everyday at 5:30.

Micky was a great athlete, never good enough for his father, but the kids in town worshiped him. There were rumors among us littler kids that his father would show up at his baseball games drunk and beat him in the parking lot after the game, win or lose. His spirit never seemed to break, unlike his bones.

One mischief night, the brain trust, consisting of Ronnie, Edward and I, decided to ring doorbells, soap windows and string toilet paper from trees. We were an original and creative group. After toilet papering Mrs. Silverfarbs’ house and ringing the doorbell, we ran. We jumped through the bushes that lined my house, which, by the way, was directly across from Mrs. Silverfarb’s house. Ronnie, overly confident in his physical abilities, jumped headfirst. Hopeful of a graceful, McGyver type roll, only to get stuck, head first in the thicket. He screamed and flailed. Edward and I laughed so hard we were rendered helpless. We tried to assist him but we were unsuccessful at extracting him before Micky came out and saw what we had done.

As it turns out Mrs. Silverfarb spent 8 months a year in Boca and would not have seen our handy work until mid-May. Micky said he was disappointed, that we should be nicer to the old ladies, the original draw. In exchange for his silence we had to agree to shovel all of the old ladies driveways for the whole winter, for free. We did and he supervised every snowstorm.

Several years after my extensive training in pugilism, I had an actual fight. I was in my front yard, pre-fight, playing wiffle ball. I had just hit a line drive over Mrs. Pulaski’s hedges. I made my way to second base as my sparring partner pulled up on his bike- a boy, two years my senior.

“Earthquake! Earthquake!”

Initially, I ignored the uninspired taunts.

“ You gonna cry, fat ass?”

“Do I look like I’m gonna cry, loser?”

“You calling me a loser, fat ass?”

“You are the only loser I see.”

“Fuck you.”

Ah, the “f” word, only broken out for special occasions. At that young age it still held a healthy punishment. I knew him and I were going to fight. It was far from my first altercation and I knew how to expedite the process.

“Faggot.”

I would be lying if I didn’t admit the enjoyment I experienced the moment I knew I had gotten under someone’s skin to the point of them losing control, a skill perfected early on at the expense of the nuns. I also knew that calling a boy a faggot was fighting words. He dropped his bike to the ground and came at me. Our brief exchange had caught the eye of Mr. Kascak, who sat on his front porch, beer in hand. In an instant, every kid in the neighborhood stood as spectators.

“You want to fight, fat ass?”

“Well, I don’t want to dance, faggot.”

He took a step at me. Micky intervened.

“Hey! Boys don’t hit girls around here. Plus you are twice her size. You can fight me, tough guy.”

We all knew that wasn’t going to happen. Micky was a tough kid and we all knew he had the capacity for violence. Brian, my opponent, took another step closer.

“You can’t fight your own battles, fat ass?”

“Sure I can. Don’t pay any attention to him. I think you should be able to hit girls, especially one as ugly as you.”

Brian was enraged. He came at me like an animal, near tears from embarrassment and fury. I took the first swing, just as I had been instructed to. “Don’t wait to get hit, Erin.” Words to live by. My fist connected with his jaw and laid him out flat. I straddled him and beat him with every ounce of fat ass ferocity I possessed. Bleeding and hysterical, Brian tried to escape my wrath unsuccessfully, until my mother came out of the house.

“What the hell is going on? Erin! Stop! Look what you are doing!”

“He did call her a fat ass, Mrs. McLaughlin. Well, then she called him a faggot.”

My mother’s jaw dropped in shock. I shrugged. I knew I couldn’t count on Ronnie for muscle but he was loyal, even if a bit too honest. This information changed things a bit for my mother, I could tell. Her hesitation in yanking me off solidified my knowledge that I wouldn’t get in as much trouble for fighting, this time.

“Ok, everyone go back to what you were doing. Fight’s over. Maybe next time you’ll think before you call someone a fat ass.”

Brian got on his bike and never came to my yard again. My mother was angry. She turned to Mr. Kascak, still on his front porch, ringside.

“Ed, why didn’t you break it up?"

“He called her a fat ass and she was winning.”

My mother shook her head in disgust as she dragged me into the house to face my punishment. The crowd had dispersed except for Micky. He stood in the street in front of my house, bursting with pride. We made eye contact. His jaw set, he nodded at me and mouthed “good girl”.

I never became the “boxer” Micky would have liked, but I did know to defend myself, by just hauling off and cracking someone. No grace or finesse, as he would of preferred, but effective nonetheless.

Several years ago my father called to say that Micky had called him. Fran had not seen or heard from Micky in at least 15 years and had moved twice. Micky tracked him down through former neighbors. He was in need a few hundred dollars. He said he had been in trouble with drugs and a bad crowd and was going to use the money to “right a wrong”. Fran said he either gave Micky $300.00 to straighten out, or $300.00 to never hear from him again.

Micky used the money to take his estranged wife and little girl to a carnival. He bought them dinner and took his daughter on rides. They had their picture taken on the back of a camel. Micky dropped them off at home, rented a room at a local hotel and hung himself.

marco polo and skunks

2011-02-06T22:20:00.000-08:00

Edward’s backyard abutted that of our friend, Patsy. Patsy, a hideous nickname given to him by his mother, encouraged, well maybe encouraged is a bit strong strong, but he never refused an opportunity for us to dress him in drag. Patsy was almost game for any make-over and, truth be told, he didn’t look half bad in a tube top and eyeshadow; which was more than I could have said.

Patsy had a pool. In the summer, we would play endless hours of Macro Polo. The pool was small and round, which made Marco Polo similar to trying to find each other in a bathtub. If you had a big enough wing-span, like Eddie did, all you had to do was helicopter around until you clipped one of us. I had perfected a stealth-like move of quietly lifting myself onto the edge of the pool to keep myself out of Marco’s reach.

One afternoon, during a particularly heated game of Marco Polo, I used my wily avoidance tactic to escape being caught. I lifted myself onto the flimsy corrugated metal trim. The warning clearly posted, “Do not sit, jump, or dive, from edge of pool”. I had read it a thousand times. I actually read it that very instant, the one that came just before I lost my balance. I fell out of the pool and hit the back of my head on the one and only tree stump in Patsy’s entire yard. I remember falling and I remember coming to.

The three idiots, who also learned all of their life saving techniques from Bug Bunny, were throwing buckets of pool water in my face. I nearly drown in addition to acquiring my first, of several, concussions.

My “rescue" was nothing short of miraculous, a story that rapidly grew in infamy. Apparently, I was perilously close to needing a trach fashioned in a life-saving instant from a ball-point pen. We watched a lot of M.A.S.H. too and we were pretty confident in our pen knife tracheotomies.

Soon after my near death experience, Patsy’s father decided we needed a less potentially litigious way to piss away our summer and decided to build us a club house. Patsy’s father spent weeks transforming a shed into a play house for us. We four spent days decorating; curtains, paint, table, chairs, radio, a hidden ashtray, all the creature comforts of home with none of the hassle. It was brilliant.

When our club house was complete we hosted an official open house for the rest of the neighborhood kids. We were boastful and dying to see if any of or friends, hopeful to retain a wait list position, could successfully mask their envy. I masterminded the entire event.

Everyone came for a look. We handed out cookies and discussed the promise of a parent free pad with all the luxuries of home; including the hidden ash tray. We were royalty. An apartment of our own. Granted, the four of us could barely fit in the small shed, any sudden movement had the potential of serious injury and our only running water was from Patsy’s hose, but we didn’t care. We had the coolest party house in the neighborhood and everyone knew it. They left our open house defeated and begging for membership to of our elite, albeit tiny, digs.

The next day we arrived at our club house to bask in our victorious open house. As we approached the backyard, we were overcome.

“Jesus, Eddie! How do you smell so bad?” I asked.

"Shit! That isn't me!"

"Patsy, is your mother cooking cabbage or something?"

"You people are the only ones in this neighborhood who eat that crap."

Very true. The closer we got to our clubhouse the stronger the odor.

Patsy ran to the door and it flung open only to be met by a mother skunk, her young, and a smell so putrid, that to this day the mere recollection of can curl my toes. The immediate projectile vomiting of Patsy did not scare off the rancid intruders but did solidify my conviction to never set foot in our clubhouse again.

A few years later we stole the clubhouse and used it for firewood.

Me & Ronnie

2010-03-15T18:38:00.001-07:00

It seemed like a good idea, as good an idea as I had to date,but they always did. I had all the necessary tools. Scotch tape? Check. Loose leaf paper? Check. Matches? Check. I could see Ronnie Shomsky pacing outside the window waiting, his lips moving. I knew he was debating but that I would win. I always did. Finally he sat on the curb, head hung, and scooped dried leaves, like he was told. I startled him, as usual. It wasn’t a hard thing to do. He was a jumpy kid who lived on raw hot dogs.

I had assured him that they weren’t going to be real cigarettes. I knew those stunted your growth and Ronnie couldn’t afford for that to happen. Homemade cigarettes were a whole different story. They wouldn’t have any of those chemicals in them. “All natural” was the term I used to convince Ronnie we couldn’t get in trouble. It was almost as nutritious as eating broccoli but way cooler.

I was aware that trouble was always moments away. Ronnie’s mother didn't think I was a suitable playmate and wondered how he only seemed to misbehave in my company. I was sure it was because he spent the majority of his days stooped and drooling in front of old F-Troop reruns eating Charlie Chips. They were so lazy they actually had the chips delivered to their front door. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of that and often showed up moments after his departure.

We sat on the curb and carefully rolled the dry maple leafs into the loose leaf paper and taped it. Of course I had to go first, Ronnie was always so nervous. I never did figure out why. I lit my cigar looking, loose-leaf concoction, and smoked away. I felt a little sick but knew there was a greater good involved. I couldn’t stay six forever.

I made one for Ronnie. I thought his should be bigger. “Alive with pleasure” just like the ad said. I rolled him a big, fat cigarette. He complained, like he always did, but put the cigarette to his lips. I lit it for him, he was nowhere near mature enough to play with matches.

The flame barely touches the end of his cigarette and burst into one big flame, like the trick cigars on Bugs Bunny. The shock threw him on his back. I slapped his forehead to put out his burning bangs. Bangs were not right for him anyway, and the subsequent scarring may have prevented a lifelong unibrow issue. Did he thank me? No. He had black soot on his face and he was crying. I knew it was only a matter of time before he ran home, told his mother and the phone would ring.

That was the first time I set Ronnie Shomsky on fire.

Edward's Penis

2010-03-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

The first penis I ever saw belonged to Edward.

Ronnie, Edward and I spent every waking moment together from the first day Edward moved in across the street from me. Edward had a finished basement and older brothers with far more pressing issues than we did. We spent hour upon hour down there without interruption or supervision.

I remember the event as clearly as any other traumatic experience.

Edward and I sat on his couch listening to Billy Joel, singing Scenes from an Italian Restaurant at the top of our lungs. We were thirteen. Edward had started smoking cigarettes and wearing rainbow suspenders and roller-skated around the neighborhood, an homage to Mork.

The conversation is as vivid to me now as it was then.

“Have you ever seen a...ya know...a dick?” Edward was not one to mince words.

Nervously, I answered, “Other than you? No.”

“Ha, ha. You're a laugh riot. Want to see mine?’

“You’re an asshhole.”

“No seriously, I’d be doing you a favor. This way you won’t be shocked when you see one for the first time.”

It sounded reasonable to me. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was curious. I had no sexual attraction to Edward but he was a boy and he was willing. My lifelong mantra of "what the hell?" had humble beginnings.

“Why not?” I acquiesced.

Edward pulled back the blanket in his lap to reveal his penis.

“Holy shit, Ed! That may be the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I told you! But watch what it does.”

Suddenly, without provocation, it began it grow. I was stunned and horrified and a bit envious that I didn’t have an equally remarkable body part.

“Told you that you’d be shocked.”

He was right. I could feel the blood drain from my face. I almost passed out on the spot.

“How did you do that?”

“I wish I knew. It happens all the time. I don’t do anything it just does that.”

“That is disgusting.”

Edward looked down at his now shrinking appendage “I know it is and that’s not even the worst of it.”

I was confused but knew enough not to press.

A Christmas Memoir

2009-12-10T11:47:00.000-08:00

I sat in my room listening to Nibbles run on his wheel and waited. I should have been asleep but this day I had been wide awake for hours. I knew my brother was in the room across the hall, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his clock, dressed and hopeful. The clock said six a.m.

I crept into Terry’s room, where he was exactly as I had pictured; dressed, shoes and all, perfectly groomed, and waiting for me to break the Christmas morning ice.

“How long have you been up?” he asks.

“Forever.”

“What did you do?”

What did I do? What did he mean, do. I waited, I fantasized, I prayed, you know, the usual.

“What are you talking about do?”

“With all that time you could have at least combed your hair?”

“Are you kidding? Maybe Santa left you a crowbar we can use to unclench your ass cheeks.”

"Ha, ha, maybe Santa brought you some funny jokes. Are you going to wake them up?” he asks.

“No, I’m going to look first.”

“Erin, that’s not a good idea. At least go get Mom.”

“C’mon, don’t be such a baby.”

“Dad will get mad if you peek and the whole day will be ruined.”

Although a bit dramatic, he did have a point. We still hadn’t completely recovered from the Christmas pageant. Our choir teacher had a depression issue and her choice of music was a bit gloomy for the third grade. I could hear my father say, “Jesus Christ, is she kidding? Does she want us to have a happy holiday or put our heads in the oven?" Any song that starts with “Hello darkness, my old friend” may be a bit heavy for the holidays, even for the Irish. My father, Fran, ended up pouting through the entire show and refused to stay for the party that followed.

I went to my parents room to see my mother looking at me.

“It’s six o’clock, Mom. Can we get up yet?”

“Come back in a half hour.”

I return to my brother’s room and let him in on the plan. He suggested I use that time to clean up a bit.

“If caroler’s come you will scare them to death.”

“That’s the chance they take.”

Finally, it was time. I quietly re-entered my parents room and find them both getting up. My father said “Stockings only. Wait for the rest.” Terry and I ran down stairs to find the room filled with packages. A pile of pink boxes with light blue bows; gifts from my mothers favorite clothing store. It is the only time of year I ever see my parents pleasantly exchange anything. The rest is for us.

Fran insisted we eat breakfast before we open our gifts. I silently vowed to never make my kids eat first. We ate as quickly as we could without being called pigs; being called a pig on Christmas can dampen an otherwise lovely occasion.

Every year Fran would devise a Christmas scavenger hunt. The game was competitive and stressful, particularly for my brother. If Terry panicked under the pressure of my Fran's taunting, his gift gathering could take forever and ultimately hold up my gift getting. My father would hide gifts throughout the house and give us clues. “Jackson is freezing.” I would run to the freezer and grab a twenty dollar bill and read my next clue. The clues were obscure and clever and if you got stumped? You were all done. Fran was not a hint person and my mother's eyelid Morse code was pig-latin.

After the hunt we were able to open the rest of our things. Fran would always withhold the “big” gift and lead us to believe we didn’t get it. If we looked too upset he would remind us of all we did get and of the many children who went without. I recall thinking blah, blah, blah. I fell for this once but poor Terry bit every year.

I had stopped believing in Santa at four. My parents took me to the mall to sit on Santa’s lap. It was my cousin Mike. I knew it and he knew I knew it. He started to sweat as I peppered him with questions only a family member would know. He couldn’t get rid of me quick enough. When I asked my parents about Santa really being Mike in a suit; they emphatically denied it. I knew right then. Santa was a fake.

We were prepared for the Christmas morning torture but it seemed a reasonable trade off in the end. A little humiliation for a new bike was an even exchange. Then the traveling dysfunction road tour extravaganza would begin. I remember the feeling of stepping out of our front door and having the cold fill my nose and sting my face. I was nauseous with anticipation and rapidly eaten eggs. Our first stop was always my grandmothers. I had never met my grandfather, Fran’s father. They were divorced and he was lovingly referred to as the “cockroach”. My grandmother was usually good for a cool toy for Terry that he would share with me, a skateboard, a model rocket ship, paint by number kits. I got the usual, an offer to fat camp and a bathrobe. I never went to fat camp but I did have a dozen bathrobes before I turned ten.

Our last stop was my maternal grandparents house. My grandmother was mentally ill. At the time I thought she was just odd. She chain smoked unfiltered cigarettes and had Harlequin romance novels everywhere. Stacked ceiling high in her spare room. When she moved into a nursing home, after my grandfather died, we stopped counting her yellowed romance novels at four thousand. She had been a fire hazzard. Who knew?

We always dropped my father off at home first. He was always good for making a bad situation worse. We arrived at my grandparents late in the day to find my grandmother in her usual beaten up bathrobe, smoking and reading. It dawned on me that I should have brought her a bathrobe, I did have an abundance. My grandfather was asleep. When asked, my grandmother said,“ I didn’t feel like giving him his insulin today. Then he’d want lunch you know.” My mother ran into his room and after about an hour came out with Grandpa looking like he’d been mauled by a bear.

My grandmother never looked up from her book or got out of her chair. She never spoke to us directly and just pointed to the other room where the “gifts” were. I use the term gift loosely. We never got actual gifts. This year we had stockings with a banana and an apple and one wrapped gift. Not one for each of us, just one. This year it had my name on it. A step up from last year. Last year it was addressed to Charlie.

We didn’t know any Charlie.

This time, in black marker, clear as day "ERIN". My heart started to pound. I couldn’t believe she had remembered me. Finally the recognition I had been hoping for.I had one grandmother who loved and appreciated me, even if she was the crazy one. Well, the crazier one. I carefully peeled back the paper which revealed a red box with familiar logo.

Lucky Strike.

My grandmother had given me a carton of cigarettes.

I was eight.

It was the only time during our visit my grandmother looked up. “Hey! Those are mine.” She grabbed them out of my hand and returned to her romance novel.

As soon as my mother revived my grandfather we were off. As per our usual holiday end of day events, my mother cried the whole way home. It was an annual affair. We arrived home to my father who inquired about our visit to the asylum. My mother didn’t respond but the compulsive cleaning was about to begin.

My brother and I scrambled to grab as many gifts as we could before my mother began to pack them up. We were aware that this time of day would come. We had made a mental inventory of our newly acquired stock. Our gifts were put away and all but the tree was left by nine that night. Our tree would be on the curb in the next twenty four hours. Ours was always the first on the curb and the last one erected. I think this was my mother’s way to erase the day from our minds. By days end I was exhausted. I curled up on my bed, with the gifts that survived my mother’s rampage, and slept like the dead.

The Rocking Chair Incident

2009-11-15T14:21:00.000-08:00

My grandfather had made us each one but mine was better.

Mine was white with gold inlay in the head peice. He had handcarved the dowels that held the chair together. It was beautiful. My brothers' was black and shiny with a flat back. Mine was much prettier and it rocked perfectly. Terrys' leaned to the right and if you rocked long enough you would eventually end up moving in a complete circle. Like a boat with one oar. We had been in possession of the chairs less than a week when the idea struck me.

“C’mon Ter, don’t be such a chicken! I told you, you won’t get hurt! I promise. It can't fail.”

“You always say that. It always fails and I always get hurt!”

“Terry, you get hurt because you are too uptight and afraid to take chances. You have to loosen up. I’m telling you, you will be fine.”

"That's easy for you to say."

Terry was always so squirly. As soon as I would present one of my ideas he would begin to sweat. This time was going to be different. I could feel it.

We were on top of our long staircase. Terry was tied to a rocking chair with a jump rope with the promise of a thrilling ski trip down the stairs. I assured him he would be fine. It appeared to be aerodynamically perfect. A smooth ride, one I would be inclined to duplicate for myself after a successful run at ole Terry’s expense. To this day I am unclear why the jump rope was needed.I assumed it was a precaution, like a seatbelt. He would say that it had something to do with me needing to chase him down prior to my experiment and his thrill ride. I have no specific recollection of that.

I did have his well being in mind. Let’s face it he didn’t have much else going for him. He was small with a black front tooth, from a prior “experiment”. And if you ask me he was too shy for his own good. Maybe this would be a way to wake him up inside. I was tired of watching him, entranced, staring at cartoons all day. My mother said not everyone was in need of finding trouble and that I should leave him be. Shouldn’t he want to try to be more adventurous? Well I decided that want had nothing to do with it. I was doing him a favor. He’d thank me for this one day.

“Ready?”

“If I said no would you let me go?”

“No. You’ll love it. You’ll see. You can thank me when it’s over.”

“Just like I thanked you for my black tooth? Just hurry up.”

Terry squeezed his eyes shut and held on for dear life. I gently pushed the rocking chair down the stairs. It was just as I had planned. It glided down the first few stairs flawlessly. Then it happened. The hole in my master plan, the hiccup. The landing. I was familiar with it, played on it, set up tents, put on nearly Broadway bound shows and now it stood to undermine a perfect plan. Terry hit the landing. The rocking chair stopped abruptly and promptly lurched forward, head first, down the remaining stairs. Being tied, for his own good, prevented him from any kind of self defense.

He hit the bottom hard and screamed bloody murder. My parents, their company, and a neighbor, all came running. I stood at the top of the stairs looking incredulous.

“Terry, what are you doing?” I asked.

Why I thought anyone would believe he tied himself to a chair and threw him self down the stairs was beyond me. But I was desperate. I was sent to my room. A fate worse than death. I was up there forever. I was used to it. I spent a lot of time in my room. I can’t imagine why.

Finally I heard someone coming up the stairs. It was Terry with an ice pack on his forehead.

“Sorry, Ter. I really thought it was going to work.”

“I know.”

“Well, it would have worked if it wasn’t for that stupid landing.”

“Maybe.”

“Ya know, there is no landing at the Shompsky’s house. We could...”

“Never again.”

Terry shut the door behind him. I never did realized my skiing chair dream. Thanks for nothing, Ter.

The Great Spirit and Almighty God

2009-11-04T14:54:00.000-08:00

The Great Spirit and Almighty God had only one thing in common, they both scared the shit out of me.

The Great Spirit was able to assimilate your soul, with no notice, and “acquire” you to be part of Him. Huh? Was He kidding? Would He put me back? Had we met? I think I would have remembered meeting someone who could absorb me like a giant sheet of Bounty.

As far as the Almighty went, He too, could pluck you from this earth but He’d make me suffer first. Eternal damnation if my room wasn’t clean or if I had impure thoughts. Yikes, I was in trouble. According to the nuns I was a repeat offender in the venial realm on a daily basis. Mortal sins ran an average of once a week. There was the whole promise of heaven but I was assured early on it would be an uphill battle for the likes of me. I first learned of my dilemma from Sister Judith, a bitter, mean spirited woman who was convinced that flash bulbs gave her skin cancer. I found it hard to believe anyone had ever taken a picture of that puss, let alone to the point of melanoma. Sister Judith hated me. She had felt it necessary to isolate me to the lunchroom, a damp, mildew ridden, windowless basement. I was never allowed to eat in the lunchroom, but spent many hours being punished there. Sr. Judith knew I hated being alone; it was her only advantage.

When lunch did come I then was moved to the library to eat alone because as a sinful glutton, I should not be exposed to the other children for fear they will pick up this deadly sin. Charlie Manson did more socializing than I did. That was when my Grandfather told me the Catholics had it all wrong. He assured me I didn’t have to take any more abuse from old Sister Judith. He said I had nothing to fear.

Well, nothing but the Great Spirit.

I began filling out recruitment forms (an idea I borrowed from Danny Kelly) Army, Navy, any where I could.... Judith A. Sister. Gym memberships. Judith A. Sister. Plastic light up lawn Santa’s complete with reindeer, edible underwear for a XXX company I found in the back of Ronnie Shomsky’s playboy magazine, a lawn minora, C.O.D. of course. All sent to Judith A. Sister.

My recently divorced parents felt Catholic school would be a kinder environment for a kid like me if I would just stop challenging everyone. Why did I ask so many questions? Was it possible for me to go to school one day and not get a note home describing my blasphemy du jour? Apparently not. Adam and Eve my ass. We got National Geographic. How did they expect to hide evolution from us? Sister Judith always suspected, but could never prove, my involvement in her torture, and, no one believed her involvement in mine.

She was eventually sent to the nun glue factory. They were all located in Pennsylvania, I suspected.

I then had to either accept my fate as an unwelcome Catholic or meet with the Great Spirit people. I met my Grandfathers medicine man once. He was a large, dark, angry looking man, who arrived when my Grandfather was sick, in a huge green Cadillac. The Indians were not a jolly bunch, by any means. He had grabbed my face and said, ”hmm, you’re one with a gift”. I don’t remember receiving a gift, not later in the mail either. He must have forgotten. My Grandmother told me that of course he forgot, the Indians were all drunks. If I remember correctly the Irish did just fine in that department.

When I asked my Grandfather about the Great Spirit, he took me to his garden and had me pick green beans. Before I picked them I had to thank each one of the beans. They never responded and I never understood how that helped anyone but my Grandfather. When my Grandfather started to get sick and speak more often about joining the Great Spirit he made it sound as if it were an elite country club that would not have tolerated his kind while alive. He probably could have shined shoes or carried golf clubs but only dream of membership. The Great Spirit would never reject him the way the living world did or would He? I didn’t know. My Grandmother said he was to enjoy a eternal life of fire and brimstone. That was the only after life for the heathens. That did not appeal to me. I avoided August, hell was no place for me. It was the Catholics who had eternal life in paradise. Paradise? Now that has possibilities.

I started to develop my own idea of this paradise. There would be Twinkies and Kool-Aide. I was in. So I started to pray. I prayed for a Koala Bear. No answer. I prayed for Sonny and Cher to reunite. No luck. I prayed for Elton John to come find my yet undiscovered talents. No calls. I prayed for Leif Garrett to be my boyfriend. Nada. I prayed to be thin. I prayed to be pretty. I prayed for a puppy, a hamster, an easy bake oven. No. No. No.

I’m going back to the Indians.

All of this back and forth seemed to increase my odds of ending up in “limbo”. This, according to my Grandmother, is where you remained forever with no chance of heaven but you didn’t fry in hell. Well, that’s not too bad. Boring, but I was quite sure I wouldn’t be alone. I started to make a mental list of my house mates at hotel limbo.

Eddie Kascak would be there for sure. He melted all my Barbies which isn’t a mortal sin but it was close. I decided that if it was going to spend eternity with Eddie we should practice getting along. Currently a five minute car ride would result in a fight. I discussed “our” dilemma with Edward who said his years as an alter boy would be his exemption from limbo. Then he gave me the finger.

I had decided that I didn’t care if I lived in limbo. I could make friends. Although any image of limbo brought about an instant anxiety I have yet to shake. It would be alright. I was no longer concerned. Really. The definition of limbo is an uncertain period of waiting. I now see limbo like waiting for the cable guy or calling motor vehicle. Unpleasant but usually not without some entertainment value.

I have never bought into the idea of a divine being. Genetic cynicism. A deity with the skill to micro manage his minions, or the desire to so? Why? Wouldn't it be easier if "He" just made me less of a mess? You would think that would save us both tons of time. My requirement for a more fluid definition of sin and repentance has allowed for a hybrid of sorts, a philosophical mutation. I would like to think that the energy I posses while alive somehow joins the accumulated energy of all life before me but what do I know? I hope that more because I am afraid one of my grandparents may be right. Its similar to being an organ donor only to find out you still need all your stuff after the fact. What if my irreverent attitude and clear law breaking of both moral perimeters will force me into a state of eternal damnation or endless period of waiting? Or worse, an eternity with one of my grandparents?

I have thought to capitalize on my experience with both religions, since I’ll be in hell anyway. If I were ambitious, I would open a casino/halfway house for pedophile priests and bus loads of old ladies. It's a thought.

My Mother

2009-10-25T13:58:00.000-07:00

My mother always said I had a way with words.

Not in the way Hemingway’s mother may have gushed of her son’s musings but more likely the way Mrs. Borden regarded Lizzie’s deftness with an axe. I doubt she had ever expected my words would be used for any good, let alone income, regardless of her unrelenting support and encouragement. Although my mother truly believed my brother and I could accomplish anything we set our minds to, for those of you that know me, my limitations are quite obvious. I am no where near perky enough for morning t.v., or morning anything else, really. I'm far too bitter and inappropriate for pre-school teacher and my unwilling physique has taken ballerina off my list of potential employs. I would have to rely on my “way with words” and hope not to offend the easily offended or starve to death trying.

My brother has abilities I am much more confident in. Educated in several fields and pragmatic in his efforts, he is a parental dream. Terry has always followed the chosen strait and narrow path and because of his hard work, focus and determination, has a very successful life, enviable to those of us whose paths were winding and full of shiny distraction.

When my mother became ill it was clear why she attempted to construct us into competent adults. She knew that one day she would need to rely on us. She was confident in us. I have doubted my competence since the age of four. After Terry and I became hysterical over the user manual for a set of Zen Meditation Balls, I thought my mother would finally cut us loose. Her faith in us never wavered. We had always relied on her very capable skills, and, honestly, never thought she would ever need anything from us. It took months for me to find an appropriate Christmas gift, what could I possibly offer her?

While my mother’s life was in limbo her beloved dog of 14 years, Vito, became ill and needed to be put to sleep. My brother and I pinky swore never to tell our mother we had ended Vito’s long overdue life and went so far as to destroy the paper trail that may have linked us to the evil deed. After putting poor Vito to rest we returned to the hospital to try and sort out our mother’s situation and lie through our teeth if the subject of Vito arose. (Did I mention we ran down a squirrel on the way? You can’t make this up. I expect the ASPCA to arrive momentarily.)

As the days passed it became evident my mother was dying. After a massive stroke and her inability to breathe without assistance, we were informed she would be bed ridden, tube-fed, and respirator dependant. My mother was the most independent person I have ever known. That coupled with her quiet and modest nature we knew we had very few options.

My mother had always made her wishes clear. I had signed off on her advance directives over a decade ago. I’m sure she regretted it before the ink dried. I’ve spent those ten years asking her about the status of her health every time she purchased a new piece of jewelry, taking her pulse at the acquisition of a new Coach bag or feeling her forehead when she bought a new car.

She had planned and paid for her funeral with a local funeral director in her neighborhood. I would comment “there it is” every time we passed the place. She would giggle and tell me I was “sick”.

In theory this was all very simple. In application there was so much grey area to wade through it made what we thought to be a clear decision murky at best. Who were we to determine someone else’s quality of life? I knew what she wanted but it differed from what I was willing to tolerate for her. If it were up to me she would be propped up in the middle of my living room as we speak. Luckily, gratefully, the decision was not mine to make.

The doctors removed my mother respirator. The next twenty-four hours were the most unbearable of my life. Watching my mother, the person who always believed in me, slowly, painfully slip away is something I will never recover from. What made the process almost palatable was my mother’s clarity. Aside from her wishes and arrangements being finalized, she had picked out her clothes and traveling trinkets, a favorite book “Blood Brothers”, and an unexpected traveling companion in her dog, Vito. A final gift my mother gave to us was her wishes. We didn’t disappointed her. We did what she had asked of us our entire adult life, allow her to live and die in comfort and with the dignity she earned and deserved.

My mother used to tell me she wanted to “come back” as me. She envied my outgoing nature and irreverent attitude, her painful shyness was often misread as indifference. Little did she know how I envied her genuine kindness and unconditional acceptance.

At my mother’s wake, my friend offered me some kind words and insight to my sadness. He told me that my mother has left with me and Terry all the best qualities she brought into this world. We now have the opportunity to continue my mother’s legacy of generosity, compassion and warmth. I doubt my brother will find this much of a stretch but for me it will take sincere effort and most likely, divine intervention, or more aptly stated, my mother’s continued belief in me.

Johnny Ray

2009-10-23T18:31:00.000-07:00

I loved Johnny Ray. Not Johnny Ray the singer from 1912 or whenever but Johnny Ray from Cornwall Street. John Wayne Ray to be exact. He wasn’t a rock star or a GQ model. He wasn’t my childhood crush, that top slot went to Scott Baio, but Johnny Ray was to become my reluctant prom date, whether he knew it or not.
To the best of my knowledge John never finished high school. To be honest I don’t know if he even attended high school but I didn’t care. He looked me square in the eyes, unlike most boys, who still struggled with the concept of girls being people. He was edgy and always looking for a fight but to me he was protective and warm. He told me things I know he never told anyone else. The connection we shared was beyond that of any I had prior to meeting John.
Our first meeting consisted of him throwing himself on the hood of Lisa’s car as we caroused Cornwall St. looking for my wayward friends. At first we thought we had run down some poor soul who was trying to make his way across the street until he sprung to his feet, laughing like a lunatic and ran off.
It was love at first collision. I was an instant , faithful, follower...okay, stalker. He behaved badly from day one. I forgave his every indiscretion and shortcoming, to my own peril. I spent hours composing perfectly written letters describing every nuance of the ongoing’s of my high school world and he would spend hours sifting through them. I doubt he read them. I suspected he couldn’t. He said he liked to look at my handwriting that to him it looked like art.

Soon after we met he started to call me Heather. At first I was offended that he had forgotten my name and substituted mine for someone who could not have been as enamored as I. When I finally mustered the courage to remind him of my actual name he said he decided I needed a change. Erin was not a pretty name and Heather suited me better. Did he say I was pretty twice removed? He suggested that I feel free to rename him. I hopped at the opportunity. I called him George. Not for any reason except it set me apart from the others. There were many others.
They came in many forms these “others”. Cheap, smelling of strong perfume or booze, older, tattooed, some didn’t have teeth and they all had bad dye jobs. I always felt that he was kind to show these otherwise unlovable women friendship until I found him having sex with Karen Heifer on the bathroom floor of a friend’s house during a party. I was ruined. John was too. He struggled with the disappointment he caused me. I convinced myself he had too much respect for me to have sex with me in virtual public, let alone on a filthy bathroom floor. His lack of private interest I attributed to an affection that surpassed tawdry liaisons. I was not like the “others”. It didn’t occur to me that his lack of interest was exactly that; a lack of interest. It wasn’t cool to be in love with a fat girl, even if he was. I was the one who was unlovable.
It was clear from his encounters with women like Karen Heifer that the bar was low. Very low. The realization that fat girls were too low to even be potential bathroom floor companions was devastating.
As my prom quickly approached, I relinquished any fantasy of my knight in shining armor, or a Black Sabbath t-shirt, swooping to my dateless rescue. John surprised me. When the mention of my prom came up he insisted on being my date. I was thrilled.

My prom memories consist of primping all day, putting on a massive royal blue dress, trying to convince myself that I was pretty only to have him tell me I looked like Martha Washington. His mother slapped him on the back of his head. To that point she was so proud to see John in a tuxedo with a nice girl. Let me clarify that if I am, in fact, the nice girl? Something is radically wrong.
Upon arrival it didn’t take long for me to realize the prom was really just an opportunity for him to peacock around and pretend he wasn’t really with me. He posed for as many pictures as he could. I was happy for him. I remember. He had lived a difficult life and he was entitled to feel good about himself even if it was at my expense.
After the prom we arrived at the traditional prom night motel. I was nauseous with anxiety and hope. I opened the door to find it crawling with fifty of his closest and drunkest friends. They had written Cornwall Rocks on the wall in red paint. I think it was paint. I hope it was paint. I was so overwhelmed by the tight quarters, the drinking and the fighting that I eventually went home.
John walked me out to the car, held my face in his hands, kissed me and thanked me. It was all worth it. As I piled my huge blue dress into the car I saw Karen Heifer arrive. Prom night was over for me. Johnny, on the other hand, was going to get some more use out of his tux.

Three Stories About Lisa

2009-10-16T10:31:00.000-07:00

I looked over and saw her smirking and shaking her head. She looked like a nymph. She was slight and tiny with a Dorothy Hamill haircut and ears that came to a fairy-like point. She was delicate, graceful and soft-spoken.
“What are you doing?”
I was busy trying to steady a chair under the convent window. I was everything she was not. Clumsy, loud, large with curly red hair that lent itself to the theory I was off.
“I’m doing research.”
“Research? Erin, we’re ten.” She was a little slow sometimes.
“So what, I want to know if nuns have hair. Don’t you? I think it would explain why they were so mean.”
“They are mean to you because you make them feel stupid.” I wasn’t sure what she meant but I had a mission and she was either in or out.
“You gonna help or what?” Lisa walked over and steadied the chair I had stolen from Lisa’s neighbor, Salami Legs.
“Did you steal this chair from Mrs.Wayda?”
“Borrowed.”
Lisa did her best to keep the chair steady. It just wasn’t high enough. I took a milk crate from behind the convent and put that on top of the chair. High enough but very unsteady. I stood atop of my perch and peered into the window. Lisa stood behind me assuring me we were headed for disaster and that our parents were sure to be called.
“Lisa, you are distracting me!”
I finally was able to look in the window. I could not believe my eyes. Sister Jacinta was in a girdle and her habit dancing with a sewing bust. The shock of such a sight knocked me flat on my back. The noise could have “woke the dead” Sister Jacinta would tell the Monsignor, my parents, Lisa’s parents and Ole’ Salami Legs.
We were sent to confession.
“I told you we’d get caught”.
"You just can't help yorself."
She went first as a time saver, three Hail Mary’s. I guess this being her first offense they were showing mercy. Me? I should have packed a lunch. An entire rosary, pew polishing for a week and I had to make good with Salami Legs by “visiting” her after school everyday for a month. Slave labor\ visiting...call it what you will. I prayed everyday as I arrived at her house that Salami Legs had finally bought a pair of pants. It never happened. She must have been proud of those big, swollen, red, salami looking legs. They disturbed me.
I was grateful that when I left I could always find Lisa waiting at the corner to see if Salami Legs had bought pants.
"Nope. She caught me staring at them. She asked if I wanted to touch them."
" Did you?"
"Good God, no!"
"That's what you get for staring."
"Thanks, Lis."
She assured me that someday we would laugh about all of this. “You’ll see it will make a good story”.
“It’s a shame you’ll never be able to have a Dorothy Hamill it would make you look less...crazy.”

II

“I hate dances.”
“How do you know, you’ve never been to one!”
“Lisa, please! If you were really my friend you would leave me alone!”
“No, I wouldn’t. It’s for your own good.”
“No, it’s for your good cause you can’t go if I don’t go with you.”
“I never ask you for anything!”
“Bullshit.”
Lisa began to pout and she was a professional.
“Why do you want to go so bad?”
“Because Eric Conklin asked me and he is so cute. Please, please, please!”
“Fucking aye. Yeah, this is just great! You get to go with Eric and I get stuck with Joe“man breasts”. This is not exactly fair.”
“Erin, he has a car and looks old enough to get served. A few sips of Boons farm and you won’t care.”
“It may take more than a few sips.”
“He always has good pot.”
“True but I’m not wearing a fucking dress.”
Here I am in a fucking dress. A God awful one at that. Black with pleats, like a giant black accordion. My Grandmother picked it out, assuring me that if I were not so fat I might be able to find something more flattering. It would come in handy for her funeral I thought. Lisa, in an attempt to spruce it up, tied a pink ribbon around my neck. I am sure people wondered if it was keeping my head on. Lisa looked pretty as usual, like Cinderella.
“I am not going out like this, Lis.”
“Oh, yes, you are. I did not spend all day getting ready for you to back out now.”
Christ. I was stuck in my black pleated dress with a pink ribbon waiting for Joe “man breasts” to pick us up. What has my life come too?
“You look pretty, Erin.”
“Whatever, Joe. Take a deep breath. Let’s not make a spectacle of ourselves, okay pal?”
“Sure, sure. I can be cool ya know.”
“Uh huh. C’mon Lis, it’s time to ruin my life in public now.”
“Stop being such a baby.”
“There better be booze.”
It turns out they do not manufacture enough Boons Farm wine to make Joe “man breasts” appealing but they do make enough to make Eric Conklin throw up on Cinderella. He’s not so cute anymore and should rethink the amount of macaroni and cheese he eats prior to drinking... just a suggestion.
We were back at Lisa’s by 9pm.
“I wish I had a chance to dance.”
“I know, Lis. I am sorry things did not go as you had planned. Get up. I know I’m not Eric Conklin but I promise I won’t throw up on you.”
Lisa stood up and I grabbed her and started to tango. I had no idea how to tango but she didn’t care. We laughed and tangoed. From that point on we tangoed at every party, wedding, funeral or any event, appropriate or not. We didn’t care where and we always laughed. We laughed just like the night of our first tango and I never threw up on her.

III

I wondered if anyone else felt the same way I did. It would start when I left my house. This pit at the bottom of my stomach that made me feel weak As I drove my hands would start to feel as if they didn’t belong to me. Loose and prickly. By the time I was on the elevator my arms tingled so bad they felt as if they were on fire. It was the same every day. I never got used to it. She would look fine. Yellow but fine. She slept a lot and would wake briefly and smile at me. Her eyes bright yellow but always sparkling. She was fine, really. I snuck in as quiet as possible. I would say it was not to disturb her but if I were to be honest if she just slept I could pretend everything was fine. Fine. I knew it would be a matter days. I sat next to her bed and began to cry. She looked over at me with her big, yellow eyes and wide smile and said “ Don’t cry, Erin. It’s okay”. She reached over to grab my hand. This was the last time we spoke to each other. She would look at me over the next few days and smile but that was it.
We had no unfinished business. We were always clear how we had felt. I had spent several weeks prior to this hospital at her house keeping her company, renting old movies, looking at yearbooks and watching her sleep. We laughed. We always laughed.
I was afraid Lisa was going to die from the first day I knew she was ill. She, to the best of my knowledge, never thought she was going to die. It was accurately representative of our relationship. I would say I was a realist, she would say pessimist. She would say she was an optimist, I’d say she lived in a fantasy world. We would laugh and chalk our friendship up to lack of exposure to normal people.
I was terrified of being with Lisa when she died. I wanted to receive one of those 3 a.m. phone calls saying “I’m sorry she’s gone”. Nice and neat. It would still hurt but it was tidy. Lisa had lived three days longer than anyone should of as it was. I had to watch Lisa suffer, struggle for each breath and slowly, painfully slip away. I was so afraid of my own grief that I did anything I could to stay mentally occupied. When I was not mentally occupied I would fall asleep like a narcoleptic.
My phone rang. “She’s dying, you need to come now.” I got back in bed. I weighed this choice. Could I really watch my best friend die? Would she even want me to? I put on sweats and a Red Sox hat and drove numbly to the hospital where I had spent 12 hours a day with her, her family and various visitors. We joked, laughed, told stories, ate hot dogs and cried. I hoped she could hear us.
When I arrived at the hospital Lisa was barely breathing, it was the calmest I had seen her in weeks. She had come to accept her fate. I had not. She had found peace. As I stood there half asleep and nauseous waiting for Lisa to die, it dawned on me that this may actually happen. Lisa may actually die and I was completely unprepared. Then she left, just slipped off into her next life.
It was morning and there were arrangements to be made. I went with her parents to the funeral home. I picked out Lisa’s coffin. It was mauve with pick roses embroidered in the bedding. I went to her house to pick out her clothes. As I sifted through her tons of outfits, knowing I needed something loose to fit over her bloated shell, I could feel her guiding me to the “good stuff”, a pretty silk skirt she had bought in Paris and a cashmere sweater she had found in Italy the fall before. I was sure the thought of her outfit being worn by a homeless guy outside the Goodwill was enough to flex whatever psychic muscles she possessed.
I spent the afternoon making arrangements for a post funeral luncheon consisting of the traditional after death fare of ziti and rubbery chicken. I finally went home and tried to sleep but I could not stop seeing Lisa’s face. I found myself trying to find the exact moment Lisa died. There was no gust of wind or religious occurrence that would make you sense her passing. She was just gone. Out like a lamb.
The following evening I gracefully and without feeling, greeted hundreds of old friends, Lisa’s family, co-workers and acquaintances. I had the same pained smile plastered on my face.
After Lisa’s wake I thought to call her and tell her who I has seen and how fat, bald, old, divorced or plastic so and so had become. She was not available to gossip. We would never need to sit in confession together again. There would be no more tangoing.