Enhanced Gravity 65 all. Sam moves up and we are fluid, then motionless, on a nylon blue wave lighted by a refracted shard of moonlight. Next morning, I reapply last night’s clothes that look, suspiciously, like last night’s clothes. I have a permanent streak of black mascara fused with blue eyeliner under my eyes as we walk the plank into his mother’s chaotic half-finished kitchen. His mother sits on a stool and regards me with equanimity. Devout Catholic, hence the five children, parishioner at the stalwart Holy Trinity Church. Loves the son. Calls him “Sammy,” which is funny because he is so not a “Sammy.” He is a Sam—tobacco, Jack Daniel’s, trucks, motorcycles, sex. Beautiful sex. He’s obviously accustomed to his mother’s indifference toward his lady friends. He wants her to like me, but I am disheveled, postcoital, and undoubtedly regarding Sam with transformed, limpid eyes. I’m pregnant too, but none of us knows that yet. He calls her “Momsy” and this makes her laugh. She’s all business, “Listen Sammy, I want you to…” He tells me later, “Shit. I should have hidden you better. She’s not going to like you.” I don’t care. I am doped with an infusion of wanton nocturnal fluids. I come home and my own mother doesn’t like me either. I cross her on the lawn as she heads off for work. What a proud moment for Mom. Daughter, dragging across the lawn after too many beers, way too much abandon, unkempt, poorly put back together, a slatternly, prodigal girl. She reaches her car, a lemon yellow Cadillac Seville, turns to me and says, “This better not happen again.” Level of remorse: zero. Complete nihilism. “I mean it.” Mom drives off to work carrying stylish briefcase. Daughter enters empty house, goes up to blue bedroom, crawls into twin bed and sleeps, replaying best parts of former evening. Many frames. Sam Flute’s summer job is driving a tow truck, responding to AAA calls. He swings by to pick me up and off I go, in the tow truck. He pulls me close to him and puts his arm around my shoulder. He whispers funny romantic weird things that, taken out of context, I would hate but somehow, the way he says them, I love it. Sitting next to him, I am the kind of redneck vision I used to laugh at, “a two-headed driver.” I don’t pull away.
Published on May 1, 2006