Perhaps, as much as Time steals things from us, it is also our vices which wear us down. In my mother’s case, wine, in color both red and white, is a major contributing factor to who she has become.
Yes, she is a lush. Today, like most days when I arrive home from school, I find her lying in a heap on our overpriced, ultra-modern sofa. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon sits a quarter full and sweating on an end table within reach of her chronically unsteady grasp. In her left hand rests a wine glass. A terrycloth robe, wrapped less-than-snug, rounds out the absurd scene.
The television is playing Days of Our Lives, its mediocrity hypnotizing her.
“Hi Mom. How’s your day going?
She glances in my direction, grunts like an ogre and waves me away.
I refuse to let her off that easily.
“I had a super day at school. The highlight was when two guys jumped me in the hallway and pulled my underwear up my ass.”
I pause, waiting for a response, a sign of life.
“Okay then. I think I’ll go up to my room and amputate my arms with a chainsaw. Then I’ll come back down and rub my bloody stumps all over your robe.”
Still nothing. I give up.
“Enjoy the rest of your day.”
I take our stairs two at a time, reach the upstairs hallway and make a beeline for my room. Before I’ve taken two steps, beauty cascades from my parent’s room and overtakes the hallway.
Marta Dominguez, our live-in housekeeper, clothed in designer jeans that look specially made to embrace her hind curves and an orange blouse that is tasteful in a quietly suggestive sort of way.
Marta grew up in the slums of Mexico City and came to the United States when she was twenty-years-old in search of a life that did not involve selling her body so that she could eat on a daily basis.
Coincidentally, when I was ten-years-old, my mother, momentarily weary of living a charmed life, decided to try her hand at philanthropy. She searched for two weeks to find the organization that would suit her vast humanity.
Our local food bank is what she finally settled on. It was perfect. Volunteers had to commit to one night a month for two hours. Responsibilities included slopping soup into a bowl and handing the bowl to the unfortunate people in line. Smiling was optional.
Eva Stutters, a beacon of selflessness, didn’t even last one night. During the last hour of her shift, she encountered a churlish Vietnam Veteran who the United States government had failed when he came back from the foolish war. He mentioned to my mother that the soup was lukewarm. My mother told him that the soup had been out for over an hour, and besides, a man in his position didn’t have the right to complain about a meal that was free.
Vietnam Vet man didn’t appreciate my mother’s retort and proceeded to hurl his bowl of lukewarm soup onto her Gucci suit, calling her a “pretentious hag” as he stormed out of the food bank.
It took a two week mental-health vacation through the vineyards of Napa Valley for her to recover. To this day, she bemoans the loss of her Gucci suit.
Upon my mother’s return from her self-pity wino vacation, she put an ad in the paper for a live-in housekeeper. And so entered the beautiful Marta Dominguez into my life.
What started as a goofy school-boy crush has now exploded into a wanton sexual fantasy. On many nights, when I’m feeling particularly self-loathing, I penitently pleasure myself to the numerous pictures I have of her stored in a secret compartment in my underwear drawer.
You see, I have this unrealistic belief that it is Marta who will one day smell the sweet aroma of my man-flower and usher me gently into manhood.
Marta smiles sweetly at me now, lighting up the otherwise dim hallway.
“Hi Walt! How was your day?” she asks kindly.
Dammit! It’s been less than thirty seconds and already my entire blood supply is moving like an angry mob towards my genitals. Calm yourself!
“My day?” There is an awkward pause as I search for words. Say something you idiot!
“My day- my day is well.”
Stupid! Stupid! Gosh, look at her exquisite breasts. So well-formed and supple. Like nippled orbs of merriment. Don’t stare.
She giggles. “I’m glad your day is well.”
“Thank you. And how has your day been treating you my lady?”
I doth a cap, which I’m not wearing and bow like an 18th-century Londoner. I’m such a fool.
“Oh thanks for asking! My day…”
Yummy. Those lips. That hair, so silky and brushed. I wonder what kind of shampoo she uses? Head and Shoulders? No. Not good enough. Probably something like Hair Care for Goddesses. Her skin such a perfect shade of perfection. . Mocha colored, soft, with nary a blemish. What I wouldn’t do to rub some lotion on her.
“…and so besides all of that, my day is going okay.”
Piss, shit, fuck! In all of my daydreaming, I’ve completely missed what she’s said. In addition, I am now sporting a full-mast erection. I subtly put my back pack in front of my meek bulge. I lower my right hand and yank my boner upwards in hopes of concealing it in the contours of my Chino’s. The action is clumsy enough that I only succeed in making it point nearly 90 degrees to the right.
“Walt, are you feeling okay? Your face is flushed.”
Settle down. Avert eye contact. Think of Grandma Stutters naked and playing Twister with midgets.
“I’m feeling… so warm all of a sudden. So warm I am feeling. I think I’ll go to my room and lie on my bed for a bit.”
“Can I get you anything? An icepak or some water?
No, but you could let me rest my head on your ample bosom.
“I think I’ll be fine. Thank you though.”
“Okay. Be sure to give a shout if you need anything.”
“Thank you Marta.”
Such a genuine human being. The purity contained in the tightly constructed 110 pound body of hers is like Norwegian glacier water. I feel a brief twinge of guilt that I masturbate to her pictures.
I continue down the hall, hoping the poor lighting helps keep Marta’s eyes from discovering the diminutive tee-pee I’ve pitched in my pants. As I near her, I turn ever so slightly as to avoid grazing her in the mid-section with my man-missile.
She gives another megawatt smile as I pass, unaware of my discomfited attempt to avoid touching her. The final few steps to my room are rushed and I fling the door open and escape the hallway.
In the corner of my room is a pile of dirty clothes and it looks like an appropriate place to hurl my backpack. I collapse onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths, allowing my erection to take a peaceful path back to flaccid.
The ceiling begins to turn fuzzy as thoughts of my future ricochet from one side of brain to the other. What am I going to make of my life?
I am a white kid growing up in upper-class Suburbia with every advantage to make something of myself. It would be a fucking insult to every child drowning in third-world poverty if I didn’t become a contributing member of society.
Despite all of that, I still feel lost and I can’t imagine a place in the world that will have me.
……………
I peer out into the hallway and my eyes sleuth the corridor for any sign of Marta. She seems to have moved on from her upstairs duties. This relieves me as I am only capable of enduring one awkward teenage boner sequence a day.
I am lithe as I can be sneaking from hallway to downstairs. As I pass the living room, the corner of my eye catches what has now gone from an absurd scene to a sad one. My mother has moved on from drunken stupor to drunken slumber. She is fast asleep, still clutching her now empty bottle of Cab Sav. A puddle of drool has pooled from the left side of her mouth and found a resting place on a satin pillow. In spite of myself, I feel sorry for her.
I run to the kitchen and grab a napkin. It occurs to me, as I wipe the pillow and dab the side of her mouth, that at one point in her life she probably did this for me. Favor returned mother. Now, please get your shit together.
...............
