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Authors: Eli Gottlieb
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life?”
Her timing was uncanny. His whole life she had called at weak moments, stumblings, setbacks of all kinds.
“Just dandy,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“What’s up, Mom?”
“What, a mother can’t ask her son a simple question?”
He said nothing for a moment.
“Listen,” she said, “and for at least the third time. Your father’s stone is being unveiled next week, and it’s important that you be here.”
“Of course I’ll be there. We already spoke about it.”
“It’s very important,” she said, ignoring his utterance.
He could hear her voice thickening.
“I mean it’s the least we can do,” she said, her voice thickening further.
“Mom,” he said.
“It’s a beautiful stone,” she said, now in full flow. Potash was used to these tacks and spins of feeling. She lived in an ongoing mood best described as the Stentorian Memorial, in which people she’d ignored while alive became in death touchstones of deep grief.
“I’m sure,” he said.
“But don’t worry about me!” she burst out.
“Mom,” he said again.
His mother was overweight, and the stertor of her breath on the phone as she breathed in and out for a few seconds was like a piece of paper being repeatedly crumpled in his ear.
“Even a little bit,” she whispered, and then hung up.
Chapter Ten
A t age sixteen, she met Randy Patterson. He had flaming sideburns, tight jeans, and a small, beautiful head. From the start, she found it impossible not to be amazed by the way the air around her body fitted into the air around his. Everyone noticed. It was what “natural” meant. They were natural together. They went to concerts and made out backstage. They walked on the Atlantic City boardwalk and watched waves arrive from all over the world. With their arms around each other, they felt docked, like spaceships. Even better, they understood each other’s smallest mannerisms. He could cock an eyebrow and signal an avalanche of judgment about to fall, or tilt his head a mere ironic inch and it would be as if he was whispering his thoughts directly into her ear. He worked as a line cook at a Denny’s and played bass in a band called Gridlock.
One afternoon several months after they’d officially begun going steady, Randy was especially excited because, he explained, he had a “big fat stonking secret” that he was gonna show her later that day.
That same evening, at dusk, they were parked and making out in his Pontiac Firebird Trans Am when he grabbed her by the shoulders.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Guess so.”
With a nod, he started the car and drove the two of them to a Walgreens and then around back. The powerful engine idled like someone tapping an empty can with a hammer. He turned off the car.
“Here we go,” he said, and got out of the car with a wink.
Out the window, she watched Randy foraging in the Dumpster. He pulled something up, looked quickly around, stuffed it under his peacoat, and then got back in the car.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Slowly, like someone pulling back a magic curtain, he revealed an assortment of pill bottles in a plastic bag.
“Are you sick?” she asked, thrilled.
He gave his special wide-eyed look, threw back his head and howled like a coyote. “Hell, yeah,” he cried, “but not in the way you’re thinking! I got a friend who works as a janitor there. We got it all worked out. He’s into pharmaceuticals, and he tosses the stuff out with the trash and then I swing by and vwalah, baby. What we don’t use, we sell.”
“Wow.”
Back home, she had recently discovered something in a drawer of her father’s dresser. It was a note from a girl. It was on pink stationery. It said, “You’re just the dearest man I’ve ever met, and no one makes me laugh harder.” It was the kind of handwriting in which all the letters looked like they were swollen with gas. She said nothing at the time. She didn’t even think much of it. But two nights later, in her
Her timing was uncanny. His whole life she had called at weak moments, stumblings, setbacks of all kinds.
“Just dandy,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“What’s up, Mom?”
“What, a mother can’t ask her son a simple question?”
He said nothing for a moment.
“Listen,” she said, “and for at least the third time. Your father’s stone is being unveiled next week, and it’s important that you be here.”
“Of course I’ll be there. We already spoke about it.”
“It’s very important,” she said, ignoring his utterance.
He could hear her voice thickening.
“I mean it’s the least we can do,” she said, her voice thickening further.
“Mom,” he said.
“It’s a beautiful stone,” she said, now in full flow. Potash was used to these tacks and spins of feeling. She lived in an ongoing mood best described as the Stentorian Memorial, in which people she’d ignored while alive became in death touchstones of deep grief.
“I’m sure,” he said.
“But don’t worry about me!” she burst out.
“Mom,” he said again.
His mother was overweight, and the stertor of her breath on the phone as she breathed in and out for a few seconds was like a piece of paper being repeatedly crumpled in his ear.
“Even a little bit,” she whispered, and then hung up.
Chapter Ten
A t age sixteen, she met Randy Patterson. He had flaming sideburns, tight jeans, and a small, beautiful head. From the start, she found it impossible not to be amazed by the way the air around her body fitted into the air around his. Everyone noticed. It was what “natural” meant. They were natural together. They went to concerts and made out backstage. They walked on the Atlantic City boardwalk and watched waves arrive from all over the world. With their arms around each other, they felt docked, like spaceships. Even better, they understood each other’s smallest mannerisms. He could cock an eyebrow and signal an avalanche of judgment about to fall, or tilt his head a mere ironic inch and it would be as if he was whispering his thoughts directly into her ear. He worked as a line cook at a Denny’s and played bass in a band called Gridlock.
One afternoon several months after they’d officially begun going steady, Randy was especially excited because, he explained, he had a “big fat stonking secret” that he was gonna show her later that day.
That same evening, at dusk, they were parked and making out in his Pontiac Firebird Trans Am when he grabbed her by the shoulders.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Guess so.”
With a nod, he started the car and drove the two of them to a Walgreens and then around back. The powerful engine idled like someone tapping an empty can with a hammer. He turned off the car.
“Here we go,” he said, and got out of the car with a wink.
Out the window, she watched Randy foraging in the Dumpster. He pulled something up, looked quickly around, stuffed it under his peacoat, and then got back in the car.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Slowly, like someone pulling back a magic curtain, he revealed an assortment of pill bottles in a plastic bag.
“Are you sick?” she asked, thrilled.
He gave his special wide-eyed look, threw back his head and howled like a coyote. “Hell, yeah,” he cried, “but not in the way you’re thinking! I got a friend who works as a janitor there. We got it all worked out. He’s into pharmaceuticals, and he tosses the stuff out with the trash and then I swing by and vwalah, baby. What we don’t use, we sell.”
“Wow.”
Back home, she had recently discovered something in a drawer of her father’s dresser. It was a note from a girl. It was on pink stationery. It said, “You’re just the dearest man I’ve ever met, and no one makes me laugh harder.” It was the kind of handwriting in which all the letters looked like they were swollen with gas. She said nothing at the time. She didn’t even think much of it. But two nights later, in her
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