DRIFT AWAY

  After a rough day at work, there is nothing quite like a twenty-five minute commute/curse fest along the southbound Southfield Freeway.  At one point, Tony and I thought it would be a good idea to mount a video camera inside our vehicle to record what was said along the trip.  Since imitating various ethnic groups is a no-no in this politically correct era we find ourselves in, it is probably a good idea that we nixed that idea.

   Once we reach the sanctuary that is Tony’s house, the side door is magically opened by his wife, Beth.  Given our erratic schedule, how she knows when it’s time to open the door is anybody’s guess (perhaps depression gives off an odor).  And, if she fails to reach the door before we unlock and enter, Tony delights in giving her hell.  “Come on woman, your man is here.”  Like that.

   Tony usually hangs in the kitchen catching up with Beth, while I make my way down the hall to visit my Mom in her room.  She is always sitting in the chair next to her bed, close to the television (her vision makes it imperative to sit tight; either that or its a way to get closer to that handsome devil, WDIV’s Devin Scilian).  I make my way to a little cup of butterscotch hard candies before sitting on the edge of the bed closest to M’Lady.  Feet planted firmly on the ground, I fall back onto the bed and close my eyes.

   In this odd position, I catch up on the news of the day with the aforementioned Devin and Carmen Harlan.  In a few minutes, Tony wanders in and takes a position behind our Mom’s chair, or kneeling next to her.  Since there is no on/off button on opinions and ribald commentary, Joan gets to hear it all.  To her credit, or perhaps due to wearing her down, our Mom rarely reacts with surprise or disdain.  

   A couple of weeks ago, I offered to go one on one in a locked room with that cowardly piece of shit from Isis that had been identified through his beady, shifty rat-like eyes.  I believe my rant included plucking those eyes out of their socket.  Tony, a fan of the series Lockdown, wanted him put in the general population of a prison so that the inmates could make him their bitch.

   “Boys” my Mom said.  That’s about the most we get.

   Lest you think opinions are the only thing noxious about my visit, my position on the bed, coupled with the rapidity of my day’s food intake and a healthy dose of stress, cause me to pass incredible amounts of gas.  What better way to say hello than a twenty second fart five feet from where you will lay your head.  

   Sometimes the events of the day prove too much.  The warmness of the room and the presence of my Mom add to my comfort and I drift off.  In this gauzy sleep, I can hear comments like “Jimmy fell asleep fast” or “Is he sleeping with that butterscotch candy in his mouth?”  

   After a short respite, my Mom will put her warm and soft hand on mine and quietly say my name until I open my eyes.  I normally don’t react well when woken from a nap, but this is different.  It is often the first gentle moment of my day.

   I sit back up on the corner of the bed only a few feet from my Mom.  I struggle to my feet and kiss her on the forehead and let her know how much I love her.  Still sitting she puts her hand out for me to take.  Soft and warm.  I kiss her again.  There is a reluctance to let go.  From both of us.  My Mom tells me to be careful driving.  I assure her I will.  Still hand in hand.  Gradually, we let go.  I walk down the hall, out the side door and back into the cold. 

Cheers!  Jim