May 14, 2013
Paula took me out and got me some fancy duds to make me dapper for my mom. Black pants, so classy I should call them trousers. Nice black shoes and socks, collared shirt and she even bought me a tweed cap to hide my stitches and the bald spot in the back of my head. I had this shit already but my stuff got transported to Pete’s new place and I haven’t gone there yet. So yeah, I was looking spruce.
She took me to get her flowers and chocolate and a card, then loaned me her car and gave me money to take my mom to Barnes and Noble. My mom loves it there. So do I. I picked my mom up, she loved the stuff, and we went there to have a light lunch and coffee. First we wandered around the store to look for books to buy or just to read while we sat in the café. I was looking through some books at one point and my balls got really itchy. I was trying to relieve myself of that discomfort discretely but it wasn’t happening. So I just reached down my pants into my underwear and started scratching. From around the corner appears a freakin’ beautiful tall black girl. She saw me with my hand down my pants. Wait, I forgot, I was all classy and shit. I have to call them trousers.
I just stood there frozen for a second with my hand in my trousers, then slowly took my hand out as we made eye contact. She was kind of smirking. I said, “sorry, I was just…uh…scratching my balls…” She laughed, which was good, but then I got an unexpected whack in the arm from my mom. Where the hell did she come from? She just kinda sidled up to me. I had no idea she was there. She whacks my arm and says, “Are you my son?! You can’t be my son.” Then she says, “Sorry for my son,” to the girl. The girl just said, “it’s ok,” smiled and walked away. She had an accent, sounded kind of French. I wanted to talk to her and get her number or something, but I had to focus on my mom, it was her day. Besides, I’m trying to control my urges and be respectful to Paula. Also, I felt like a 12 year old the way my mom responded to the situation. But ah, whatever, it was mother’s day, so yeah, she could do whatever moms do. She said, “Valente, I thought I raised you to be a gentleman.” I said, “I am a gentleman, but I was startled into brutal honesty.” My mom prefers not to call me Grimm, or Wall, though she does sometimes. And I actually call her Mama, but when I talk about her, I refer to her as my mom.
We picked out books and sat to have pesto sandwiches, soup, tiramisu, and cheese cake, with Pellegrino, and caramel cappuccinos. I felt sophisticated, even though I kept my hat on. A gentleman should remove his hat indoors, but I was hiding the stitches. Couldn’t hide the black eyes and busted nose though. But yeah, this sophistication is a genuine part of me that I’ve neglected for a long time. I am seriously an intellect despite my recent bouts of idiosy. I’m smart, educated, I’ve always liked to read and have clever conversations. Sitting there with my mom, I recall how I was always the one people went to when they had problems. I was the one they sought for advice, or help, or support. Somehow I became the pathetic one that people either wanted to avoid, or felt compelled to pamper or pity. What the fuck have I been doing with my life? I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I have a philosophy about drugs though.
My name is Wall Grimm, and this is my philosophy about drugs.
WALL GRIMM’S DRUG PHILOSOPHY
Drugs make it so you don’t care, nothing matters, being high just makes everything ok. You suffer a lot, from the drugs, but you get high even to deal with that pain. Drugs are self perpetuating. You start doing drugs for one reason or another, but eventually, you need to continue doing drugs to deal with the shit in your life that’s caused by doing drugs.
Anyway, I sat there with my mom, feeling like a man, then I’d glance at my mom and wish to be a child again. It fucking sucks. I want to start over, I want to go back. I want her to hold me and say, “everything’s going to be all right, mommy’s here.” That’s what she’d always say. And if she wasn’t necessarily accurate about that, at least for that moment, it was true. I feel embarrassed just to write that shit, like I’m such a pussy. I remember seeing “Saving Private Ryan” and at the opening sequence there was this soldier with his guts blown out, I think that was his problem, I can’t remember, but anyway, he was calling out, “mommy! mommy!” And I thought, yeah that would be me. Is that so bad really? Good moms I guess. Moms are just symbolic of nurturing and comfort and childhood safety. So as you become a man, and things get bad, you gotta stay a man, but there’s that part of you that wants to go back. But you man up because you have to, otherwise you’re a pussy. That’s just a fact, I didn’t make it up. Thing is, you’re expected to man up from a very early age.
But my mom’s a beautiful Italian woman and we talked about some things, nothing serious, just memories and current stuff. I could tell she held back. I knew she had tons of questions about my life, the way I was living it, and even about Paula. The fact that I’m with Paula baffles her.
So yeah it was a nice day with my mom, I made her happy, which is good, that’s what I wanted to do. But I kinda made myself a little sad in the process. I’m ok with that though, it was worth it to make her happy.
previous Grimm 90: Hasty Hates Paula, the Impending Road Trip, and Mother’s Day http://wp.me/p41c99-dS
next Grimm 92: “Demons” by Imagine Dragon http://wp.me/p41c99-e3
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