for a minute.”
Every time I visit, some old raisin down the hall with wild eyebrows, she calls me Eichmann. Another woman with a clear plastic tube of piss looping out from under her bathrobe, she accuses me of stealing her dog and wants it back. Anytime I pass this other old woman who sits in her wheelchair, slumped inside a pile of pink sweaters, she hisses at me. “I saw you,” she says, and looks at me with one cloudy eye. “The night of the fire, I saw you with them!”
You can’t win. Every man who’s ever passed through Eva’s life has probably been her big brother in some form. Whether she knew it or not, she’s spent her whole life waiting and expecting men to diddle her. For serious, even mummied up in her wrinkled skin, she’s still eight years old. Stuck. Just the same as Colonial Dunsboro with its granola crew of burnouts, everybody at St. Anthony’s is trapped in their past.
I’m no exception, and don’t think you are either.
Just as stuck as Denny in the stocks, Eva’s arrested in her development.
“You,” Eva says, and pokes a trembling finger at me. “You hurt my woo-woo.”
These stuck old people.
“Oh, you said it was just our game,” she says and rolls her head, her voice getting sing song. “It was just our secret game, but then you put your big man thing inside me.” Her bony, carved little finger keeps poking in the air at my crotch.
For serious, just the idea makes my big man thing want to run screaming from the room.
The trouble is, anywhere else at St. Anthony’s it’s the same deal. Another old skeleton thinks I borrowed five hundred dollars from her. Another baggy old woman calls me the devil.
“And you hurt me,” Eva says.
It’s tough not to come here and soak up the blame for every crime in history. You want to shout in everybody’s old toothless face. Yes, I kidnapped that Lindbergh baby.
The
Titanic
thing, I did that.
That Kennedy assassination deal, yeah, that was me.
The big World War II gizmo, that atom bomb contraption, well guess what? That was my doing.
The AIDS bug? Sorry. Me, again.
The correct way to handle a case like Eva is to redirect her attention. Distract her by mentioning lunch or the weather or how nice her hair looks. Her attention span is about a clock tick long, and you can shove her on to a more pleasant topic.
You can guess this is how men have been handling Eva’s hostility for her whole life. Just distract her. Get through the moment. Avoid confrontation. Run away.
That’s pretty much how we get through our own lives, watching television. Smoking crap. Self-medicating. Redirecting our own attention. Jacking off. Denial.
Her whole body leaning forward, her little stick finger trembles in the air at me.
Screw it.
She’s already pretty much engaged to become Mrs. Death.
“Yeah, Eva,” I say. “I boned you.” And I yawn. “Yup. Every chance I got, I stuck it in you and humped out a load.”
They call this psychodrama. You could call it just another kind of granny dumping.
Her twisted little finger wilts, and she settles back between the arms of her wheelchair. “So you finally admit it,” she says.
“Hell yes,” I say. “You’re a great piece of ass, baby sis.”
She looks off at a blank spot on the linoleum floor and says, “After all these years, he admits it.”
This is role-playing therapy, only Eva doesn’t know it’s not for real.
Her head still loops in little circles, but her eyes come back to me. “And you’re not sorry?” she says.
Well, I guess if Jesus could die for my sins, I suppose I can soak up a few for other people. We all get our chance to play scapegoat. Take the blame.
The martyrdom of Saint Me.
The sins of every man in history landing square on my back.
“Eva,” I say. “Baby, sweetheart, little sister, love of my life, of course I’m sorry. I was a pig,” I say and look at my watch. “You were just such a hot tamale that I was out of control.”
Like I need this shit
Every time I visit, some old raisin down the hall with wild eyebrows, she calls me Eichmann. Another woman with a clear plastic tube of piss looping out from under her bathrobe, she accuses me of stealing her dog and wants it back. Anytime I pass this other old woman who sits in her wheelchair, slumped inside a pile of pink sweaters, she hisses at me. “I saw you,” she says, and looks at me with one cloudy eye. “The night of the fire, I saw you with them!”
You can’t win. Every man who’s ever passed through Eva’s life has probably been her big brother in some form. Whether she knew it or not, she’s spent her whole life waiting and expecting men to diddle her. For serious, even mummied up in her wrinkled skin, she’s still eight years old. Stuck. Just the same as Colonial Dunsboro with its granola crew of burnouts, everybody at St. Anthony’s is trapped in their past.
I’m no exception, and don’t think you are either.
Just as stuck as Denny in the stocks, Eva’s arrested in her development.
“You,” Eva says, and pokes a trembling finger at me. “You hurt my woo-woo.”
These stuck old people.
“Oh, you said it was just our game,” she says and rolls her head, her voice getting sing song. “It was just our secret game, but then you put your big man thing inside me.” Her bony, carved little finger keeps poking in the air at my crotch.
For serious, just the idea makes my big man thing want to run screaming from the room.
The trouble is, anywhere else at St. Anthony’s it’s the same deal. Another old skeleton thinks I borrowed five hundred dollars from her. Another baggy old woman calls me the devil.
“And you hurt me,” Eva says.
It’s tough not to come here and soak up the blame for every crime in history. You want to shout in everybody’s old toothless face. Yes, I kidnapped that Lindbergh baby.
The
Titanic
thing, I did that.
That Kennedy assassination deal, yeah, that was me.
The big World War II gizmo, that atom bomb contraption, well guess what? That was my doing.
The AIDS bug? Sorry. Me, again.
The correct way to handle a case like Eva is to redirect her attention. Distract her by mentioning lunch or the weather or how nice her hair looks. Her attention span is about a clock tick long, and you can shove her on to a more pleasant topic.
You can guess this is how men have been handling Eva’s hostility for her whole life. Just distract her. Get through the moment. Avoid confrontation. Run away.
That’s pretty much how we get through our own lives, watching television. Smoking crap. Self-medicating. Redirecting our own attention. Jacking off. Denial.
Her whole body leaning forward, her little stick finger trembles in the air at me.
Screw it.
She’s already pretty much engaged to become Mrs. Death.
“Yeah, Eva,” I say. “I boned you.” And I yawn. “Yup. Every chance I got, I stuck it in you and humped out a load.”
They call this psychodrama. You could call it just another kind of granny dumping.
Her twisted little finger wilts, and she settles back between the arms of her wheelchair. “So you finally admit it,” she says.
“Hell yes,” I say. “You’re a great piece of ass, baby sis.”
She looks off at a blank spot on the linoleum floor and says, “After all these years, he admits it.”
This is role-playing therapy, only Eva doesn’t know it’s not for real.
Her head still loops in little circles, but her eyes come back to me. “And you’re not sorry?” she says.
Well, I guess if Jesus could die for my sins, I suppose I can soak up a few for other people. We all get our chance to play scapegoat. Take the blame.
The martyrdom of Saint Me.
The sins of every man in history landing square on my back.
“Eva,” I say. “Baby, sweetheart, little sister, love of my life, of course I’m sorry. I was a pig,” I say and look at my watch. “You were just such a hot tamale that I was out of control.”
Like I need this shit
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