Tom Mendicino - Probation

He could be demanding. He could be thoughtless. He had a temper and sometimes lashed out, frustrated by the world. She wished he could be more patient with me. But he never hit her or her kids and didn’t get drunk and didn’t run around with other women. He was better than a good provider. And, once upon a time, he had washed her hair and crooned Sinatra tunes in her ear while they swayed to the radio. A lifetime later, on what would be their last anniversary, he told her the day she married him was the happiest day of his life and she held and comforted him while he cried, ashamed because diabetes had left him incapable of making love to her. She told him she didn’t mind, and she didn’t because, after his body failed him, he started to woo her again, kissing her gently first thing in the morning and the last thing at night, just before she spooned her body into his and he fell asleep. If you asked her, she’d tell you she’s had a good life. The world has surprised her by letting her be happy.

My mother, by June Allyson.

But that was the past, and what terrifies her is the future. The holes are getting bigger, and one day, soon maybe, she’ll blithely emerge from the bedroom, her wig on backward, lipstick smeared like a clown, her blouse unbuttoned, her slip mistaken for a skirt. She’ll be smiling, unaware she’s an object of ridicule, no, worse, an object of pity. Poor thing, they’ll say, remember how meticulous she was about her appearance? Today it’s baking soda. Tomorrow she might be wandering naked into the street.

She’d let me sleep this morning, knowing how hard it is to work all week and be at her beck and call all weekend. I need my rest so I can turn her over to Rent-A-Nurse tomorrow morning and hop a flight to escape. And no sooner will I board the plane than I’ll start to miss her, regretting all these days spent away from her, the dwindling opportunities to let her know what she’s meant to me. But if I stay she’ll drive me crazy. G’wood, she’ll say over and over again until it pushes me past the breaking point and I’ll want to smash her against the wall.

“Finish your drink,” she says when the waiter offers coffee. She stares at me, wondering whether this human detritus sitting across the table is her fault. I look away, down at my new watch.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” I say, looking at my watch.

“You’re right, maybe I shouldn’t have,” she says, sipping her coffee. “But I did.”

That’s my mother. Are you happy now, Matt?

Another Kennedy is dead.

The talk show host says we measure our lives by their tragedies.

The sunlight pierces the dark lenses of my Ray-Bans. I need coffee and aspirin and water. Especially water. My mouth feels like I gargled with sand. The flight from New York to Charlotte was torture. Barely navigating on two hours of sleep, I got to the gate just as they were closing the door. The flight attendant eyed me warily. Unshaven, agitated, a little wild eyed, sweaty, I was a perfect match for the airline’s suspicious passenger profile. Inebriate? Schizophrenic? Terrorist? Fortunately US Airways decided I was harmless enough to board the plane. We circled Charlotte for thirty minutes, waiting for clearance. I forgot where I parked the car and took a wrong turn out of the lot, driving three miles in the wrong direction before I could turn around. I don’t have enough energy to turn the radio to another station.

The host welcomes a caller from Worcester, Massachusetts. She feels like she’s lost a member of her family. She’s reliving that dark moment decades ago when she heard that Jack had been shot.

Last night was a classic, a new low. Hard to believe the evening had such auspicious beginnings. The exhibit space closed at five to give the exhibitors time to grab a bite before heading off to see Les Miz or Phantom. I showered and put on fresh clothes. The sun hovered over the rooftops of Madison Avenue. A couple approached. The man was wearing reflecting aviators, but there was no mistaking who he was. My boyhood idol, his name synonymous with New York rock and roll, a onetime junkie who’s eased into a graceful middle age. His fingers punctuated his comments to the willowy blonde beside him. As they passed, I heard him talking about the dead Kennedy.

Many hours later I ended my procession through the bars of Manhattan at an East Village dump where the floor show was winding up for the big finale. The mistress of ceremonies, a famous drag queen porn director, snarled a nasty play-by-play as her latest discovery strutted for the last stragglers nursing their nightcaps. He may be straight, honey, but he likes a little surprise up his ass now and then. In a dark corner in the back of the room, a stripper was getting a hundred-dollar blow job, counting his tips while an old man sucked him off. A couple of bills were twisted in his G-string.

I found my way downstairs to the toilet, each step confirming I was drunk. Drunker than I’d been for a long time, too drunk to stand and piss. I would never have squatted on that filthy bowl if I were sober. Someone kicked the bathroom door open. I heard tears and a sissy’s voice, pleading, as he was slammed and shoved across the room. A deeper voice threatened. What did I tell you? What did I fucking tell you? The mistress of ceremonies had her protégé pinned to the wall by his wrists. Sobbing, scared, his face red and wet, he looked younger than he had on stage, much younger, just out of high school. The drag queen smashed the boy’s right hand against the wall and a syringe fell to the floor. Get the fuck out of here, asshole, she hissed at me, crushing the hypodermic with her heel.

What a fucking night. Threatened by the scum of the earth. I ordered one for the road, one to help me sleep. The guy standing next to me at the bar was flipping through yesterday’s Post, studying the pictures of the dead Kennedy. He turned to me and smiled. It was the blow-job stripper in his street clothes, denim shorts and a white button-down with the sleeves cut away. The wire-rim glasses threw me off. Now that he wasn’t squinting, he looked like a puppy, relaxed and friendly. No one ever sees a stripper wearing glasses. Maybe because they have to fly blind to do what they do. When I spoke he said I sounded like home. He was from a town not far from Fayetteville. I saw his whole story in his face. A boy from a tobacco farm down east. He never expected to end up here when he enlisted in the Navy. He wanted to buy me a beer. I told him I’d never make it home. Don’t worry about that, he said, I’ll get you home. I apologized for not having any money left, not even enough for a cab. He said he had a pocket full of small bills. They smelt like his balls, he laughed, but they were still legal tender. In the cab, he stroked my knee as the driver stared at us in the rearview mirror, disgusted, the black eyes of Islam uncomprehending. The boy didn’t care I was too drunk to perform. He was homesick and wanted someone to lie beside in bed, a man to kiss and snuggle with, someone who didn’t laugh when he shared his dream of saving enough tips to buy a convenience store back in Carolina. He bought me a coffee in the morning and stood with me as I waited for a cab to the airport.

Whew! Who opened a can of peas and spiked it with vinegar? That sharp cider smell can’t be my armpits, can it? Is it my feet? My crotch? It was either shower or make my flight this morning, and I must be a little ripe. My pants are dirty and my shirt belongs in the laundry pile. All I want is to scald myself in the shower and crawl into bed for thirty-six hours. I’ll be lucky to steal a few hours’ sleep; my mother’s expecting a nice evening tonight. A hair of the dog will help. There’s one last swig left in the flask in the glove compartment. It tears a hole in my throat when I swallow it.