Memoirs of My Son
The voices are insistent. Clear. Undeniable.
"...drop everything and give me ten...books about promenading poodles...the airy cry of Bat Segundo flying through the pods around the galaxy... taunting... voices of snotty nosed kids screaming about somebody's mother...your mother wears Army boots..."
Sweat crawls like naked spiders down my back. My eyelids open to sheets stained with KY. My pillow is gone, not ingested but under the bed along with a muddle of dust balls the size and consistency of terrapins. Christ did I dream all that? I am confused, the bunion on my big toe calls to me, screaming, along with the coffee addiction drumming Green-Eyed-Lady
at the back of my skull. My computer is flashing...oh no...gin all over the keyboard! Gin...that
harbinger of blurred ink spreads out onto my most recent galley, cat smirking with that fuck-you-your-a-nit-wit-to-let-me-have-full-access-to-your-pathetic--life's- work on its shit-eating grin of a face, and the blog of Miss Snark teasing...tempting...with it's tyrannical hold on my addictive personality.
Did I press save? God! No! It's all gone! Gone I tell you. Gone... It has been years since I used...years...the jail time...the destroyed friendships...the life spiraling out of control...it's too late now. The cat flicks a fuck-you with its tail and fades ...a will of the wisp ...a specter ... out the door. I should have gotten a dog. A poodle. Maybe one with a pink tam...
I must call my son. I must. He will know what to do -how to rescue my ruined memoirs, how to reform the letters into words that have ...I will call him. He will know.
I dial his number with groping arthritic fingers.
"James? James are you there? It's your mother! Pick up the phone! It's not a reporter - James? Pickup...James?"
Miss Snark loses her firm grasp of punctuation precepts on this one.
Scoring to come...