I got home today, all primed to write, only to discover that if I sat in front of my computer monitor for more than ten minutes at a time, I would begin to doze off. I only mention it because I said last night that I planned on coming straight home from my last class of the semester and writing.
I didn’t do that. What I did was, I sat around wondering what I was going to write about that would keep me from falling asleep.
Until I saw the comment my sister Leslie wrote in the above-linked article. One of the things I really love about The Strangelands is how a throw-away post like that can result in my sister having to explain to my mom about rik’s corpse shooting candy out of its ass.
Where do you even start explaining something like that? “Oh, I was just laughing because Ray said he was going to shoot candy out of rik’s ass.”
“Don’t worry—she’ll be dead.”
“Oh, because Ray was going to kill her.”
“Well, at this point, pretty much just so he can shoot Jolly Ranchers out of her ass.”
Sometimes, I feel kind of bad that my mom ever encounters the stuff I write here. Sure, she brings it on herself at times, when she decides to brave the waters and see what kind of heresy and filth her degenerate son is spouting at the moment. Honestly, she should know better by now.
But to just call up your daughter and be sucked into this mess? Like I said—sometimes I feel kind of bad about it. But other times—like tonight—I’ll remember life with my mother, and then I don’t feel so bad.
Tonight, the specific memory that alleviated my guilt was this:
One night, I’m on my way out of the house, right? It was a strange set of living conditions, because I was relatively old at the time—mid-twenties, probably. I was in the middle of plans to move out of town, and had sold my house to my mom. Because it wasn’t quite time for me to move, she allowed me to stay with her, under the condition that I helped her renovate the house. Which means I was in my mid-twenties, living with my mom. Yep, I’m that cool.
So I’m about to leave—with rik, as a matter of fact—and my mom’s sitting on the couch, watching TV. I’m pretty sure rik could tell you what show my mom was watching, but if I ever knew the name of it, it was erased by the words that came out of my mother’s mouth as I was gathering my things to leave.
In the movies, this is where the protagonist would comically spew whatever he’s drinking out all over the place. I didn’t have the benefit of a beverage, so I just dropped my backpack on the floor and looked really confused. I glanced at rik, hoping for some sort of salvation, but she was just shaking her head and laughing.
“Doggystyle. This lady has a call-in show, and people ask her questions. This guy was just asking about doggy-style. That’s some kind of sex thing?”
“We…no, we aren’t having this conversation.”
“Oh, just tell me.”
Quick side-story—this was around the time that my first nephew was beginning to say “No,” to his parents. They fell back on the traditional, “You don’t tell me ‘no!’” And because he was a little freakin’ genius even at two or whatever, he quickly came up with, “I won’t.” I really liked that, and began substituting it into my own communications. Make fun if you want, but I’ve learned some of my best expressions from kids who could barely talk.
So, yeah, happy-break over—back to the part where my mom’s inquiring about doggy-style.
“Yeah, Ray,” rik says, because even though she seems like the victim around here a lot, she really is quite a bastard. “Tell your mom about doggy-style.”
“We have time,” rik said. Did I mention that we were using her vehicle that night? We were.
“She told the caller that it was a good way to change things up. You know about it?”
“Yes, I know about it, but I’m not telling you!”
“Because you’re my mother.”
This went on for a while, and to this day, I still have the sneaking suspicion that it was a set-up. My mother is not what you would call sexually open. In fact, I once had a friend who joked with her about “this filthy, degrading, sinful act that you only do with someone you love,” and my mom whole-heartedly agreed. Not because she gets mad kinky, but because she tends to believe sex is a disgusting thing. Frankly, I’m usually very happy about her prudish viewpoint.
I don’t know if she was feeling curious that night, or if maybe she was just lonely and was hoping that rik and I would hang out for a while, chatting it up. Whatever it was, her question did nothing to make me want to stick around.
I left as soon as possible, scarred for life. rik laughed about that shit for probably forty-five minutes.
So when my mom ends up hearing about my plan to kill rik and shoot candy out of her ass at passers-by, I don’t feel that bad for either of them. Maybe a little bad for my sister, until I remember about the time that my mom gave me “the talk.”
Which leads us into our next story.
I was jumping on the trampoline with my sister one day, we’re goofing around, laughing, making jokes, calling each other names, whatever. And I made the mistake of using a Breakfast Club quote: “You’re a neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie!”
“Ray Lee Weeks!” Mom yelled across the yard. She was busy painting the side of the house, because that’s the kind of shit my mom was always doing. Painting, building, destroying. If you didn’t need power-tools, post-hole diggers, or a paintbrush to do it, she wasn’t interested.
“What?” I asked. I recognized from the tone of her voice and from the fact that she had yelled out my entire name that I was in trouble. Honestly, though, I didn’t know what I was in trouble for.
So I go over, and my mom asks me what did I just call my sister, and I tell her. I knew what a maxi pad was at this point in my life, okay? I knew about sex and penises and vaginas and menstrual cycles and even blowjobs. My neighbor had a subscription to Penthouse, and I was a dumpster-diver, man, what can I say?
But I didn’t make the connection between the strange quoted insult and the other bit. Long story short: My mom asks me to climb up the ladder to get something for her, and then she traps me up there while she tells me about sex.
The entire time, I’m all embarrassed, telling her to stop, and she’s telling me that it’s important I know this, and my sister’s over there on the trampoline, laughing her ass off.
So, yeah—all in all, I think it’s fine that the situation with the rik-corpse candy-firing ass dispenser thing worked out like it did.
My next goal is to make it to where one day my sister will have to explain to my mom why I was writing about rik giving handjobs to donkeys.