Thursday, September 23

The Day

So it's many, many years ago, right? I’m this high school journalism “trend whore”; I run the paper and the yearbook. Oh boy, do I have the monopoly on a certain breed of power at Curtis High School. (On this, I’m semi-serious, because it was an interesting thing to watch the behavior of those who thought I controlled the decision making process on each photo to be included in the book. Also, the security guards at the school let me wander in and out without too much harassment.)

I have to go to this huge playoff game (basketball) on Saturday night, take some pictures, and talk to some people. Sounds like fun, right?

First I have to attend my paternal grandmother’s birthday party in Bayonne (NJ). They (her children) have been planning this for months, and we’re all supposed to be really excited, “Grandma turns 75, YAY!” I think it was 75, but I know it was Saturday, February 13.

But my mom, she’s got a much different outlook on the evening. She and her favorite daughter (that’s me, because I’m the only one, and only child for that matter) go to this thing in a separate car from her husband (my father), not so much for convenience, as for the fact that she now loathes him. And she’s got a plan.

A few weeks before, I come home from my late-night journalism meeting on a Thursday, and I’m psyched because a new episode of Friends is on and I can’t wait to see if Rachel kisses Ross.. again... finally. But instead of a happy mom, I find a distraught, sobbing woman at the kitchen table. The short of it is that she’s listened to dad’s voicemail, and that bitch, Susan, is back in our lives.

She makes me listen, too. Well, shit. We’ve got to clean up this mess and replace any evidence of mom snooping in dad’s drawers before he gets home. He’s got condoms, too? Yuck. I place all his crap neatly back in right angles in his dresser. Mom’s plan: we wait. We endure, we wait, and yes, we still attend Grams’ 75th birthday party. We let him have that much (I don’t know why), and we strike after he’s asleep that night (I don’t know why).

We do the whole eating thing at the party, and then I drive mom home and run through all the lights on the way to Farrell H.S., the location of this awesome playoff game. I “enjoy” my night, not distracted at all, and when I go home, I’m dragged to the basement by mom to type a note to my father. After endless changes, we end up with:


I print it, and put a piece of tape on the top. Mom takes it, puts on some lipstick, and kisses it. I’m generally confused, and this spurs years of misery.

We all live in that house together for another two years, at which point I decide to “run away” to live in NYU’s dorms, like a normal person. Three years later, they divorce.

Knock. Knock.
Who’s there?
The end of this story.
The end of this story, who?
The end of this story is a joke with a happy ending. YAY.


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