As her cigarette burned down into oblivion and the ice in her glass melted into a watery underworld of stale acerbic hootch, Irish glanced over at the unconscious man in her bed and sighed. With his wrinkled pants haphazardly wrapped around his ankles and his body torpid in a drunken stupor, she wondered what she was thinking bringing him home from the bar. He had looked so much better in the smoky daze of last call.
Irish was a beautiful woman. Even at 38, she still turned heads in the smoky pub where she served up tumblers of viscous hope to irascible customers. Clad in her short ruffled uniform and with a red pout, compliments of Max Factor, she was as close to 1950’s Hollywood glamor as could be expected in this working class neighborhood in South Philly. Yet in the harsh light of morning the ravages of too many shots of whiskey chased down with more men than she remembered were etched deep into her face.
"Hey wake-up you lout!" She screeched out as she kicked the man's feet with her crimson painted toes
She took a swig of whiskey and set the glass down on her vanity. It was three-thirty in the morning and she knew John would be home soon from his night-shift at the ball bearing plant.
The man rolled onto his side, a loud snore emanating from deep in his throat, and she had the uncomfortable image come to mind of a beached whale left to die on the sand.
Fear began to overtake her. John, her husband, was a jealous man.
Looking out into the gray haze of the living room, she saw her child John Jr. on the couch, his head deep in a book. He, the only child she could carry to term--the one that had finally stuck in her battered womb after seven miscarriages had ravaged her mind. Looking out from her perch, a warm glow of amber light surrounded him. While the sight of this child, with his symmetrical features, blue eyes, and sandy blond hair, would be one of joy to most mothers to Irish he was sight of remorse.
The fact that he looked nothing like John Sr. was always an issue and reminded Irish of things she wanted to forget--and the whiskey only helped so much.
John Jr. had long ago gotten accustomed to his mother’s nightly parade of men through their cramped apartment-in fact he had never known any different. What he feared more than the strangers passing through was his mother’s unpredictable rages. Irish was a woman who showed only the extremes of emotion and was flat-line the rest of the time. She either loved you passionately or hated with you an equal intensity.
It was during the dark hours of her whiskey-fueled anger that John Jr. had suffered the most.
This night was not the first time that John Jr. would help his mother get rid of a lover in the wee small hours of the morning, but it would be the last.
With John Jr.’s help, Irish got the bloated man dressed and out of the apartment before John Sr. got home. The piercing screech of her beloved parakeets echoed through young John’s mind as they fumbled and dragged the man beyond the confines of the apartment.
John Jr. would come to violently hate the sight and sound of caged birds for the rest of his life.
Irish was a beautiful woman. Even at 38, she still turned heads in the smoky pub where she served up tumblers of viscous hope to irascible customers. Clad in her short ruffled uniform and with a red pout, compliments of Max Factor, she was as close to 1950’s Hollywood glamor as could be expected in this working class neighborhood in South Philly. Yet in the harsh light of morning the ravages of too many shots of whiskey chased down with more men than she remembered were etched deep into her face.
"Hey wake-up you lout!" She screeched out as she kicked the man's feet with her crimson painted toes
She took a swig of whiskey and set the glass down on her vanity. It was three-thirty in the morning and she knew John would be home soon from his night-shift at the ball bearing plant.
The man rolled onto his side, a loud snore emanating from deep in his throat, and she had the uncomfortable image come to mind of a beached whale left to die on the sand.
Fear began to overtake her. John, her husband, was a jealous man.
Looking out into the gray haze of the living room, she saw her child John Jr. on the couch, his head deep in a book. He, the only child she could carry to term--the one that had finally stuck in her battered womb after seven miscarriages had ravaged her mind. Looking out from her perch, a warm glow of amber light surrounded him. While the sight of this child, with his symmetrical features, blue eyes, and sandy blond hair, would be one of joy to most mothers to Irish he was sight of remorse.
The fact that he looked nothing like John Sr. was always an issue and reminded Irish of things she wanted to forget--and the whiskey only helped so much.
John Jr. had long ago gotten accustomed to his mother’s nightly parade of men through their cramped apartment-in fact he had never known any different. What he feared more than the strangers passing through was his mother’s unpredictable rages. Irish was a woman who showed only the extremes of emotion and was flat-line the rest of the time. She either loved you passionately or hated with you an equal intensity.
It was during the dark hours of her whiskey-fueled anger that John Jr. had suffered the most.
This night was not the first time that John Jr. would help his mother get rid of a lover in the wee small hours of the morning, but it would be the last.
With John Jr.’s help, Irish got the bloated man dressed and out of the apartment before John Sr. got home. The piercing screech of her beloved parakeets echoed through young John’s mind as they fumbled and dragged the man beyond the confines of the apartment.
John Jr. would come to violently hate the sight and sound of caged birds for the rest of his life.
No comments:
Post a Comment