When I was seventeen I took my friends advice-driven mostly on the pure grain alcohol that we had been liquidizing our system with for the previous three nights-and visited a palm reader. She was a nice looking woman with river-flowing black hair and three small scars on her left cheek; that took up the majority of my imagination. They were very similar to the
Three months later, despite her 12 years my senior, I married the palm reader. It lasted a month. I still cannot say for certainly why or what ended it for us. Frankly, the why or what that started it isn’t too clear either. Why did I marry her? Perhaps it was the hope that on our honeymoon night, lying in our fluids in the humid apartment I rent from a serious looking German woman (are there any other sorts?), that the palm reader would divulge the origins of the three small scars on her face to me. She didn’t.
And why did she want to marry me? Maybe it was just an attempt at proving her superiority as a psychic with the old “two bird/one stone” technique. Proving herself to be beautiful and talented in the arts of “reading” all with the simple words “I do.” Interesting to know that it was only after a short month of my proximity she gave up the fight for her ego. Returned to the table; five bucks for a reading.
Things were never normal for me. Childhood drama? I’ve had mine and a few of some other people’s fill. If you looked at our family photos you might have deducted that I was an only child; but sorry Charlie, you don’t when the toaster oven. Granted there was only my name on the presents under the tree come Santa-time, but I did share my parents, make no doubt about it. My father I shared with the nearest bar, and then later on the quickest high. Gotta jump on that highway for some speed, speed, speed. But that was Pops. I suppose everyone needs something to get a goin’, and some more than most. And some even more then that. It’s hard to describe my father. Druggie, hop head, salt and pepper-haired Neanderthal whose stuck in the 70’s, and a sense of humor that would make a sailor blush-no lube needed. Well, maybe it’s not that hard.
“Momma, she always told the lie,” if I can be so bold as to quote and then totally alter the Bob Seger song. When describing my “gift” for seeing through other people’s bullshit, I always use the same old tired line (mostly due to laziness), which follows; “Momma taught me how to tell a lie, and Daddy taught me how see the lie.” Sure, it’s filled with all that self-imposed childhood bullshit that you hear from every two-bit double eyebrow on the street, but in my case it’s actually real. Seriously. I promise. I love me mother, not literally-I’m not a Greek, but given the option of spending a great deal of time with her (20 minutes) or allowing myself to be fist-fucked into believing the silly story that men with white breads live in the sky, priests only want to help, and the church really needs some of my donations; well just hand me over to the Lord, and give me a napkin to clean up afterwards.