My mother’s ashes are in a safety deposit box in Santa Barbara. They’ve been there since the morning after the funeral, but the rest of my family thinks she’s in that hideous urn that sobbing, dramatic , people-pleaser Marin picked out at the funeral home and decided we just had to have because “mom would have loved that.” Marin was always croaking so much bullshit that it reminded me of dissections in high school honors bio, and I had to find my happy place – Marin, ball-gagged and on the receiving end of a vivisection – to remain poker-faced.
“She always looked so amazing in that color. Don’t you think?”
“No,” I drawled -- poisonous and slow. I was almost fifteen. “No, I don’t think, Cucci-cunt.”
“Carter! Warning one!”
Eat me, Daddy. “Cucci’s a brand name,” I muttered. My father and sister tried to distract themselves by flipping through the catalogue-o-urns and trying to look as stern and somber as possible. He cheated on my mother. He had a fucking mistress – we all knew about her. That’s where Marin gets it from. “It’s Gucci for derelicts." Dad and Marin snapped their heads around to show me just how dirty their looks could be. Instead of saying anything else – no defense, no apologies, I bowed my head. In traditional coming-of-age movie fashion, my older brother Luke knocked his head toward the front door. “I’m gonna take her to get some air. C’mon Carter.”
“I’ve got air, go fuck yourself,” I snapped.
“Carter,” Marin assumed her Babysitter’s Club voice – gentle, feminine, incredulous, confused, appalled, and finally, wounded. “This is a miserable time, you don’t have to make it more miserable—“
“YOU DIDN’T EVEN LIKE HER, YOU PROFOUNDLY RETARDED, FAT ASS FUCKING TWAT—”
My father reached back and grabbed at my shoulder; he dug his nails in hard, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make my bones ache because they wouldn’t give to him, he’d have to shatter them.“That’s ENOUGH. What’s wrong with you?”
“Your sister’s trying to say it’s a stressful time for everyone, that’s all,” the coroner said soothingly. “Everybody just try to be gentle with each other’s feelings.” He must have been one of those James Dean loner-types when he was younger – in high school and college. Now, he was in his late thirties, maybe early fourties, trying to reform and like Jesus, convince us all that there was, in fact, another way.
“What’s your name again?”
“Mitch,” he said.
“Oh yeah. Well excuse me, I-thought-it-was-FUCKING-YODA,” I snarled.
“Why do you try so hard to sound like a Jersey whore? Luke – get her outta here.” Dad the Doctor, who rolled up the sleeves to his blue button down all the way to the elbows, dragged me up by the shoulder and steered me in my older brother’s direction.
Marin cut her fake, Precious Moment eyes my way, horrified, desperate, and borderline hysterical about the way she was ‘attacked,’ all of it a show for Mitch, who took her hand gently and pet her hair like she was a mangy dog at the shelter. “We’re so sorry, she’s –”
“It’s okay,” he promised, professionally. “It’s alright, I’m used to this.”
“She and mom were very close. She’s very protective and jealous and … self-absorbed,” Marin sing-songed, plucking up a tissue and wiping her red, runny nose.
* * * * *
Seven and a half minutes later, and neither of us had said a word -- Luke and I were sitting in his banged-up, old-school Javelin with the bad paint job. He had fuzzy dice and an green, tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. The Javlin’s seats were cool mint, leather, and warm, and the windows weren’t automatic – I rolled mine down manually while Luke dug around in his backseat, until he had a dimebag and a plastic bottle of Mountain Dew with a hole-puncture, a straw, and a pen rig.
“You smoke before?” he asked gruffly. Luke didn’t look up from the makeshift bong or baggie in his lap, or from the crystallized pot in his hand.
My big brother smoked me up for the first time – we hot-boxed the car and he cranked it up so the 80’s hard rock station he listened to came on. Neither of us sang, not even when Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer,” came on.
Luke cracked a smile. “… That vase or whatever really is ugly as fuck, man.”
“I would rather fucking flush her fucking ashes down the toilet than see her in that thing. They didn’t even like her,” I said more softly, pleading for him to understand.
A few minutes ticked by; “Crazy,” by Aerosmith was almost into its last verse by the time he talked again. “… Well, what do you wanna do?” He still remains to this day, the only one who ever asked.
“Stay here,” I sighed decisively and turned my head toward the window.
Luke lit up and sucked in another drag before he passed. He tried to hold it and pull my hit for me, but by the second round I’d insisted I could do it myself, and he let me. “… About Mom,” he held his breath and then exhaled.
“Scatter her all over the biggest safe at the MGM Grand. Take her to Maldives.”
He chuckled. I smiled slightly; it fell apart when I shrugged. “What else could we do with her?”
“… Not this,” Luke said quietly and reached out to ruffle my hair. It was one of the first times he ever said his opinion right out, like that. There would be many more of those times to come: many more drugs, more health worries, and even an AIDS scare on the way.
I curled into him and wrapped my arms around him. He was the only one I invited to comfort me, and felt comforted by.
“Let ‘em get the vase, don’t say anything. Just close your mouth and we’ll do what’s right, you and me.” He ruffled my hair again, more softly, and urged me to get up abruptly. I swallowed the hard, massive lump in my throat. “C’mon. Get off me. I don’t wanna see you cry.”
“She always looked so amazing in that color. Don’t you think?”
“No,” I drawled -- poisonous and slow. I was almost fifteen. “No, I don’t think, Cucci-cunt.”
“Carter! Warning one!”
Eat me, Daddy. “Cucci’s a brand name,” I muttered. My father and sister tried to distract themselves by flipping through the catalogue-o-urns and trying to look as stern and somber as possible. He cheated on my mother. He had a fucking mistress – we all knew about her. That’s where Marin gets it from. “It’s Gucci for derelicts." Dad and Marin snapped their heads around to show me just how dirty their looks could be. Instead of saying anything else – no defense, no apologies, I bowed my head. In traditional coming-of-age movie fashion, my older brother Luke knocked his head toward the front door. “I’m gonna take her to get some air. C’mon Carter.”
“I’ve got air, go fuck yourself,” I snapped.
“Carter,” Marin assumed her Babysitter’s Club voice – gentle, feminine, incredulous, confused, appalled, and finally, wounded. “This is a miserable time, you don’t have to make it more miserable—“
“YOU DIDN’T EVEN LIKE HER, YOU PROFOUNDLY RETARDED, FAT ASS FUCKING TWAT—”
My father reached back and grabbed at my shoulder; he dug his nails in hard, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make my bones ache because they wouldn’t give to him, he’d have to shatter them.“That’s ENOUGH. What’s wrong with you?”
“Your sister’s trying to say it’s a stressful time for everyone, that’s all,” the coroner said soothingly. “Everybody just try to be gentle with each other’s feelings.” He must have been one of those James Dean loner-types when he was younger – in high school and college. Now, he was in his late thirties, maybe early fourties, trying to reform and like Jesus, convince us all that there was, in fact, another way.
“What’s your name again?”
“Mitch,” he said.
“Oh yeah. Well excuse me, I-thought-it-was-FUCKING-YODA,” I snarled.
“Why do you try so hard to sound like a Jersey whore? Luke – get her outta here.” Dad the Doctor, who rolled up the sleeves to his blue button down all the way to the elbows, dragged me up by the shoulder and steered me in my older brother’s direction.
Marin cut her fake, Precious Moment eyes my way, horrified, desperate, and borderline hysterical about the way she was ‘attacked,’ all of it a show for Mitch, who took her hand gently and pet her hair like she was a mangy dog at the shelter. “We’re so sorry, she’s –”
“It’s okay,” he promised, professionally. “It’s alright, I’m used to this.”
“She and mom were very close. She’s very protective and jealous and … self-absorbed,” Marin sing-songed, plucking up a tissue and wiping her red, runny nose.
Seven and a half minutes later, and neither of us had said a word -- Luke and I were sitting in his banged-up, old-school Javelin with the bad paint job. He had fuzzy dice and an green, tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. The Javlin’s seats were cool mint, leather, and warm, and the windows weren’t automatic – I rolled mine down manually while Luke dug around in his backseat, until he had a dimebag and a plastic bottle of Mountain Dew with a hole-puncture, a straw, and a pen rig.
“You smoke before?” he asked gruffly. Luke didn’t look up from the makeshift bong or baggie in his lap, or from the crystallized pot in his hand.
My big brother smoked me up for the first time – we hot-boxed the car and he cranked it up so the 80’s hard rock station he listened to came on. Neither of us sang, not even when Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer,” came on.
Luke cracked a smile. “… That vase or whatever really is ugly as fuck, man.”
“I would rather fucking flush her fucking ashes down the toilet than see her in that thing. They didn’t even like her,” I said more softly, pleading for him to understand.
A few minutes ticked by; “Crazy,” by Aerosmith was almost into its last verse by the time he talked again. “… Well, what do you wanna do?” He still remains to this day, the only one who ever asked.
“Stay here,” I sighed decisively and turned my head toward the window.
Luke lit up and sucked in another drag before he passed. He tried to hold it and pull my hit for me, but by the second round I’d insisted I could do it myself, and he let me. “… About Mom,” he held his breath and then exhaled.
“Scatter her all over the biggest safe at the MGM Grand. Take her to Maldives.”
He chuckled. I smiled slightly; it fell apart when I shrugged. “What else could we do with her?”
“… Not this,” Luke said quietly and reached out to ruffle my hair. It was one of the first times he ever said his opinion right out, like that. There would be many more of those times to come: many more drugs, more health worries, and even an AIDS scare on the way.
I curled into him and wrapped my arms around him. He was the only one I invited to comfort me, and felt comforted by.
“Let ‘em get the vase, don’t say anything. Just close your mouth and we’ll do what’s right, you and me.” He ruffled my hair again, more softly, and urged me to get up abruptly. I swallowed the hard, massive lump in my throat. “C’mon. Get off me. I don’t wanna see you cry.”