DOTTING EYES

I'm standing naked in front of my full length mirror this morning, readying myself for the next eight hours of my life, which will be spent dotting the eyes of the newest shipment of rubber ducks. Unfortunately, the ducks are shipped with only black ovals for eyes. I guess their Chinese manufacturers don't care if they look as if they can see or not. Mother has solved this problem by designating me, Meme Porterfield, the ducks' optometrist. All I do is dab a dot of Whiteout into the center of each of the duck's two black ovals, and there you have it: eyes. I'm amazing, aren't I? A regular miracle worker.

The fact that I'm able to stand here and wallow in my self-pity-of which I have plenty-is a sad fluke, the abbreviated recounting of which is as follows: My mother is seventy-two-years old. I'm nineteen and a half. You are probably doing some mental math in your head as you read this. Yes, that's right. Fifty-three. My mother was fifty-three when she gave birth to me. Mother, a regularly attending if not devout Episcopalian and spinster, impregnated herself with me in a most improbable manner. Apparently, a man named Earl, who I'd like to imagine as incredibly smart and handsome, had just made love to himself in the employee bathroom of The Lucky Ducky Bath and Body World. A minuscule but potent bit of his no doubt prodigious load found its way to the next bit of pink toilet paper that my mother soon thereafter used to pat her herself dry after an ostensiblyinnocuous afternoon pee. How Earl's sperm made its way through the scorched, arid, desolate, inhospitable wasteland of Mother's unexplored withered loins to impregnate what surely had to be an egg looking about as vivacious as the most gnarled of raisins, I have not the slightest clue.

Did I mention Earl was the Coca-Cola delivery driver that stocked The Lucky Ducky's Coke machine every month? Mother takes pains to tell me there was nothing at all handsome or intelligent about Earl. When I ask her what Earl looked like all she can say is: "Imagine Mel from the TV show Alice with plenty of hairy butt-crack always on display and you'll have a good idea."

She says he's just a vulgar piece of shit and that he lived in a trailer park (Mother's ultimate putt-down) in Bristol before he croaked from cirrhosis. She says she doesn't understand why he didn't use the customer bathroom. (She won't say how she deduced the circumstances of her pregnancy, which makes me wonder about the validity of her claims.) She says quite often that she doesn't understand why I'm here. She makes these statements without a hint of maliciousness in her voice. She's genuinely perplexed, just as I am, how her devotion to masking the smelly reality of human existence, could become so, as Mother puts it regularly, "base and vile." I have no doubt that a smoldering hatred lingers just under the surface of Mother's perplexity and pious martyrdom: "I didn't ask for her, you know, but I would never have not had her; that wouldn't have been the Christian thing to do, though most people would have been reaching for a coat hanger quick as all get out…." I'm firmly convinced Mother not only hates me but flat-out loathes me, Meme Porterfield, whose miraculous conception has actually made it onto Paul Harvey's The Rest of the Story. She loathes me, Meme Porterfield, the product of Earl the Cokeman's afternoon gelatinous deposit, which was only supposed to relieve his horny itch and impregnate the septic tank, if anything at all. She loathes me. I know she loathes me. She must.

So now I'm here with myself, still wet from my shower, preparing for my day, and staring back at me from the mirror is an amalgam of skinny sticks with barely visible nubbins for tits; the reflection is dull, unpleasant and on the mean side. I need to shave me legs. My collarbones and ribs are sharp against my skin, like someone is pushing from inside me, trying to get out. I think I caught myself shooting myself the bird, but I can't be sure. My hair is mousy brown on one side of my head; the other side is newly clean, well, barren would be a better way to put it. I've hacked off half my hair this morning in homage to the inherent conflict between the Tabasco-sauced and marsh-mellowed aspects of my soul, two factions constantly at war with one another, good versus if not evil than not-so-good. Truthfully, I am just "acting out," as my shrink, Sherri, would say. I'll do just about anything to catalyze the bursting of a blood vessel in Mother's wrinkly and whiter than white forehead.

"Meme! Meme!" Mother laments dramatically this morning in between slurps of her chamomile tea, while glaring at my head, and nervously fingering the choker of pearls around her neck. "I'm losing my religion-what little I've got left. Is that what you want, child? Gracious God. Hideous display, child. Hideous. Even for you."

My theory is that I've acted out because of the unfairness of my mother asking me to work today, a Saturday; she knows I like to work on my novel, smoke some weed, read exactly two pages of my thesaurus, and listen to Dead Can Dance all day on Saturdays. That's my routine, damn it.

By the way: Who would name their child Meme, which isn't a nickname, mind you, but my LEGAL name? My mother, that's who. I'm named after Mother's two best friends and business partners, Miranda and Missy. I should say former best friends and business partners; they both died a few months ago, together (and I do mean together), embraced and naked and connected at their respective vaginas with a King Dong double-headed pink dildo. Apparently, Miranda's heart gave out while she and Missy were, well, you know, and Missy, overcome by grief, got a revolver from her purse, reconnected herself to Miranda, and then shot herself in the head. Kind of romantic-but not really. We're talking two old married ladies, the same age as Mother (they all attended high school together and started The Lucky Ducky soon after they graduated)! Jesus. You never know what a person's, um, proclivities are. I never would havesuspected they were old lady lesbians or anything. Jeez. Not that I give a crap, really,because I don't, at least not in a negative way. I'm extremely progressive; yet, in juxtaposition with my progressive, nonjudgmental nature, I have a moral concreteness that serves me well; moral relativists disgust me.

Yes, I suppose one could characterize me as an outside-the-box-thinker. Apparently, Miranda and Missy were outside-the-box thinkers as well. Their husbands have both gone off the deep end. Neither could believe their wives capable of such…proclivities (I don't mean to overuse the word, but hey, if it fits…). Clarence, Miranda's husband of a bazillion years, is skinny as a rail, looks like a dieting Ethiopian and is a retired mailman (surprise). He's now zombied out on mega dosage of Prozac and Valium and lives with a daughter somewhere in Maryland. Laban, Missy's third and last husband is missing. No one knows where the hell he is. Before disappearing, Laban owned and operated a Dippin'Dots kiosk at a flea market downtown. Did I mention Laban looks like an angry troll: big gut, short, beard down to his waist, purple bulbous nose; if he hadn't been married to Missy, I'd have sworn he lived under a bridge and spent his time scaring passersby, mainly kids.

Now that Missy and Miranda are dead, I've been helping Mother more and more at The Lucky Ducky, located in Meadow-view, a small town in southwest, Virginia. The Lucky Ducky sells all kinds of soaps and towels and candles and bath salts and potpourri and whatever else you can think of that might be used in the john. I tell Mother all the time that selling some old fashioned Lysol spray might not be a bad idea. Mother, while slathering on more of her blood red lipstick, huffs and puffs and says, "Meme, we're not about being crude. Not at the Lucky Ducky!" She then fires up a Misty Full Flavor Ultra Light, looking more like a sad circus clown on a smoke break than the mother of a college student (I'm enrolled at the local community college; however, I attend only semi-regularly and am quite dissatisfied with practically every aspect of my life). No, Mother isn't about being crude. She'd much rather bury a bathroom Pompeii-like in rose petals than, God forbid, spray a little Lysol. In my nightmares, I see archeologists unearthing me a thousand years from now inside The Lucky Ducky's employee bathroom. I'll be embedded in the aforementioned rose petals, my mouth gaped open in mid scream, and each of my hands will be clutching a rubber ducky with newly dotted eyes. I'll be the victim of an explosion of sweetness and beauty.

* * *

"A dollar seventy-five each or three for five dollars," I mumble.

"Fwee fuh hot? How mutt?" (Three for what? How much?)

"A dollar seventy-five each or three for five dollars," I repeat for the eleventh time, my voice devoid of any possible emotion save for that of the desperately suicidal.

"Huh?"

"A dollar seventy-five each or three for five dollars," I repeat once again, my eyes feeling oddly heavy, my skin feeling clammy and cold. Bridget stares back at me, and I know that her brain wave activity must be flat lining. I expect this behavior from Bridget; she was actually dropped on her head while being delivered as a baby. She really was. Now, she's about forty, weighs close to four hundred pounds, wears pitifully a Red Lobster bib to catch her ever constant strings of drool, and she can't hear worth a shit, either. I do need to mention that I've always liked Bridget.

"Huh?" Bridget shifts her weight from one foot to the other, like a little girl needing to pee.
I shake my head, seeing the fainting fairies: a multiplicity of black dots doing the hokey pokey in my barely conscious state. I've been feeling odd all morning. I know that a visit is inevitable. "A dollar seventy fi-" I start to say but am unable to finish before I collapse backward, falling with arms spread like wings, into one of three large wooden bins of rubber ducks behind me. Time's dead. Therefore, I live. I am floating in a nether world consisting of the infinite joy preceding but just barely the quivering and jerking of the orgasm. My smooth buttocks are gripped not cupped by strong hands; my hands rest in the small of his back, a hollow eddy for me, his lover, against the harsh white water of my life. His torso shades me against a judgmental cold sun, allowing me to build slowly; my oxygen lackadaisically floats away while I meander blissfully the last few yards of the surface leading to Everest's crest; I walk effortlessly in my own crystalline sky to the edge of Space. Finally, for I am Now, the muscles at the back of my thighs and the top of my ass tingle in anticipation of the inevitable squeezing and contracting, mine around his. I long so completely. Longing is what I do best.

"Meme, for goodness sake, just give Bridget a duck. Jesus, Jesus, I swear!" Mother says to me, swear coming out of her mouth like "sway-ya," her tone tinged not exactly with irritation but, instead, with a resigned incredulity, reserved for all who are beneath her. I shake my head. Where am I? Sadly, I am back inside the store, standing next to Mother and Bridget. Apparently my fainting spell lasted no more that an inconspicuous moment. At least for a few seconds, I am where I most long to be: with him, my soul mate, my wonderful soul mate…whom I have yet to meet.

"Here," I say, handing Bridget a duck. She smiles and runs out the door without paying. Mother just shakes her head, and I can read her thoughts, firing deep within her tight-assed brain, thoughts that are as malformed, loopy, and fissured as the prunes she ingests every morning: She is my cross, standing and tripping into my merchandise, and costing me money. She is my cross, dear Lord. My test. My swarm of locusts. My damned drought. I'm thirsty, Jesus. But I will overcome. I will bear it! See if I don't!

"Kook," Mother says, walking away, leaving me uncertain whether she's referring to Bridget or me.

* * *

Labon's dead. Turns out, he drove to Kansas City (he was always a Chiefs fan), checked into a no-tell motel, paid for a week, plugged in a CD player, set Bach's St.Mathew's Passion on repeat, then swallowed fifty Lortabs. Mother tells me all this before work today. She cries and says that she loves Labon. She screams it at me. "I love him, damn it! Don't you understand?" she says. Her voice becomes all staccato and she cries like a hurt child, all broken and continuous and desperate. My mother's nose runs and her face flushes with a red that almost matches her lipstick. She stands alive in front of me, fists balled and hanging on loose arms by her sides, grieving and whaling and flailing, completely out of control. Then, on a dime, she dries up like a raindrop landing on a hot city sidewalk. Her breathing malleability morphs into granite before my eyes. "I'm going on to the store," she says, grabbing her car keys and without a hint of hysteria in her voice. "We've got more ducks coming in. They need eyes," she adds.

I don't go to work today. After Mother leaves, I go upstairs and lay in the shower, allowing the falling water to cascade over my stomach and legs. I keep a washcloth over my face and breathe as best I can. I imagine rubber ducks small enough to swim cheerfully in the pool of water that's filled my belly button. I can see their eager little tails, moving this way and that, the little ones following their mother, cheerful quacks coming from every direction. From the shower, I can hear the phone ring twice, once around ten, another time at two in the afternoon. I know it is Mother, for each time the phone rings exactly five times then stops. Mother never lets a phone ring more than five times before hanging up. I'm not sure why. I stay in the shower for hours, all day, not minding the water when it is hot or when it turns icy cold and my nipples and lips turn hazy blue. I am numb and in this state of unfeeling I know what I will do.

As dusk turns the sky gray, leaving the clouds and ground in negative form, a sort of phantasmagoric state between life and death; I leave the house. I drive my Honda Civic with fixed and steady purpose of mind to a brick rancher in the Westwood subdivision, a couple of miles from The Lucky Ducky, meeting up with Mr. Armstrong, my old high school band director. I haven't seen Mr. Armstrong since last year at graduation. He has pale hands, smallish for a man, sharp cheekbones and chin, thick glasses, and a high tight butt. He's narrow shouldered, fair skinned and wispy haired; his eyes are speckled blue, like a robin's eggs. He's slightly nervous. He's a band teacher.

I haven't seen seen him since I graduated last year. I knock on his door at a quarter after six. I know that his wife teaches at the community college tonight. He opens the door. He smiles when he sees me. He mumbles something and fidgets with his hands. I just smile. Smiles. Smiles all around. Come on in, Meme. What a pleasure. What a surprise. Your hair, well that's different…. Hello, Meme. Why, Meme! Hello, Meme Porterfield.

Without much provocation, he screws me quickly on his couch while ESPN's Sportscenter blared on the TV. He is heavy on top of me, his Khakis and boxers wadded around his ankles, his scruffy Rockport shoes pushing against the end of the couch; he keeps sticking his index in my mouth, thinking, I suppose, that I'll be turned on by it. I'm not. All I want is his vulgarity and mine. I want filth and stench. I want dirtiness. I want to be FUCKED before I die. Love will happen when I step off the edge. His finger tastes like peanut butter. He pumps me and moans andwiggles his hips. His hands are all over my head, gripping and messaging, conducting, one hand gripping my hair, the other sliding over the bald half of head. I'm a novelty. I guess he isn't pleased by my lack of reaction. I'm soundless, like a rainstorm watched with cotton stuffed ears. He turns me over, and I can feel my anus widen as he pulls my cheeks open.

Mr. Armstrong's golden retriever, Max, lies on the floor next to the couch and licks my hand while his owner does me. "Oh shit, Meme," Mr. Armstrong says repeatedly, crashing into my sex from behind, the sound echoing over the blare of the TV like miniature ocean waves, jack hammering a lily white beach. "Oh, shit," Mr. Armstrong says, his body quivering; me, I feel nothing at all.

I glance at my watch. Ten after seven. I've left my former teacher with the perfunctory "No, I won't tell anyone," and now I am entering The Lucky Ducky. I feel damp from the sex: a washcloth hanging to dry, wrung out. The store is dark and silent. I mentally calculate the last few hours of Mother's life. She would have left the shop a little after six. She would have opened the door to the house around six thirty, which would have coincided with the sins of adultery and fornication being committed on the couch at Mr. Armstrong's house. This second in time, she probably is smoking her Misty's and reclining in her clawed porcelain bathtub, curious but not carrying about my whereabouts. I sigh deeply, wishing I'd left my panties stuck in between Mr. Armstrong's cushions, provoking, hopefully, a tearful interrogation from his wife. I walk over to the bins of the rubber ducks, only half of which have eyes. Mother didn't bother using the Whiteout on the new batch that came in today. I stand before them, seeing each of them individually, though most are buried and out of sight. Their eyes are vortexes of blackness, and they do not see me. But they know me, every atom of my body, every hair on my head, and they pull me, each one of them, like a multitude of collapsed stars pulling all surrounding light into them forever. I feel weird and ethereal and there they are: the fainting fairies, black dots similar to the ducks' eyes, surrounding me, holding me; they are my plentiful angels. Before I collapse, I am ready to end more than myself. I squirt lighterfluid onto the ducks, those with eyes and those without, and I toss a match. And I fall, my hands contracting into fists, holding nothing save the silent screams of dissolving rubber.

---

Return to CONTENTS