Boy, this endless wait sure is something. It consumes my
every waking moment and has much to do with why there are so god damned many of
them. But, in spite of all the synonyms I've been collecting over these last few
weeks for "pissed off", I decided to, in an effort not to jinx anything, hold
off on writing anything here about this latest elephant until it finally gets
off its fat ass and out of my apartment. But, like the verbal Vesuvius that I
am, I can't just sit here steaming. I need to take out a village, reshape an
entire coastline ... or at the very least write something. But what?
About how my wacky Dodgers who, after the all star break, went from being in
first place to last place, then suddenly became the hottest team in baseball and
soared right back into first? Naw, they're the Dodgers. It a trap, believe me.
I thought something period might be interesting and, based on the phrases "cocka-leeky
soup", "sticky toffee pudding" and "tussy mussy", I started writing a piece
called "Victorians Were All Retarded" but aside from inviting the ire of those
fine people who make up the autistic community, it would have probably just
added another thread on that already bulging snob site, turning an attempt at
humor into something very long winded and rather sad. But maybe I'm just
projecting here a bit ... whatever the hell that means....
Then I had it. About a month ago, on my birthday, when the very latest chapter
in this living saga "Poke a Screwdriver In My Eye, Now What?" first began, I
said a special prayer before going to sleep. What I want to talk about here is
not what I prayed for (that's got be be pretty obvious by now) but to whom:
When I was a kid I was taught to say the Sh'ma before sleep (and upon
rising...sorry, the two go together) and I remember, in lieu of a yarmulke,
putting my hands on my head and praying to my image of God was at that time, a
kind of Santa Claus in a robe. I would say the Hebrew prayer and then follow it
up with my daily wish list, almost as if I thought the prayer itself was God's
phone number and, once said and you had the big guy on the line, you could ask
for whatever you wanted. See? Very much like Santa Claus. After a while though
the nightly prayer got lost in the haze of adulthood. That is until my Mom died
(adopted mom Lillian, the one who raised me). After that day, Christmas Eve
1995, I would make it a point to talk to her before I went to sleep and she
became something like the face of God to me. Except when guilt set in, for five
months before she passed away I lost my adopted father and one could only assume
he was up there too. Problem was he never fully captured the role of Father
while alive so God was sadly well out of his league. Still he was up there with
her, or so I thought, so occasionally after chatting with Mom for a while, I
would ask her to put Dad on for a minute, where I'd say something civil like
"hope you're well considering" and "let me talk to Mom again" finishing up with
"I love you Mom. Good night".
This went on for a while until it hit me; I was ignoring my other two Moms! Now
if there were no such things as souls or if they existed but couldn't hear us or
feel anything there would be no problem but what if souls do exist and what if
they can hear us and what if they can truly feel? Mom (Lillian, the one who
raised me) would be okay and assuming those cosmic crumbs I was tossing at my
adopted father was keeping him satisfied I wouldn't have to worry about him but
what about Bella, my first adopted mom? She was bed ridden and sick most of the
time I knew her but even though I was only four and a half when she died I
remember her very, very well; how we cuddled, how we laughed, how I would help
bring in her food on a tray, how once she crawled out of bed and, propped
against the bathroom door and in her loudest and most protective voice, told my
crazy grandma and my adopted father who were trying to stick something up my
then three year old little butt to "Get away from my Son!"; she was my Mommy and
I loved her. I still do. And then what about that young, wild Irish girl Peggy,
my "real" mom? Even though I never got to meet her, she obviously loved me
enough to have me, not tell that drunk, crazy ex-soldier she got knocked up by
about me (more on him in a bit) and yet, hoping in her heart that people can
change and everyone deserves to know their father (even if he was "a real son of
a bitch" - Dad's words), made sure to have his name on the birth certificate for
me to find later. I loved her for that. I still do. So for a while, before
sleep, I'd start by thanking Peggy for having me, Bella for teaching me to laugh
(and from keeping that long tubed thing out of my ass!), ask Mom to put my
adopted father on for a minute, tell him I love him and - if still awake after
chatting it up with all these ghosts - talk to Mom about the day and my life and
other things you need a mom for and no one else. And then on June 1st, 2001 my
Dad died (you know, the crazy, drunk ex-soldier, son of a bitch?) and he
immediately became the Face of God. Five dead parents, five stars, five guardian
angels, five dead people to talk to every night. And the first in line was and
is always Marty, my Dad, my hero, my strength and the face of God.
And on my birthday night, that's who I prayed to. I told him about her (again),
about how much he would have loved her, and all about our dreams for the future
(should that ever arrive!). I asked for his strength and courage and reminded
him about that Lottery thing he promised to fix once he got up there. Then, as I
do every night, I told him how much I loved him and missed him and asked to talk
to Peggy, then to Bella and then to my Mom. To Mom that night I mainly talked
about an amazing four year old girl down here (who I know she would have loved
and would have tried to spoil rotten), the things she's said recently, the stuff
she's done, bragging like I had anything even remotely to do with any of it (Mom
probably knew I hadn't but I think was pleased to hear the stories none the
less). Then, as always I asked to talk to my adopted father, thanked him for
whatever the hell it was he did and then quickly finished with the same line
he's heard for over ten years now, "let me talk to Mom again."