familiarly unfamiliar
I sit across the room from parents who, for approximately 55 minutes, will play detectives. Bemused by the labyrinthine plot of their new favorite mystery-in-syndication, they scratch their chins and occasionally comment on the suspicious behavior of the show’s characters. Its a redundant game of role-play; they’re pretending to be the detectives who are pretending to be detectives. After the conclusion of the show, just before the preview of next week’s episode, my father will say something along the lines of, “I knew that Latina Harlot was embezzling money from the business.” This astute observation was clear from the beginning of the show, when the aforementioned Latina was using the company credit card to make a cathartic shoe purchase. My mother, as if she has actually remained awake during the entire episode, will endearingly reply, “see, hun, you could have been a lawyer.”
The next day my mother and I are outside of a bridal store, where my grandmother and sister are inside for the final fitting of my sister’s debutante dress. Through a covert plot, one not unlike a subplot of the previous night’s show, my mother and I salvaged a cigarette break. “I think I left IT in my car,” my mother said as she fumbled desperately through her purse. Not ever explaining what “it” was, she rushed out to her car just before my grandmother could give her a suspicious look of disapproval. Envying my mother for getting her nicotine fix without me, I claimed that I “thought I heard my car running.” Now, this put me at a bit of a stalemate, as I’m a poor liar, but I risked my grandmother’s scrutiny and rushed outside.
Its no surprise to my grandmother that I smoke. Over Thanksgiving Break, upon leaving her home, she gave me a hug. Instead of kissing me on the cheek, her usual gesture of endearment, she buried her nose deep into my scarf. “I know you smoke,” she whispers in my ear. Next, she pulls away from our loving embrace, waves an acrylic nail in the air and gives a half-smirk that suggests shes “too wise” to play games. Fearful of her wily tactics, I’m still subverting bad habits.
“Your father and I are turning into old people,” my mother says as she takes a drag from her cigarette. Her eyes are fixed between the mannequin brides in the display window, making sure we’re not suspect. Ironically, her statement was followed by a look of achievement, as if she were saying something quite the opposite. “We have our favorite shows that we watch after dinner, and then we fall asleep before 10pm.”
We share the cigarette as if it were our last joint, and we had one day left of Bonaroo. She puts her cigarette out under her car tire. She gets up the curb and reaches in her handbag, this time with more deliberation. She opens a sterling silver cigarette case to reveal fancy mints, she pops one in her mouth and then reaches in her bag for a bottle of perfume. After spraying the perfume on her neck and wrists, she glides back into the bridal store. I can’t help but think that she’s found “it”.
I also remember seeing a blowdryer in her purse. She comes prepared for any beauty disaster that may come her way. In fact, she could be one of those femme fatale spies, the kind that excuse themselves to the ladies room and reemerge as a salacious blonde, deftly escaping the bar without notice.
I have taken after my mother’s symbiotic relationship with her handbag. My handbag, however, takes the form of a more urbane and socially acceptable “man-purse.” I never leave home without it; I can be seen walking the big urban streets with the security of it. “Why the hell do you carry that bag everywhere with you - it’s full of trash!?” My sister asks with a vindictive glare in her eyes. I don’t blame her for asking such a question, its almost appropriate. My bag is full of old receipts, expired gift certificates, crumpled sketches, gum wrappers, and empty cigarette boxes (false hope.)
Some people eat comfort food; they have emergency pints of chocolate swirl in their garage freezer. Some people have personified stuffed animals; my friend has a bipolar bear with its own friendster profile. The homeless on 4th street share needles, dripping with a serum that’s sure to pacify. People have funny ways of comforting themselves, and my way is no less… funny.
My attempts at comfort have always taken the form of emulations of my mother. As a child, I used to watch her sit in her vanity and dress herself. She’d glide lipstick with such precision, and match her outfits perfectly with her accessories. Each day, she would reveal a new ensemble, perhaps a new shade of lipstick, but one thing always remained the same: the wig on her head.
I remember seeing her in the kitchen, smoking and bald, pacing around and puffing away. She looked so exposed to me, like a turtle without its shell. When her wig was on her head, she was ‘okay’, and any notion of her cancer was dissolved. The image of a mother to a child is the most familiar thing they know, so when that image is alterated drastically, the child questions their own identity.
One afternoon, the sight of my mother’s new image was too much for me to bear. I remember running to my closet and sitting there, reentering some sort of womb. I reached into my bureau and draped a t-shirt over my head. Instantly, I felt a sort of release… the same sort of comfort I would find years later in my first drink of whiskey or the first puff of a cigarette. Just seeing the cotton in my periphery was a feeling of wellness.
I didn’t take the shirt off my head for approximately one month… there are pictures to attest to this embarassing fact. I wore it to the mall, the grocery store, school. What really stands out in the pictures is not the absurdity of my ornament… its the nonchalance on my mother’s face. A strange sense of normality. Her and her 5 year old, both wearing their wigs, both battling something, sharing eachother’s pain and existence.
Its strange that I have been living away from home for two years now. Each time I visit, I see a new development in my parents marriage and within themselves. Its like catching an episode of a show you used to watch religiously, and trying to bridge the story from what you are now seeing and what you know to be true. The strangest thing is staying home for an extended period of time, and actually intersecting their lives again.
“Your father and I are becoming old people,” my mother says, as she traces her index finger along the yellow painted curb. I see such comfort in this confession, a comfort paved by years of preceding drama and torment. With no car (left in LA) and no active agenda, I’m forced to watch my parent’s favorite new shows with them and then retire early. Its part of a routine that is, in fact, comforting. But I know that its only temporal, I’m not prepared for such comfort. I wriggle restlessly on my couch, itching for something more. Upon my arrival back to LA, I will find temporary ways of comforting myself. Some might gain me a few extra pounds. Some might result in more habits along the way. Some might cause me to withdraw from my bank account. But, despite each of these setbacks, I can hope for a time when comfort is something unsuggested and organic; I can hope for a time when I’m comforted by surprise.