She will say thanks honey when you come slowly, slowly around the corner in your slippers and robe, into the living room with Grandma's old used-to-be-salad-bowl piled high. I made it myself, remind her, and accidentally drop a few pieces on the floor. Mittens will bat them around with his paws.
Mmmmm, good to replenish those salts, she'll munch and smile soggily.
Tell her the school nurse said after a puberty movie once that salt is bad for people's hearts.
Phooey, she'll say. It just makes it thump, that's all. Thump, thump, thump — oh look! She will talk with her mouth full of popcorn. Cary Grant is getting her out of there. Did you unplug the popper?
Pretend you don't hear her. Watch Inger Berman look elongated; wonder what it means.
You'd better check, she'll say.
Groan. Make a little tsk noise with your tongue on the roof of your mouth. Run as fast as you can because the next commercial's going to be the end. Unplug the popper. Bring Mittens back in with you because he is mewing by the refrigerator. He'll leave hair on your bathrobe. Dump him in your mom's lap.
Hey baby, she'll coo at the cat, scratching his ears. Cuddle close to your mom and she'll reach around and scratch one of your ears too, kissing your cheek. Then she'll suddenly lean forward, reaching toward the bowl on the coffee table, carefully so as not to disturb the cat. I always think he's going to realize faster than he does, your mom will say between munches, hand to hand to mouth. Men can be so dense and frustrating. She will wink at you.
Eye the tube suspiciously. All the bad guys will let Cary Grant take Inger Berman away in the black car. There will be a lot of old-fashioned music. Stand and pull your bathrobe up on the sides. Hang your tongue out and pretend to dance like a retarded person at a ball. Roll your eyes. Waltz across the living room with exaggerated side-to-side motions, banging into furniture. Your mother will pretend not to pay attention to you. She will finally say in a flat voice: How wonderful, gee, you really send me.
When the music is over, she will ask you what you want to watch now. She'll hand you the TV Guide. Look at it. Say: The Late, Late Chiller. She'll screw up one of her eyebrows at you, but say please, please in a soft voice and put your hands together like a prayer. She will smile back and sigh, okay.
Switch the channel and return to the sofa. Climb under the blue afghan with your mother. Tell her you like this beginning cartoon part best where the mummy comes out of the coffin and roars, CHILLER!! Get up on one of the arms of the sofa and do an imitation, your hands like claws, your elbows stiff, your head slumped to one side. Your mother will tell you to sit back down. Snuggle back under the blanket with her.
When she says, Which do you like better, the mummy or the werewolf, tell her the werewolf is scary because he goes out at night and does things that no one suspects because in the day he works in a bank and has no hair.
What about the mummy? she'll ask, petting Mittens.
Shrug your shoulders. Fold in your lips. Say: The mummy's just the mummy.
With the point of your tongue, loosen one of the chewed, pulpy kernels in your molars. Try to swallow it, but get it caught in your throat and begin to gasp and make horrible retching noises. It will scare the cat away.
Good god, be careful, your mother will say, thwacking you on the back. Here, drink this water.
Try groaning root beer, root beer, like a dying cowboy you saw on a commercial once, but drink the water anyway. When you are no longer choking, your face is less red, and you can breathe again, ask for a Coke. Your mom will say: I don't think so; Dr. Atwood said your teeth were atrocious.
Tell her Dr. Atwood is for the birds.
What do you mean by that? she will exclaim.
Look straight ahead. Say: I dunno.
The mummy will be knocking down telephone poles, lifting them up, and hurling them around like Lincoln Logs.
Wow, all wrapped up and no place to go, your mother will say.
Cuddle close to her and let out a long, low, admiring Neato.
The police will be in the cemetery looking for a monster. They won't know whether it's the mummy or the werewolf, but someone will have been hanging out there leaving little smoking piles of bones and flesh that even the police dogs get upset and whine at.
Say something like gross-out, and close your eyes.
Are you sure you want to watch this?
Insist that you are not scared.
There's a rock concert on Channel 7, you know.
Think about it. Decide to try Channel 7, just for your mom's sake. Somebody with greasy hair who looks like Uncle Jack will be saying something boring.
Your mother will agree that he does look like Uncle Jack. A little.
A band with black eyeshadow on will begin playing their guitars. Stand and bounce up and down like you saw Julie Steinman do once.
God, why do they always play them down at their crotches? your mom will ask.
Don't answer, simply imitate them, throwing your hair back and fiddling bizarrely with the crotch of your pajama bottoms. Your mother will slap you and tell you you're being fresh.
Act hurt. Affect a slump. Pick up a magazine and pretend you're reading it. The cat will rejoin you. Look at the pictures of the food.
Your mom will try to pep you up. She'll say: Look! Pat Benatar! Let's dance.
Tell her you think Pat Benatar is stupid and cheap. Say nothing for five whole minutes.
When the B-52's come on, tell her you think they're okay.
Smile sheepishly. Then the two of you will get up and dance like wild maniacs around the coffee table until you are sweating, whooping to the oo-ah-oo's, jumping like pogo sticks, acting like space robots. Do razz-ma-tazz hands like your mom at either side of your head. During a commercial, ask for an orange soda.
Water or milk, she will say, slightly out of breath, sitting back down.
Say shit, and when she asks what did you say, sigh: Nothing.
Next is Rod Stewart singing on a roof somewhere. Your mom will say: He's sort of cute.
Tell her Julie Steinman saw him in a store once and said he looked really old.
Hmmmm, your mother will say.
Study Rod Stewart carefully. Wonder if you could make your legs go like that. Plan an imitation for Julie Steinman.
When the popcorn is all gone, yawn. Say: I'm going to bed now.
Your mother will look disappointed, but she'll say, okay, honey. She'll turn the TV off. By the way, she'll ask hesitantly like she always does. How did the last three days go?
Leave out the part about the lady and the part about the beer. Tell her they went all right, that he's got a new silver dartboard and that you went out to dinner and this guy named Hudson told a pretty funny story about peeing in the hamper. Ask for a 7-Up.
How
So all things limp together for the only possible.
beckett, Murphy
begin by meeting him in a class, in a bar, at a rummage sale. Maybe he teaches sixth grade. Manages a hardware store. Foreman at a carton factory. He will be a good dancer. He will have perfectly cut hair. He will laugh at your jokes.
a week, a month, a year. Feel discovered, comforted, needed, loved, and start sometimes, somehow, to feel bored. When sad or confused, walk uptown to the movies. Buy popcorn. These things come and go. A week, a month, a year.
make attempts at a less restrictive arrangement. Watch them sputter and deflate like balloons. He will ask you to move in. Do so hesitantly, with ambivalence. Clarify: rents are high, nothing long-range, love and all that, hon, but it's footloose. Lay out the rules with much elocution. Stress openness, non-exclusivity. Make room in his closet, but don't rearrange the furniture.