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Monday, October 6, 2008

Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf...not my Mom.

Now you didn't think I would really go into tawdry details regarding the aforementioned passenger, did you? My depravity, contrary to popular belief, is not bottomless.

I was too sick, and too scared to do more than smile back and indulge the fantasy. (Although if they ever do perfect time travel in my lifetime, I will be going back to several moments just like that.)

I tried not to peek as she read, jacket over her lap like a blanket, occasionally doing what appeared to be wrestling a muskrat one handed under the jacket, leaving her pale and shaking, but I could be wrong...

So I slept, or tried to and watched the desert scrub whip by, fantasizing about getting off at the next stop, changing my name and becoming a short order cook for a mining camp, while I slowly drank my self to death.

Not a bad fantasy, I just couldn't see myself being called 'Cookie'...the guy with a past.

So I tried to envision what I would be coming home to. To Mom and the last remaining meal ticket.

All I could conjure were the stories she told me when she tried to sober me up before, sort of a scared straight bedtime story.

The time she learned to sew coveralls in the Reno County Jail, doing an undetermined stretch for an undisclosed crime; being driven to the California State line by the CHP, tired of arresting her, begging her never to come back; being flown in a blackout from Vegas to Hawaii by a bona fide, rat pack gangster, and not remembering the trip; working from good casino, to lesser casino, being fired from every one until she was blowing cowboys in our travel trailer in North Las Vegas.

(This was Frank and Sammy time, 1966, none of the Disney could wind up in a hole in the desert faster than cashing an unemployment check.)

Driving from Vegas to California with another husband, an even bigger drunk, who would slip into a seizure in the passenger seat while she drove, and she would pull off the road, kicking the bejesus out of him, sideways in the seat, until he passed out and lay still. Not an after school special.

And there was my story, she-six months pregnant with me; slipping into DT's which induced premature labor and me being born, one lb. thirteen ounces, the doctor slipping her a grain alcohol IV drip to stop the withdrawal, pumping sweet ethyl spirits in to all of me at the same time.

She said that explained the feeling I had of coming home, once I took my first drink-made sense. (I chased that feeling for the rest of my life...thanks again, Mom.)

And I remembered the good, for her at least; getting sober, finding a real day job and taking a bus to work at Love field, getting a paycheck and paying her rent for the first time in years; meeting Mr. Normal, and her weird fairy tale wedding.

Who knew...maybe I could have one too.

I watched the sun go down over the mountains in Arizona and settled in for the trip.

...and I started to think...I just might live.

No comments:

My new disclaimer...yeah I know.

Okay, the old disclaimer was tired. The ideas were outdated and keeping me stuck in a place I don't want to be now for something more refreshing.

I have recently changed my views regarding women. Seems I had some issues with the fairer sex due to past pain and self- centered fear. (Yes...duh applies.)

I'm done with that.

Being in recovery has helped me change my entire life, perceptions and attitudes. I cannot change my history but I can change my today and my future.

I recently realized that the women I know in recovery are some of the strongest, bravest, most gentle and kind teachers I have ever had. You exemplify integrity and spiritual growth, and I hope you know who you are.

Some may know of my past marital and relationship history and been a participant in them as well. It's past and that's where it the past.

I own my part in those failures but claim no more responsibility in any misery you may be experiencing. I am sorry, but it's time to get off the cross. We need the wood.

Thank you all...