I want to glide down Biscayne Bay in my pink and yellow muumuu. I want to call the cops on the muumuu monster called mom. I want to suck the madness out of the Gulf. I want to fly without wings. Mine the world with mines.
The scene: 9AM. Mom’s false teeth on the kitchen counter. Her push up bra unclasped. No bottom. A frozen chicken pot pie melting in the sink as her lipstick melts on the window sill. Sunday. My photograph of Squinny torn into a hundred tiny pieces on the breakfast table.
Mom said she was upset or pissed off because I had disrespected her when I had sexual relations with that Puerto Rican-Peruvian-Sephardic boy. She said I’d go to hell and my panties would burn in hell. Said that my privates would burn in hell. Said that I’m whore and that I would burn and burn and burn till I understood what she was talking about. You dirty little whore, she said. Just like you, I said. Just like you.
Mom smacked the wind cause I’m too friggin’ fast. I ran to my room. Assessed the importance of things like my Hello Kitty purse, red red ruby slippers, the pink lava lamp. I left my underwear behind. I left the lava lamp and potted cactus behind. I left the whole world behind and Bobo the Mutt too. He was furious at me for leaving him with mom. He looked at me and cried. He said don’t go, don’t leave me, in the language of dogs.
The world is not big enough anymore. I packed my mirror to remind me of who I was and where I’ve been. I scooped up all the pieces of Squinny and sealed her up in a pink envelope. I swiped a pack of mom’s cigarettes from the kitchen counter and then hauled ass out of that house as she hauled ass after me. I jump into the arms of Amanda B., who had waited for me in her getaway station wagon ever since she left mom and me. Hanging. Just in case I needed a lift away from Mars.
Today was a bad day. Mom cried all day and the baby birds trapped inside the attic. I’m sad because they won’t listen to me. The termite man will tent the house tomorrow. I climbed ladders for them. Cooed them toward nowhere safe.
Today was a bad day and the thunderstorms couldn’t hush the howling of mom or the wind or that thing that makes moms and the wind howl like mad, mad wolves. Or hatters. Howlers that not even the wind can muffle or silence.
Mom was screaming. Is screaming. Will never stop screaming for Amanda B. She will count on her lungs to feed her today. She hasn’t eaten in days. Hasn’t peed in the toilet for days. Hasn’t used my name in days. I am screaming.
In a moment it will begin to rain (again) and the Puerto Rican boy next door wants to take me on a date. Says he has something to show me. Says I am pretty in the light and dark. I wonder if he knows I’m a boy just like him. I wonder if he cares. I wonder if mom will care. If I take his offer and fly with him in his red Camaro, will I repeat mom? Will I die? Collapse into his arms? Vanish from the face of the unknown universe?
I wonder if I’m old enough to fly. I feel like I have the right to clear skyscrapers with my bare virgin hands. I have the right to examine the nature of boys in the backseat of sports cars on the birth of Biscayne Bay. I promised mom I’d be safe and she nodded yes and uh huh and then screamed uncontrollably for B. She nodded toward the door. Nodded toward the place where Amanda B. fled in her butch attire and flats. She nodded toward the exit where all stories begin and end. For mom and Amanda B. For mom and me. In a few days. More.
The aftermath has nothing to do with math or quantum cooking. It has to do with the absence of Amanda B., the woman who left mom and me for another life on this planet. The aftermath is what happens after a brown pelican dives into a sea of petroleum, the Gulf of Disaster. It’s a disaster and mom is a disaster and she doesn’t remember how to cook or clean or eat. She eats toast without the bread. She uses butter instead of sugar. She drives on the right side of the road. Drinks beer before 9AM. She calls our dog Bobo the Mutt Mr. Kitty Cat. She calls people by the same name, Amanda B., Amanda B. Mom thinks she is a fireman. Runs into every building screaming, Fire! Fire! Man, even the children mom rescues from non-burning buildings know to let her roll with it. Those babes don’t say a word. They just listen to mom’s gushing. Not even the therapist or the psychics can fix her or know where ‘she’ is at. I want to move out. I want to get a room at a hostel or hotel. I want to swim away from this disaster in my mermaid suit and find what mom has lost, or let go, to the sea.
Mom says when I grow up I’ll remember everything. I’ll remember the day we sold Aspirin as ecstasy at Publix. I’ll remember the mutt we rescued from Dr. Ahao and then saved Dr. Ahao from a rabid German Shepherd. She says I’ll remember the day we went to Squinny’s funeral and discovered the casket was closed so no one could see her. Not even God. Says I’ll remember the night hurricane Wilma snapped our palm trees and smashed out our kitchen windows. Says I’ll remember what it was like to grow up in the world before the Gulf of Mexico was worth less than Mars. Says I’ll find a way to remember the things I’ll try to forget. Like Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck. Like George W. Bush and Lady Gaga. Like ghosts care, mom says. Like they give a damn about your desire to forget. Mom says she’ll write a diary of diaries and fax it to me when I’m a big shot at a Forture 500 company. Says I should shut up and listen. Says I should take notes because the next thing she’s going to tell me will last forever. Amanda B. is leaving, she says. Leaving, I ask. Leaving, she says. She’s packing her bags. Making her bed. Taking the garbage out one last time before she hits the road. Amanda B. is walking out on mom, but she leaves me. Amanda B. counts her fingers as mom counts on me as I count Amanda’s footsteps from A – Z as Amanda B. looks back to see what she’s leaving. I fake wave good-bye, so long, good luck. She fake waves back and closes the door on mom (and me) forever. Just like that.
Today is the happiest day of my life. Mom and Amanda B. promised they would take me to meet my father who I thought was dead because mom said he was dead. I knew she was a liar. Anyway, he is not a dead dad, but mom still claims he is a dead beat, which must mean he likes really really really slow music. Supposedly, mom says this, my dad works as a Chicken McNugget engineer. He operates the machine that mechanically separates the meat from the chicken’s body and then reassembles the chicken bits into a nugget using phosphate salts and some chicken skin to hold it together. So cool. I’m never going to eat a McNugget again.
I’m not sure what to wear–a dress, a suit and tie, a top hat, or boa? I’m so excited I almost forgot to pee this morning and had to go in the garden because it was just too late. I was in the garden picking flowers to make a bouquet to give to my father. I assume he likes flowers because I love flowers and since we’re related I know he will love flowers too. I’m very excited. So excited I decided to redo my Little Mermaid’s hairdo. She’s got a mohawk now and looks real butch.
I am afraid. Afraid that dad won’t like me, or love me, or even hate me. I’m afraid he’ll put me through the chicken processor and turn me into “The Boot” McNugget. I’m afraid he’ll look at me and laugh at me and call me a boy-girl or a billy goat or worse, a child-beast, or a butt-ugly duck. I’m not a child even though I am small. Every day I get bigger and bigger. Today I’ve grown a mile.
Mom and Amanda B. say don’t worry because they got my back, which means they’ll probably be making fish faces behind my back. Make me look like a freaking fool. I can’t trust them. Especially mom. Not after what she’s done. Telling me dad was dead when he was really just killing chickens for a living. In any case, I know he’s just a man, a possible dad, the father I’ve never known who is also a guy who makes chicken parts whole again just like I want to be whole. Again. I looked in the mirror this morning and saw my possible father’s reflection. I told him I don’t want to be a McNugget anymore, chicken parts, alone. I want to go home, I told him. I want to go home.
I just got notification that I’m a jerk. My BFF Squinny, who is dead, sent me a TxT message from Heaven or Las Vegas, which reminds me of the Cocteau Twins, which reminds me that TxT should not to be confused with my Potty Mouth guest xTx. BFF Squinny said, “you’re a jerk.” I TxT-messaged BFF back and told hir to STFU, which has nothing to do with TOFU or Holiness. We’re not talking now, which is fine, cause Squinny is dead.
I realized something today. We’re all little torture devices. Our tiny bodies are too big for the sea. We can’t fit in anywhere but want to fit into place. Secured and locked. Anchored to a boat like Squinny anchored hirself to me. I told myself I’d stop lying about Squinny but I don’t care. I got a clue when Who Cares punched me in the gut at school today and laughed. His mom stood by his side. She laughed. Mom stood by my side. She didn’t laugh. Amanda Bernstein stood by my side too and she didn’t laugh either. I told Who Cares to watch out cause I got two moms and they’ll kick his single mom’s fucking ass. Who Cares shrugged his shoulders like who cares and growled like a fanged-frog. His mom shrugged her shoulders too and rub her shoulders. I will write about Who Cares one day and use his real name. Mom and Amanda B. shrugged their shoulders, winked at each other (imagine one of those CGI animation twinkle), and then pole vaulted over Who Cares and showed his mom what my two moms are worth. Squared.
I woke up this morning, again, and I asked mom if she was or wanted to be a lesbian and, if she were or wanted to be a lesbian, I wanted to know what she planned to do about it. Mom said she’s not a lesbian but she likes women, especially women who are on the verge of lesbianism, like Hillary Clinton or Oprah, but she also likes men who are somewhat butch, like Elton John and Kid Rock. I told mom she made no sense and she said she made sense because she doesn’t care to be called LGB or T or PYT. Mom just wants to be mom and do whatever she wants where ever she wants, which sounds like a verse from a Shakira song, even if it means she’s a slut. I told mom she’s not a slut but mom said nothing and just smiled like yes I’m really a slut. I think mom is a true artist because she can survive anything.
I figured skating would be safe but mom, Amanda Bernstein, and I cried when we watched the Olympics because when we figure skated it didn’t go so well. In fact, Amanda B. broke her toe and she wasn’t even skating. Mom ran her foot over with a skate and she didn’t even do it on purpose even though mom told Amanda B. she did it on purpose. Oh no you didn’t, mom said. Amanda B said stop being so 90s you stupid chicken and mom went all get out and threw her cupcake at Amanda B. Amanda B. loves cupcakes and ate it off the floor. She didn’t literally eat it off the floor. She picked it up first. Mom says this stuff just to piss Amanda B. off. I say stuff just to say stuff like stuff. For example, I just made out with a cupcake and I don’t even like icing. Are cupcakes real cakes? Mini cakes? Or just impossible cakes? I figure skating has more to do with Minkowskian Spacetime than it does with haberdashery or baking. I’m so tired right now. If I were a boy, I’d drink a beer. If I were a girl, I’d drink a beer. Thank god I’m a goat. I’m gonna invent a new friend now. I’ll name him Steve. Maybe I’ll be him one day, a future me. Maybe I am already Steve. Or transitioning. Who is Steve? Is home reality? Is mental health a concept worth identifying? Like home healthcare? This post was about skating, but I don’t care bear. I am the space between identities, like Amanda B. is the space between mom and me.
Mom refuses to accept that Ricky Martin is gay. Mom refuses to accept I’m gay. Mom refuses to accept she’s gay. The gays refuse to accept that mom is gay. The gays refuse to accept Ricky Martin is gay. Ricky refuses to accept he’s not gay. (That’s what mom says.) I’m so confused I don’t want to be gassey today. Mom is gassey today because she’s pissed because Ricky Martin is gay or is pretending to be gay. Mom drank four cups of coffee today. Amanda Bernstein refuses to accept that mom isn’t gay. Amanda Bernstein is gay. Amanda Bernstein doesn’t care if Ricky Martin is gay or if the gays are gay. Amanda Bernstein doesn’t care if the dog is gay. Amanda Bernstein is so annoyed today she called mom gay to her face. Mom created a new tee-shirt on Cafe Press that says “Ricky Martin Is Not Gay!” but when she got it in the mail it read “Ricky Martin Is Not Ray!” Thank God, mom said. I told you Ricky ain’t like that.
Mom and I were getting ready for church when Amanda Bernstein woke up. Mom had her miniskirt on and black thick navy blue pumps. I let mom wear that outfit because it makes her happy, which is better than sad when you’re dealing with mom. Mom thinks she looks all designer in this outfit. And maybe she’ll make some cash today, I thought. Amanda Bernstein was pissed coz mom didn’t invite her to church. Mom didn’t realize how much Amanda B. loves doughnuts and free coffee, so mom and Amanda Bernstein fought all the way to church and in the church pew. I had to pee but mom wouldn’t let me pee. The priest looked at us, pissed off said his lady bug eyes. The choir boys sang halleluhjah but that didn’t stop all hell from breaking out in aisle five. Amanda B. stomped out of church. Fine you friggin’ bitch, mom shouted. The whole congregation said amen just after mom said the word bitch. Of course only the children laughed because children are the only creatures with a sense of humor these days besides lesbians and wanna-be-trannies like me. Mom gave the congregation her customary curtsey and, of course, the middle finger. Mom stormed out. Tackled Amanda B. in the parking lot like a hockey player tackles his teammate after he (or she) scores. Puck, they’re in love, mom and Amanda B., crazy bees. Mom said she’ll never go back to that church until she’s single again. Amanda B. looked at mom and doesn’t say a goddamn thing. Amanda B. wiped the gravel bits off her face. Sweat too. She yelled at us to get in the fucking car as if she were mom. Mom turned the stereo on and the three of us went nuts. Totally berserk. Nothing. No one. Not even God can come between us and Judas (Priest).