fact that she was paying twenty-one percent interest on all the braces I had up in there) or ripping out the few chunks of hair that I hadn’t already shaved off, she simply reached past the trembling heap of bones and studs in her passenger seat and opened the glove box. I watched through splayed fingers as her hand disappeared under a pile of miscellaneous bullshit for just a moment and emerged holding not a Glock, but a mundane-looking Altoids tin.
Still not trusting her (There could have been anything in that tin—a rusty old razor blade, a few tablespoons of anthrax, half a dozen live scorpions…), I remained tightly balled, ready to yank the door open and tuck and roll to freedom at any minute.
Driving with one eye on me, one knee on the steering wheel, and both hands firmly wrapped around the Altoids tin as if it held the antidote to her daughter’s idiocy, my mother pried open the lid. I held my breath as she reached inside, then let it out in a huff of relief when I saw what she’d stashed in there. My long-suffering mother pulled out one pristinely rolled joint and a tiny pink lighter.
God bless her.
She puffed in silence the rest of the way home, which took for-fucking-ever with her driving ten miles under the speed limit and stopping at every yellow light, yield sign, and shiny object along the way. When we finally pulled into the driveway, her nerves appeared to have been restored to Woodstock levels of tranquility, whereas mine had been utterly annihilated .
Just as I was about to open my door and sprint to safety, my mom took a deep, self-composing breath, pinned me with a glassy-eyed stare, and slurred, “Pumpkin, you know that man’s been to prison. He looks like an ex-con.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
My Tail Fell Off Again
September 27
Dear Journal,
Ding-Dong had had three stupid tattoos when we started dating, three imbecilic tattoos that I’d learned to at least pretend to ignore. He had four when we finally broke up. (And by “broke up” I mean, I just stopped answering the phone when he called. Literally. Ding-Dong was so stoned and low-functioning and car-less that I was able to break up with him by attrition. Incredible.) That fourth tattoo was the straw that broke the Camel Light, but we’ll get to that in a minute.
Ding-Dong never grew his hair back out after that mortifying night. And just as I was getting used to the baldness, he had to go and get his septum pierced a few weeks later. Suddenly, my Billy Idol look-alike man friend looked more like the offspring of a bull cow and Dr. Evil’s hairless cat, Mr. Bigglesworth. That is, if Mr. Bigglesworth also had a burgeoning beer gut and three unfinished tattoos, including one of a penis piloting his brain.
But somehow, the crazier Ding-Dong’s appearance got, the crazier Knight became with jealousy, so I let it ride.
In hindsight, I think Knight was just incensed that I had stooped to dating an underemployed, substance-abusing, dim-witted, cranially tattooed has-been, but whatever. If being with Ding-Dong got Knight’s dander up, then he was a keeper in my book.
Plus, I really liked him—in the way that you liked your fun older cousin. He was cool, he could buy me cigarettes and alcohol, he was overprotective, he called me adorable little pet names, and he never got all smothery or intense. Again, because he was perma-stoned. But I also kept him around because he claimed to love me—a sentiment I never returned—and wanted to get a picture of me tattooed on his body.
Hell yes!
I knew it was wrong—allowing a man to get your likeness permanently carved into his skin, all the while knowing your relationship had about a six-month shelf life. But I didn’t really regard Ding-Dong as a real person with real feelings at the time—or now, to be honest. I might have had more of a conscience about it if he’d said he wanted to get my full name and Social Security number emblazoned across his forehead, but what he
Still not trusting her (There could have been anything in that tin—a rusty old razor blade, a few tablespoons of anthrax, half a dozen live scorpions…), I remained tightly balled, ready to yank the door open and tuck and roll to freedom at any minute.
Driving with one eye on me, one knee on the steering wheel, and both hands firmly wrapped around the Altoids tin as if it held the antidote to her daughter’s idiocy, my mother pried open the lid. I held my breath as she reached inside, then let it out in a huff of relief when I saw what she’d stashed in there. My long-suffering mother pulled out one pristinely rolled joint and a tiny pink lighter.
God bless her.
She puffed in silence the rest of the way home, which took for-fucking-ever with her driving ten miles under the speed limit and stopping at every yellow light, yield sign, and shiny object along the way. When we finally pulled into the driveway, her nerves appeared to have been restored to Woodstock levels of tranquility, whereas mine had been utterly annihilated .
Just as I was about to open my door and sprint to safety, my mom took a deep, self-composing breath, pinned me with a glassy-eyed stare, and slurred, “Pumpkin, you know that man’s been to prison. He looks like an ex-con.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
My Tail Fell Off Again
September 27
Dear Journal,
Ding-Dong had had three stupid tattoos when we started dating, three imbecilic tattoos that I’d learned to at least pretend to ignore. He had four when we finally broke up. (And by “broke up” I mean, I just stopped answering the phone when he called. Literally. Ding-Dong was so stoned and low-functioning and car-less that I was able to break up with him by attrition. Incredible.) That fourth tattoo was the straw that broke the Camel Light, but we’ll get to that in a minute.
Ding-Dong never grew his hair back out after that mortifying night. And just as I was getting used to the baldness, he had to go and get his septum pierced a few weeks later. Suddenly, my Billy Idol look-alike man friend looked more like the offspring of a bull cow and Dr. Evil’s hairless cat, Mr. Bigglesworth. That is, if Mr. Bigglesworth also had a burgeoning beer gut and three unfinished tattoos, including one of a penis piloting his brain.
But somehow, the crazier Ding-Dong’s appearance got, the crazier Knight became with jealousy, so I let it ride.
In hindsight, I think Knight was just incensed that I had stooped to dating an underemployed, substance-abusing, dim-witted, cranially tattooed has-been, but whatever. If being with Ding-Dong got Knight’s dander up, then he was a keeper in my book.
Plus, I really liked him—in the way that you liked your fun older cousin. He was cool, he could buy me cigarettes and alcohol, he was overprotective, he called me adorable little pet names, and he never got all smothery or intense. Again, because he was perma-stoned. But I also kept him around because he claimed to love me—a sentiment I never returned—and wanted to get a picture of me tattooed on his body.
Hell yes!
I knew it was wrong—allowing a man to get your likeness permanently carved into his skin, all the while knowing your relationship had about a six-month shelf life. But I didn’t really regard Ding-Dong as a real person with real feelings at the time—or now, to be honest. I might have had more of a conscience about it if he’d said he wanted to get my full name and Social Security number emblazoned across his forehead, but what he
Similar Books
