to crush your skull, fold it in so your worthless ass could just shoot out of me
.
And the doctor said, “You’re confused, Mother. You don’t mean what you’re saying.” And I told ’im, “Fuck you, motherfucker, and don’t call me ‘Mother.’ You ain’t nuthin’ to me, understand?”
And you know what that doctor did?
Ache breathed deeply, knowing the answer, heard it so many times he’d memorized it.
He said, “Maybe you shoulda lost some a that weight before you decided to become pregnant. Being overweight is
dangerous, Mother. Could cause complications. See you in a few hours.”
And he walked out and shut the door, just like your no-good daddy, that goddamn son of a bitch
.
Well, here you come a whole goddamn two days later, not just some fuckin’ few hours. And everybody looked, said you was ugly as hell. Still ugly. Shoulda put your head in the toilet minute I got home
.
Twenty years ago, when he was younger, they didn’t have Walkmans, and even if they did, he couldn’t have afforded one. But at times he managed to place a small cardboard box over his head and blow in it, made sounds like the wind rushing in his ears while his mother cursed him outside the bathroom door where he’d locked himself.
In school, where he couldn’t take the box, the jabs came at him like heat-seeking missiles riding waves of sniggering. Even the teacher—who hid her face at the board but couldn’t quite control her shaking shoulders—did nothing when that worn-out Redd Foxx joke broke over the class.
“You was so ugly when you was born, the doc went and slapped your mama.”
Worn-out. Old. But powerful enough to cause burning injury. Funny enough for the girls to laugh if the right boy told it. They laughed. The boys were stupid, but the girls, they should’ve known better. So that made them extra-stupid. Just like his mama. They should’ve known better.
The doc slapped yo’ mama.
Aaaaargh!
And his mama, in turn, had never stopped slapping him. Words. The sharp heel of a shoe, the ironing cord, the iron itself, the key enclosing him in a closet so dark that even the flashing light inside his head went out.
And that cereal. Spread all over the floor.
The pounding shook him, made him jump. He looked around the small bedroom, confused. Was the sound coming from outside? Inside? There it was again, like a hammer.
He snatched the earphones away, listening in the dark. There was a silence, then something like static, like he’d turned to a bad station in Minnesota. A jangle of voices again and finally that dominant one:
What you waitin’ for, Ache? You saw the way she looked at you. Disrespected you. You don’t have to take that shit from nobody. Nobody, you know what I’m sayin’?
He managed to close his eyes.
Yesterday had been bad. The air-conditioning had broken down in the store again and he’d struggled in the heat to stock the shelves and pack the groceries as quickly as he could while that asshole manager was climbin’ all over him.
Tellin’ me I wasn’t hustlin’ fast enough. Shit. Why the fuck didn’t he pitch in instead of mouthin’ off?
Then that woman. Movin’ down the aisle like she the point tank for fuckin’ Desert Storm. That tight suede skirt. And snatchin’ stuff and swingin’ that shoulder bag like she had a .45 in it. And starin’ at me like I was a piece a shit
.
The noise faded, gave way to other sounds. Floorboards creaked under his mother’s weight and he lay against the pillows, exhausted, waiting for the door to fly open again and the air to ring hot with her howling for at least another hour.
When the door slammed open, the inside voice spiraled up again, up and over his mother’s screaming.
What you waitin’ for, Ache?
the voice inside said.
You
saw how the bitch eyed you. And you know, you be on the news again. Not just WINS, but TV this time. You be on top of the world. You know how O.J. stopped the stock market? The fuckin’ stock market! Hell,
.
And the doctor said, “You’re confused, Mother. You don’t mean what you’re saying.” And I told ’im, “Fuck you, motherfucker, and don’t call me ‘Mother.’ You ain’t nuthin’ to me, understand?”
And you know what that doctor did?
Ache breathed deeply, knowing the answer, heard it so many times he’d memorized it.
He said, “Maybe you shoulda lost some a that weight before you decided to become pregnant. Being overweight is
dangerous, Mother. Could cause complications. See you in a few hours.”
And he walked out and shut the door, just like your no-good daddy, that goddamn son of a bitch
.
Well, here you come a whole goddamn two days later, not just some fuckin’ few hours. And everybody looked, said you was ugly as hell. Still ugly. Shoulda put your head in the toilet minute I got home
.
Twenty years ago, when he was younger, they didn’t have Walkmans, and even if they did, he couldn’t have afforded one. But at times he managed to place a small cardboard box over his head and blow in it, made sounds like the wind rushing in his ears while his mother cursed him outside the bathroom door where he’d locked himself.
In school, where he couldn’t take the box, the jabs came at him like heat-seeking missiles riding waves of sniggering. Even the teacher—who hid her face at the board but couldn’t quite control her shaking shoulders—did nothing when that worn-out Redd Foxx joke broke over the class.
“You was so ugly when you was born, the doc went and slapped your mama.”
Worn-out. Old. But powerful enough to cause burning injury. Funny enough for the girls to laugh if the right boy told it. They laughed. The boys were stupid, but the girls, they should’ve known better. So that made them extra-stupid. Just like his mama. They should’ve known better.
The doc slapped yo’ mama.
Aaaaargh!
And his mama, in turn, had never stopped slapping him. Words. The sharp heel of a shoe, the ironing cord, the iron itself, the key enclosing him in a closet so dark that even the flashing light inside his head went out.
And that cereal. Spread all over the floor.
The pounding shook him, made him jump. He looked around the small bedroom, confused. Was the sound coming from outside? Inside? There it was again, like a hammer.
He snatched the earphones away, listening in the dark. There was a silence, then something like static, like he’d turned to a bad station in Minnesota. A jangle of voices again and finally that dominant one:
What you waitin’ for, Ache? You saw the way she looked at you. Disrespected you. You don’t have to take that shit from nobody. Nobody, you know what I’m sayin’?
He managed to close his eyes.
Yesterday had been bad. The air-conditioning had broken down in the store again and he’d struggled in the heat to stock the shelves and pack the groceries as quickly as he could while that asshole manager was climbin’ all over him.
Tellin’ me I wasn’t hustlin’ fast enough. Shit. Why the fuck didn’t he pitch in instead of mouthin’ off?
Then that woman. Movin’ down the aisle like she the point tank for fuckin’ Desert Storm. That tight suede skirt. And snatchin’ stuff and swingin’ that shoulder bag like she had a .45 in it. And starin’ at me like I was a piece a shit
.
The noise faded, gave way to other sounds. Floorboards creaked under his mother’s weight and he lay against the pillows, exhausted, waiting for the door to fly open again and the air to ring hot with her howling for at least another hour.
When the door slammed open, the inside voice spiraled up again, up and over his mother’s screaming.
What you waitin’ for, Ache?
the voice inside said.
You
saw how the bitch eyed you. And you know, you be on the news again. Not just WINS, but TV this time. You be on top of the world. You know how O.J. stopped the stock market? The fuckin’ stock market! Hell,
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