Whatever. He’ll be here when he gets here.
I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I’m not really in a hurry here. It’s not like I’ve got some hot babe waiting for me at a bar round the corner. Your uncle is more along those lines. He’d have those little plastic bottles that pop and shoot confetti all over the place. I like to think, given the circumstances, I got a little more class than that. Mainly because I’m gonna miss her. Simple fact. So why the hate?
When we met we were the kind of people our parents warned us about. Seriously. I’m sorry you kids never got to know your mother, the way she was. Although, I’m also glad you never got to know that side of her. I mean, you, George, she’d’ve beat the shit out of you. Honestly, you look like your purpose in life is to be abused. I’m sorry son, but it’s true – your sister is already nodding cuz she knows. You’ve got a hard road ahead of you boy. But what I’m getting at is we used to be like a biker gang of two.
Your mother and I used to stay up all night drinking cheap tequila and shitty beer (which actually stops being shitty once you get drunk enough) then we’d do this thing your mom called, “Fire Car Bowling.” She invented it, so she got to pick that shitty name. I’d’ve gone with Car Bombing or Thar She Blows! but like I said, she invented so… it basically involves stealing a car then driving that car to a hilly neighborhood, preferably in the suburbs. Set the car up at the top of the hill, take a pair of socks and tie them together, stuff those socks down the gas tank – I know these are a lot of steps, however, it’s totally worth it. Not that I’m encouraging you kids to do it. -- put the car in neutral, set the socks on fire as you push the car forward. Then just watch it roll downhill. OH! And you have to chug a beer till the car explodes. Plus, if it rolls into and/or blows up another car you have to do a shot. Should it hit a house, well, frankly, run... after shotgunning a beer. Those were the kind of people she and I were. Fun people.
We didn’t just make the world our bitch. We made it the kind of bitch who pays you after you prison rape it. By the by, don’t prison rape anybody. Ever. I’m just painting as vivid a picture as possible. We took what we wanted when we wanted it and did whatever we wanted with whatever we took. It was good times.
Then one day dares were issued and accepted. Long story short, we’re robbing a convenient store. I’m naked and have a butcher knives duct taped to my hands, while your Ma is dressed like a sexy, sad hobo clown and aiming a shotgun at the clerk. Little do we realize there’s some fucking suburban commando hiding by the frozen pizzas. Or milk. Fuck it. I don’t really think it matters where he was. What matters is the motherfucker shot me. Twice. And let me tell you: getting shot will ruin your day. I’m saying to you both if bullets could only kill one thing they would always kill fun. I bled so much I thought we should’ve called Guinness for the world record. But you mom got me to the hospital, doctors fixed me up, and I survived. GSW has got to get reported so she told the cops we were high on acid and shit got weird. They didn’t exactly buy it, however, we didn’t stick around waiting for them to connect any dots.
After that these ideas started creeping into your mom’s head. All the time she’s going on about the future and the shortness of life. You kids don’t realize it now because you’re twelve and fourteen, but you will be dead before you even know you’re alive. That’s life: the second you get a grasp on it oblivion is right around the corner. Not that I’m trying to be depressing because, thanks to your mom, I am well aware what it’s like to have to hear this from someone. They preach the most universal epiphany in existence, and you’re supposed to act grateful for the reminder life is short and finite and worst of all you’ve got no fucking clue when it ends. Like you Jessica, always walking and texting – I swear to god either you’re gonna get hit by a car baby girl, or someone’ll kidnap, rape, and murder you because, frankly, you won’t seem them coming. But as I’m trying to say, your mom gained a new view of existence.
I thought it was just a phase. Month or two, tops, then we’d be back to Fire Car Bowling and scamming high school kids with aspirin stamped to look like E. Or better still, sleeping all day, drinking all night, and shooting bricks down the street with an improvised catapult. On quieter nights we’d head over to the casino on River road to spot people who looked really happy to be going home then following them home to rob them of their winnings. No such luck. Your mom settled down. She said, “Why help life kill you?”
Then you little fuckers came along, and life changed even more. For the better. I feel I should say that. And your mother and I turned into suburban people.
That’s not to say we didn’t have our occasional lapses. You both know how she and I liked to take vacations alone? Those were weekend trips spent drinking, drugs, and setting shit on fire. Sometimes literally. The old flaming bag may be a bit dated, but it still gets a laugh. The point is we learned to keep calm most of the year.
And we had a great life together. Being with your mom made any kind of life worth living. Still, love only makes you feel young; and if you don’t stick to it tolerance decreases. She used to be able to do way more coke than this, but that’s beside the point. Doc says she’s never gonna wake up so out comes the plug. What I’m getting at is I hate this woman for creating a world that I can’t live in without her. I’m going to miss you Emily.