My Way

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Part 1

Mother. My mother - frowned . . . a lot. A real 'frowner' around our house. Quick temper. Star sign: SCORPIO. My Virgo supremacy clashed with her neurotic downside. I used to watch this woman - frowning from one room to the next - scratching my head, and wondering: what the hell was bothering her so much? There must've been a GWEN tower in the vacinity. The side effects of ambient radiation (acidifying her blood) were, as I can recall, very indicative of electrohypersensitivity. The low-frequency sound waves of those electromagnetic fields, I'm sure, interfered with the alpha range of my mother's thinking. Even the 60Hz output of standard house wiring would've added to her psychotronic distress. I used to tell her: Mom, this is why I wrap myself in tinfoil before going to bed. And you gotta earth yourself with copper slippers. She didn't care about 'panpsychism' and its unifying principle. It was like talking to a brick wall: . . . a healthy human body should resonate at a frequency of around 62-70 MHz. Mom, lissen, the thing is . . . I reckon yours is as low as 58MHz (emphasis added). I would keep chipping away: . . . you need to 'amp up' and stop being such a wet blouse! She could, for a petite woman, accelerate from 0-60 with no warning. And before she blew her top - I, in my haste, made damn sure I could get to the front door!

 

I was a student. College was my existential crisis. I was only there because that's what you did when school was done. Yeah. I could've got a bog-standard job - but that was beneath me. Some of my school pals were scraping their knuckles, doing really menial work. Fuck that! I'd done my spade-work grafting as a kitchen porter. Started when I was fourteen. Bummer. All my summer holidays were spent washing dishes and taking shit from dick-hard cooks who thought they were chefs. One female trainee (a saucier) slapped me across the chops because, at fourteen, I stood my ground regarding a certain matter - her being an asshole! She kept burning the gravy for the bistro's carvery - then giving ME the pot to clean. You needed lion claws to scrape that shit off. We were nose-to-nose. Every fuckin' time, I hollered . . . you mong, you fuckin' RETARD for burning it again!!! I got my slap and trashed the kitchen. I gave her the finger and stormed home. I put a video cassette in the player - the tape featured looped footage of Bodil Joensen at her very best! Dad kept it in his wardrobe - but I found it in a shoebox. On my smarmy days, I'd give him a cheeky wink . . . but he had no idea why.

 

My mother always disapproved of my father's drinking. No layabout my old man. Never missed a day's work. Paid the bills. Put food on the table. Took my mother on holidays to Spain. Your father's a 'functioning alcoholic'. She said this (under her breath) - looking up at light fixtures. May be she thought our house was bugged.

 

So many radio officers end up at the helm of their own radio stations. They're also telecommunications engineers. A moped got my father to work each day. The job also came with weekly night shifts. And I think, over the years, this messed up his body's production of melatonin. Smart man. He knew my mother would be stressed after her day at work. Lights low. Dinner in the oven. John Denver playing in the background - with a warm smile, he would offer his dearest a much-needed glass of wine: Darling, let me take your coat and scarf - sit down, for God's sake, take the weight off your feet! One sip, of course, led to another. She could be her own worst enemy . . . I'm beat - need a long soak. He countered with flattery - filling her glass with more plonk. Just another tired marriage three-sheets-to-the-wind. I was seventeen. Seeing this all the time sold it for me. I made a promise - never to get married. I'm still single, free . . . and the happiest I've ever been. A six-year relationship with a girl, when I was 34, confirmed my suspicions: that I, personally, can't be bothered. No. My heart didn't skip a beat. Eventually you have to concede: I couldn't tolerate the hackneyed sentiment so many couples drowned themselves in. The habit of growing old together didn't appeal to me either - NO THANKS!

 

The only part of home life I really enjoyed were all the Kellogg's Corn Flakes and Rice Krispies. It's a teenage thing - this cereal obsession. The weekends saw me wolfing down four or five bowls by the end of the day. I craved the cerebral calories. I had transpersonal aspirations - the appetite, of which, needed feeding. College assignments would have to wait. I scraped by. But my heart was elsewhere. I became utterly consumed: editing pieces of my own chronology - and replacing the omissions with inserts deemed more worthy. The Florentine sculptor, Michelangelo Buonarroti, did this. He spent the last eight years of his life with Ascano condivi (his biographer). Anything Michelangelo didn't like - he threw out. John Holmes (Johnny Wadd) followed the same course of self-definition. People closest to John knew he lived by his own terms. The apocryphal side of his life almost doesn't matter. Why? Because when the cameras started rolling - the champ lived up to his name.


Submitted: November 27, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Jobe Rubens. All rights reserved.

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Comments

Serge Wlodarski

At least your mother likes John Denver. Take me home country roads... Good story.

Fri, November 27th, 2020 8:53pm

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