If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a kid who disrespects his mom. I remember a guy I used to kick it with, back in the day, named Nick or Josh or something. We hung out a lot around his house, and his mom didn’t like it too much. At first she’d just ask him sweetly to not have friends over more than once a week, and after a while I think she just got fed up with the whole deal, so she just screamed and hollered at him in desperation.
Her voice didn’t last long, though. She wasn’t really built for yelling. But he sure was. He’d spin some real wild ones at her, picking at her littlest flaws, the kind of flaws a decent person don’t really mention – anything from her sagging breasts to the fact that she was a dumb broad for letting his meth addict father live in the house for ten years even though he beat the whole lot of them. She’d only be able to hold her ground for a couple minutes before she got this real sad look in her eyes and her mouth started scrunching up and quivering as though she was about ready to let loose. And then she’d just turn around and slam the door a bit behind her, but it really wasn’t much of a slam. She probably didn’t want to damage her house, I guess.
Come to think of it, it was probably a good thing that she didn’t want a whole bunch of kids hanging around her house. I’m trying to remember what ended up happening to that kid, and it’s hard since it’s been so long, but I’m pretty sure he dropped out during our junior year in high school. He’d already been doing small weed deals since we first entered high school, but when he dropped out it got really intense. It was more of that scary stuff, the stuff I always promised myself I’d never touch. He ended up crashing into a power line, taking out a transformer and causing a chain reaction or something that took out he power for half the town. When the cops showed up, he was digging through the carpet of his floor mats looking for a “pebble.” Apparently he’d been smoking a bean – one of the old smoke-able pills of oxycontin they used to have back in the day – while driving, but dropped it when he crashed into the pole. He was trucked off to some joke of a court-ordered rehab, and I haven’t heard nothing of him since then. He’s probably dead. Or wandering the streets of some big ole tweaker city. He’s better off dead, though.
When you hear of someone like that, you can’t help but blame their mother, right? That’s what they all say. “It’s not my fault, it’s my parent’s fault for raising me all wrong.”
But I know that’s total bullshit. You know how I know? ‘Cause I can remember that bastard’s mother screaming at him to get everyone to leave. She probably bitched at him to do his homework for once, take a shower, maybe even get a job, too. Obviously it didn’t pay off all too much. She’d done what she could, though. She worked hard all her life just to provide a good life for her kids, and it was all for nothing. She didn’t even earn an ounce of respect from anyone. Except me, I suppose. Part of me wants to drive out to that little trailer park they used to live in and just talk to her. But I know I never will actually do it. I couldn’t stand to see what that wet bag of a woman has become after the destruction of her only son.
It’s not just with the bad kids though, either. I’ve seen them little rich kids treating their mom like crap too. I worked at the mall for a couple months and I remember this one day a girl from my school came into my store with her mom. She was a real cute girl, always made up all perfect and stuff. I wouldn’t have minded dating a girl like her. Or getting with her a bit, at least. But, anyway, there was a whole lot of whining going on at her end of the store. Like she had a pretty bad case of the Galloping Greedy Gimmes. She really wanted this one pair of shoes – a pair of Vans if I remember right. They were like sixty dollars or something. Her mom kept trying to talk her out of it, telling her she already had quite a few pairs just like that, but the chick kept on whining. “Mo-o-o-o-o-om, but I ne-e-e-e-ed them.” Before long, she was at another display doing the exact same thing. “What the Hell, mom? You like never buy me anything. And look at you. What do you do all day? Stay home and don’t do anything. And you still get new clothes. At least I go to school. So why do you deserve stuff more than me?”
By the time the pair of them had reached the cash wrap, she had over two hundred dollars worth of clothes and shoes draped across her arms. As I was folding a shirt, her mother made some futile attempt to compliment her daughter, to almost justify wasting all that money on her. “Now that’s a beautiful shirt. Looks sturdy, too.”
The girl just gave her a sharp look. Of course moms aren’t allowed to talk, especially when the checkout boy is some kid from your school. Every damn thing your mom says is embarrassing. And of course nobody who meets your mom is going to possibly like her or have any ounce of respect for her.
She walked away before I could give her mom the receipt. As I handed it to her, I said: “thank you very much, Ma’am. And have a wonderful day.” I know it’s one of those cheesy sort of things that every cashier boy is supposed to say to every single customer, but that time I didn’t feel like such a phony for saying it.
And she gave me the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. “Thank you. And you have a wonderful day as well.”
I think she liked actually being thanked for once.
I don’t get where this whole deal comes from. I mean, your mom’s the one who gave you life. I know it’s cheesy as hell to say something like this, but it really is the biggest gift at all. There’s no way to repay it, really. You can’t just say thanks every other day, give her some silly little mosaic you made at summer camp, or even give her a couple grandkids. It’s one of those deals you’re supposed to work off your entire life for. You’re supposed to live your entire life to its fullest in order to repay your mom for going through all that crap.
I feel bad for not really doing anything for my mom beforehand. I hate to say it, but I probably wasn’t the best son ever. I didn’t go off cussing at her or anything, but I didn’t do that much good, either. I probably did the dishes a couple of times and I know I picked her flowers for Mother’s Day once, but that really isn’t enough for me. I wish I would’ve at least said thank you a couple more times.
She didn’t live the best of lives, and it makes me pretty sad to think about it. When I was in the fifth grade her emphysema got so bad that she had to quit her job and all. She basically sat on the couch all day since she had to be on oxygen twenty-four seven. We lived on disability, so we didn’t have much money or anything, but I didn’t complain too much. To be honest, I kind of stopped hanging out with her then. I sort of couch hopped and only ended up being home a couple times a week.
And then she was dead.
I found it out at school. During third period of my senior year, I got called down to the main office. There was a cop there, so at first I was pretty sketched out. And then they told me that my mother had died in the hospital the night before. Don’t even ask me how she ended up there. But, that was basically it. She was gone. The woman who’d carried me for nine months and raised me for the first eighteen years of my life was gone. Poof.
She had a will, apparently, and she left all of her stuff to me. The house was about to be foreclosed, anyway, so the bank’s coming to take it in a couple days. I’ve been going through the house, searching for something that I can carry with me, something that’ll remind me of her, for the last couple of days. And I finally found it.
This is the first time I’ve written anything this long down besides a paper for school, and I suppose I’m not very good at it. Sorry if it’s a bit long and goes off every which-way, but I hope it’s good enough for you, Mama. I found the letter you left me and, to be honest, I bawled all over the place when I read it. I don’t care that we never had anything when I was growing up. I don’t care that I was the funny looking kid with long hair who smelled like piss and cigarette smoke who got laughed at every day in school. I don’t care that you could never be home ‘cause you worked all day. I don’t care that you didn’t leave me anything like all the rich and uppity mom’s apparently do. So don’t worry about that anymore. I mean, I’d trade anything just to have you back again.
I love you, Mama. I guess it’s too late to really show it now, but I really do. There’s really nothing to do now except go out and live my life. Maybe I’ll go to college and see what they know. Or maybe I’ll travel to Africa and China or something. Life’s really too short to sit around, you know? And I’m gonna do it all for you so that, maybe, you can see the whole world through my eyes since you spent your entire life creating a life for me. It makes me sick to think of how much time I lost with you.
Your son,
Jordan James
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