Democratic License by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Page 246
“Mom, I’m all right as is.”
“Or even finding a nice boy. Times have changed and nobody cares about that sort of thing anymore. . . . . ” I was at a loss for words, as I was never interested in boys, men, or in-betweens, but I knew that my single status and the long, light brown hair I had finally quit cutting when I boarded ship, would make people consider the possibility. My facial and leg hair would have convinced anyone otherwise a few years ago, but now the trannies often have beards and hairy legs. Yuck.
I didn’t really care generally, but I was occasionally very uncomfortable about it, like right now. This wasn’t the first time that Mom had broached the subject, but even if I was so disposed, I wouldn’t be discussing it with her. I attempted a
quick subject change and came up with; “I saw a really good movie the other day, “Marlowe.”
“What was that about?”
“Oh, it’s an old one. Elliot Gould playing a Raymond Chandler style detective.”
“I don’t know any of those names you’re saying.”
I was at a loss for words, trying to decide whether to sound professorial, and explain more, think of a one-liner that I didn’t have, or risk getting back to his least favorite subject.
The indecision cost me as, in the momentary lull, Mom went right back to her currently favorite subject, and said; “Do you remember Tommy Baressi, that tall, pale skinned, Italian boy who played a lot of basketball?”
“Yeah, we were in some of the same classes in high school.”
‘Well, he’s one of them.”
“Mom, I don’t really care.”
“Did you know him well?”
“No, and I really don’t care.”
“That’s the point. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Nobody cares anymore. It’s all right. Even the Catholic Church has gay parishes. That, frankly, doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. They condone that, but only allow men and women to do things that make babies. Maybe after all that crap with the altar boys............. I don’t know.”
My mind was uncomfortably racing; perhaps it was more akin to spinning its wheels. I rubbed one hand over my forehead, of course not able to come up with anything that might derail his mother’s one tracked mind. I considered lying and saying something really gross about “getting some pussy’ recently, but decided against it.
With the lack of response Mom was compelled to elaborate; “Of course, if your father, God rest his soul, was still alive . . .
. . Ah, but, he was always kind of traditional when it came to the sex stuff. Sometimes, even I could have kicked him right in his ass.”
I felt as if I was again 13 years old, trying to think of a response, that would at least temporarily divert the tide, so I desperately and abruptly changed the subject to something of interest to me, full well knowing that this topic could also
become unpleasant and said; “Mom, I’m going to be handling my first mass murder. Zelenskyy’s Kiev. Don’t go there.”
Mom said; “Well, if you’re really uncomfortable talking about it.”
I yelled; “Mom.”
In a discouraged and weary tone, Mom said; “So what are you mass murdering? Coupons?”
Just like the confident big boy I now was, I casually responded;
“I told you, Kiev. Whoever is there. I don’t know and I don’t care. I think all the jews have left leaving oh, the usual stuff, just some expendable goyish Ukrainians.”
“That could be dangerous. Why don’t you read a nice book instead?”
“I’ve read them all. It’s high time I got some real world experience.”
“I’ll say. How about some real experience with a nice girl? . .
. . . “Or boy?”
“Mom, for Christ’s sake, cut it out. And what would I want with a NICE girl anyway? I like the other kind.”
“Don’t start talking blasphemy to your mother.”
“I thought you started it with that boy stuff.”
“That’s not blasphemy. There’s some other word for that. I can’t remember it right now. You know the one.”
“I can’t think of it either.”
“Oh, come on. You’re better with words than I am. What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s your thought. You tell me.”
“I know you know that word.”
I was thoroughly annoyed with the entirety of this conversation, as I had endured a facsimile countless other times, but rather than saying something about not being a mind reader or that he didn’t care anyway, and risk being accused of being surly to my yiddish mama, I chose to play it what I thought would be taken as deceivingly trite and, again, changed the subject and said;
“So, how is your love life?” I expected no answer, the question there just an attempt to make a point by turning the tables.
I got an unwelcome surprise when Mom quickly replied; “Not so hot. I met a guy on one of those on-line dating sites, but I think he’s just after my money, and is likely one of those.
..... “
“Too much information, mom. Too much information!”
“Well, you asked. I mean I gave him the okay, and ever since “
“No stop.”
“No, I’m not hung up. And ever since that he just keeps trying to get me to pony up the shekels to finance this promotion scheme he’s claims to have going. Dylan Mulvaney of all people.”
“Ma, isn’t this something intended to be discussed with kindergarten and grammar school teachers, leaving parents out?”
“I think that’s for the homo stuff. Ummmm. ......... That’s not meant to disparage. Like I said, nobody cares anymore. Certainly not me. You just go wherever your thingy leads you.”
Rather than being again annoyed, I realized that it was very likely that mom was trying to get my goat, because I had not sent a card on her last birthday, that a source of amusement to me. That traditional kind of stuff is a big deal to her. I stopped short of her trap and said; “So how’s everything in Florida?”
“Hot.”
“Hot? Is that all?”
“Yeah.”
I had hoped to get her talking about something other than me, and tried again with; “It’s hot here, too.” I tried my best to sound like a sarcastic Johnny Carson and added; “So, how hot is it?”
Mom took the cue and said; “It’s so hot........ that the rubbers are emitting steam on the beach, leaking from the cracks produced by a dry homo ass. ........ Nobody talks about it anymore, but AIDS has left a legacy.”
Though I didn’t find that particularly funny, I considered it okay for an on-the-spot improvisation, and I laughed overly outrageously, most significantly, in an attempt to end the conversation on a good note.
Encouraged, Mom continued with; “You should see the loose dogs doing their own form of investigation.”
I visualized that and found it also amusing, laughed, and said;
“That’s a good one.”
“I’m not kidding. That’s what I see out my window.”
“Wish I was there. Speaking of out the window, I’ve got to check if Kiev is still on the map. Got to go.”
“All right. My big boy is doing big stuff. So, everything’s okay with you?”
“Fine. How about you?”
“Ah, we’ll save that for another time. You be careful, all right?”
“Sure. You too. Gotta go. Bye.”
“You should send your poor old mama a card. It doesn’t cost much. Bye.”
I went back to the computer in the living room. Searched.
Database program. Crime. Motive. How discovered. Unnecessary filler. Ironic conversations. Scenery and sound conditions.
Weather. False leads. Man who knows all. I forgot about lunch, attempting to tie the “facts” of some indecipherable something together. It seemed instinctive.
I abandoned the computer and went into the library. Adamo was now there, and frowned, ostensibly an indication that he didn’t want any company in MY library. Blondie came from somewhere, and I left, leaving the place to Adamo.
Just Go Away