S’Mother

I’m a grown man now. I can take care of myself.

I’m a grown man now. I can take care of myself.

Sun.
Adam—
If you go to the beach—make sure you go where there is a life-guard near—It’s much safer if you’re going in the water—
Love,
Mom

I’m fucked.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. A college graduate.

I had moved into this groovy high-rise two-bedroom, two-bath apartment in the Hollywood Hills. My college roommate Tim and I split the larger bedroom, while one of my college girlfriends, Gretchen, scored the other bedroom and bathroom all to herself. (I still hadn’t grasped the idea that in the real world, one could have their OWN room.) The place screamed “PARTY!” with a view of Hollywood’s lights, a humongous balcony to walk out on, plush rented furniture, and a shiny black grand piano I purchased sitting pretty on the Berber carpet. It was the perfect after-college pad, which I managed to keep my mother out of. But that didn’t stop her from warning me about the people living in it with me . . .

Thursday
Dear Adam,
I called to say hello and Gretchen told me she has a strep throat! Please don’t you catch it as you’re coming home soon! Don’t drink from her glass or anything like that! Don’t forget, you are allergic to penicillin.

Love,
Mom

I got my first job selling records and renting videos at a local music store in the center of the city. It didn’t pay much, but I wanted a job that would allow me the time and freedom to pursue my music career, and still play piano at various local restaurants and bars in the evenings. It was in that fall of 1985 when I was introduced to R & B legend Barry White. That’s right, THE Barry White! After hearing my music (which was very R & B at the time), he expressed an interest in producing me and taking me on the road as his opening act! It was all very exciting, as I’d always been a huge fan of his music. He was a big, big man who loved to give big, big bear hugs every time we’d meet to discuss his plans for my future.

Enter Barry White Jr. He was to be the second half of this new act. I was to write all the music and lyrics, play keyboards, and sing, while Barry Jr. would, well, dance. And that was sort of it. Barry Sr. had a vision of Barry Jr. and me becoming the next General Public. (They were a big black-and-white singing duo in the 1980s.) Barry Sr. came up with the name Bachet (pronounced Ba-shay). It was a synthesis of the “Ba” from Barry and “Chet,” in honor of my father’s nickname in college. I should have jumped at the opportunity to move forward, but got discouraged by an attorney who told me I’d be a fool to sign the contract Barry Sr. put in front of me—giving him 100 percent of my publishing, forever. Remember, I grew up believing not to trust ANYONE, so I passed on the whole thing and Barry Sr. never spoke to me again. I figured I was still young, a college graduate; I had my talent, my wits, and a wad o’ cash comin’ my way from my mother one day. Life would present me with many other opportunities to blow. I had to have faith.

Speaking of my mother, she never said one word to me about Barry White. Instead, she helped me focus on the more positive, important things. Like becoming a responsible adult, investing money, and building a life for myself while finding a good single woman to share it all with. And that wouldn’t be a problem for me! No, sir. As long as that woman was hand-delivered to me by a pimp.

Sunday
Dear Adam,
Don’t listen to the advice of anyone when it involves money. Everyone will claim to be an expert on the subject, especially when it’s not their money! I’m the only friend you have when it comes to money! Because you’re the one I’m interested in, and I have no ulteria [sic] motive. So before you do anything in regard to money, talk to me first and you won’t go wrong.

People have gotten into a lot of trouble because they have had bad advice. I’m no expert in the matter, but at least I know where to go to get an expert opinion.

People have been known to buy phony stocks, make bad investments. It doesn’t matter when you have a lot of money, but when you’re on a counted penny, it makes a big deal of a difference!!

P.S. Stay away from that girl Brandy. I think she and her “boyfriend” are operating a “con” game and if she were to go into your apartment, her “boyfriend” would rip you off and beat you up along with it. Don’t go near her.

It’s just so weird that my mother goes off about shit she knows NOTHING about. “Brandy”? “Con game”? What is she TALKING about? Brandy was some girl I met at a hamburger place and took out on one date. And as for finances, to this day, my mother doesn’t have an ounce of savings to her name or one, single, solitary investment. I love how she says “Talk to me first and you won’t go wrong” about finances. Seriously? She knows “where to go to get an expert opinion”? Where? To Brandy?

The moral of the letter is: DON’T . . . TRUST . . . ANY . . . ONE!

Monday
Dear Adam,
I’m at court waiting for a case to be heard so I thought I’d drop you a line.

It crossed my mind to tell you to be careful of con men when you’re out trying to get your music heard. They’ll promise you this and that and they’re very good at what they do. They’ll even try to get you to give them money to help “promote” your music. DO NOT BELIEVE THEM. They are promoting for themselves! Anyone who needs to use your money to get you promoted is a PHONEY.

If they like you, they will see to it that you are promoted without you spending a dime. Let them spend their money. Don’t be conned! There are people out there just looking for suckers.

Love,
Mom
They make a business of it—that’s how they make money.

Too bad my mother wasn’t there to help all those black rhythm-and-blues artists in the 1950s.

Sunday
Dear Adam,
Since that check bounced and they deducted $30 or so from your account, make sure you have enough in the account so that other checks you write won’t bounce. I know something like that can really foul you up!!

When I told her (Nan) all she said was, Oh! Just don’t trust any other checks from Nan. They’re all full of shit. P.S. Are you getting my mail? You never seem to answer any of my questions!

Love,
Mom

I don’t understand. Did I really need to have my mother monitoring my finances? Wasn’t I a responsible grown-up? If I wrote a check for something, it was good. And if I got a parking ticket, it got paid.

Friday
Dear Adam,
I am writing to you because I refuse to let you hang up on me anymore. I can’t believe you did that. You must think it’s a joke.

IT HAPPENED TO YOUR FATHER!

He didn’t pay parking tickets and they said they would send out a payment schedule. They never did. And one day, you were 6 years old, it was dinnertime and the police came to arrest him for non-payment of parking tickets. Please, go down and pay your tickets. Don’t wait for them to come to you because court costs, etc., add up. Don’t let it get to that! Don’t ignore it!

Love,
Mom

They actually took my dad to the station? (Personally, I believe he hired the cops to escort him safely the hell outta there, but then again, I could be wrong.)

But how did my mother even know I GOT a parking ticket? She must have converted my roommates over to her side. Tim and Gretchen (the one with the strep throat). Moles.

Meanwhile, back on the other side of the continent, my mother was settling into sunny Miami Beach. It was all very familiar for her, and she had the comfort of being near her mother and her younger half brother, the dreaded UNCLE MICHAEL. (Hey, if any of you readers want to try a fun game, go grab a microphone. Plug it in to an amplifier and add a bunch of echo. Then, every time you see the words “UNCLE MICHAEL,”say them into the microphone and it will sound really cool. A lot more threatening than he ever was. Thanks.) My mother and my UNCLE MICHAEL (see?) had a volatile relationship from the get-go. However, after I graduated from college, he suddenly became much more of a threat to me. Poor UNCLE MICHAEL. He was a nice enough guy. Never did a thing to hurt me or be anything to me but a fucked-up, disconnected, harmlessly drug-addicted relative.

Anyway, letters from my mother soon arrived alerting me to what to do if and when UNCLE MICHAEL ever appeared at my front door in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, the only thing that never did show up at my front door was UNCLE MICHAEL. So, the warnings had to suffice.

Sunday
Adam—
Do not allow Michael (uncle) to stay in your apartment at any time!

If he shows up—say your girl-friend is there and there’s no room—

If he calls—say the same thing—

He has no way of knowing. Fore-warned is forearmed!

Remember—he is not one you can trust for 1 minute & if you value your things—Do not allow him in your apartment at any time—

Love,
Mom

P.S. Don’t hesitate to call the police if he gives you any trouble!

And this one:

Wednesday
Dear Adam,
I needed a ride to court today so Michael, who has the car all the time, drove me. It was the first time I had seen him in a long time.

He’s sicker than I thought. I don’t believe he’s in touch with reality at all! His thoughts do not run in any kind of logical manner. He’s highly agitated, hostile and aggressive in his behavior. He’s disoriented and I believe he has all the signs of a skitzofrenic (wrong spelling).

And what’s even worse! Nan doesn’t even see the problem or chooses not to. All I know is that Michael is one to stay far away from because if he becomes agitated or frustrated in any way, he can become dangerous. Nan told me he carries a gun on himself because he went into the jewelry business!! He buys and sells pieces of jewelry.

I don’t even want to know.

Love,
Mom

Maybe I would have wanted to know! I love me a little bling every now and then. And I love how my mother thinks she can accuse anyone else of not being in touch with reality.

The following letter climaxes with two major points that no letter from a mother to a son should be without. Inappropriate? Yes. Entertaining? You betcha! Mortifying? You KNOW it. I submit to you, Your Honor, exhibit number 392,410:

Friday
Dear Adam,
Enclosed find payment that has to be made to NDSL. Also enclosed is a check for $50. to help with it.

Benny sent me a birthday card. Wasn’t that nice?

Nan had given me the key to her safe-deposit box before she left. When she came back I went to give her the key which was supposed to be in the envelope. I hadn’t opened it to look inside when she gave it to me. As it turns out, there was nothing inside of the envelope. no key. Michael probably took it before he left to go out of town.

Just be advised that he is a thief! Do not allow him in your apartment at any time! Forewarned is forearmed. He probably took out whatever she had in that safe deposit box. Nan claims that she probably misplaced the key! Naturally, she defends him. Listen to me. . . .

Love,
Mom
1. Don’t drink rain-water.
2. There’s a resistant form of gonorrhea going around—Use a condom—

Gonorrhea, of all things. Can you imagine? “I’m a grown man now, I can take care of . . .” Ah, fuck it. My penis hurts just typing this. What is that burning sensation? Owwwwwwwwwwwwerggggggrrrshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhah!

I had to get away. Go someplace where she’d never find me. “I know,” I thought. “I’ll go to Mexico!” Back in the 1980s in Tijuana, the city hosted what was known as the Running of the Bulls (“La Pamplonada”). The event took place in a fenced-off part of the main street that ran through the city. If you’ve never heard of it, the objective was to stay alive while running as close to the really live and dangerous-looking bulls as possible without getting hurt, maimed, or killed. Sounded like fun to me. So my friend Gary and I decided to head for the border one day to give it a whirl. Just so you know, Gary had already lost one of his legs to cancer at a very young age.

Now, what I’m about to tell you may come across as being passive-aggressive. Was I being passive-aggressive? Yeah. But listen, my mother was harassing me for so long that subconsciously I felt it was my turn to take the bull by the horn, if you will.

I remember looking around for a public phone booth on that street in Mexico, in what was to become one of my last moments of sanity before the event was to start. There in the distance, not too far from the bull zone, I ran to make my only phone call on that sunny afternoon in August of 1986 in a country that was not my own. When my mother picked up, I believe our conversation went something like this:

Adam: Hi, Mom!
Adam’s Mom: Hi!
Adam: Listen, I just wanted to call you. I’m in Mexico now, near Tijuana.
Adam’s Mom: What? The country?
Adam: Right. Right. Yeah, the country! Anyway, my friend Gary and I are here together and . . .
Adam’s Mom: Gary, your friend from school who lost his leg to cancer?
Adam: Yes, Gary. The one without the leg. Anyway, well, there’s this event here in town called Running of the Bulls, and Gary and I are gonna take part in it.
Adam’s Mom: Running of the WHAT?
Adam: What? Listen, Mom, I’m losing you. I gotta get going. The bulls are just about to be set free. I’ll talk to you later. Maybe.
Adam’s Mom: Adam, what are you . . . ?
(Click.)

This letter came to me later that year.

Monday
October 6, 1986
Dear Adam,

I told Nan about the bulls in Mexico. She said she saw people get maimed that way when she was in Tijuana! She got so upset and hysterical, she said she would have called the Border Patrol and I got so angry with her. We had a fight! Anyhow, I told her you’re safe now. She pictured you being caught by that bull. Just thought I’d tell you, you can’t tell her anything! But in the future, don’t do anything so silly because if you had slipped and fallen, you could have been run over by those bulls! And I was so sick that afternoon, not knowing what happened. Please don’t do foolish things like that again. It isn’t funny!
Love,
Mom

Talk about bull, why believe anything my grandmother says? She bounces checks. Remember? Regardless, that letter made it clear that I had found a new hobby. If my mother thought the bulls were foolish, wait until she hears about THIS one! Soon I found that it was her letters that kept me growing, maturing, and attempting to do new things. If it sounded risky, I was ready to try it! I’m talking dicey shit like . . .

Onions:

Sunday
Adam—
I didn’t speak to you all week and I just wanted to hear your voice. Have a good time next weekend and take your stomach medication with you in case you eat onions again.

Love,
Mom

AND . . .

Cheese:

Tuesday
Dear Adam—
Just a note to let you know not to eat any kind of foreign cheese. They have found that some French and Spanish cheese is contaminated. So just eat American cheese. Also, I know it’s been raining there a lot and I want you to be careful. I know how the roads are out there when it rains, so please wear a seatbelt and be careful driving. I hope by this time, you have bought an umbrella.

I will let you know when I will be arriving. It will be in a couple of weeks.

Love,
Mom

Like the slogan says, “Great cheese comes from happy American cows.”

In 1987, I tried my hand at one of the most potentially contaminative cuisines ever: love. I met my first serious girlfriend while I was in Miami for a holiday visit. She was quite beautiful and smart, and she appreciated a good sense of humor. Ironically, she was very close to her mother, who really didn’t want her daughter getting involved with a musician who lived 3,000 miles away. Nonetheless, within a few months, Alisa and I were making plans to travel together to France for two whole weeks! Aside from my little escapade running with the horned cattle, this was to be my first major trip outside of the United States. My mother was living alone in a studio apartment in Miami Beach. I remember the day I told her that I was taking Alisa to Paris for a few weeks. You’d think she’d be happy for me jaunting off to a whole new world with someone I could see naked every day! Whoopie! YaHOO! When do we leave? However, my mother reacted a little differently than I’d imagined. I don’t have a letter of it or a recording handy, but trust me. It wasn’t all that enjoyable. I believe our conversation in her living room went a little something like this:

Adam: I’m taking Alisa to France for a couple of weeks.
Adam’s Mom: WHAT? OH, NO YOU’RE NOT. YOU DON’T KNOW ANYONE THERE AND YOU HARDLY EVEN KNOW HER! YOU’RE NOT GOING! YOU HEAR ME?
Adam: Her dad said he’d pay for our hotels!
Adam’s Mom: I DON’T CARE. LISTEN . . . YOU MIGHT AS WELL TAKE A KNIFE AND STAB ME IN THE BACK! JUST KILL ME! IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE TRYING TO DO? KILL ME? BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE DOING IF YOU GO TO FRANCE! KILL ME!
Adam: I’m starving. You want me to go get a pizza?
Adam’s Mom: GET OUT! JUST GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!
Adam: Half mushrooms for me, half Xanax for you, right?
Adam’s Mom: [incomprehensible]
Adam: I’ll be back in an hour or so.

Alisa and I went to France and, alas, my mother survived. We had a glowingly romantic time riding mopeds thru Cannes together and, yes, even indulging in the occasional foreign cheese! This was living like I had never lived before. We listened to music with new ears and took on life with a new purpose. I was pretty certain that she was “THE GIRL”!

When we returned to the states, Alisa had decided to move to Los Angeles to be with me. Her father insisted that we not live together until one day down the road (if and) when we were to be married. I respected that wish as I was not one to argue with the financier of fine European vacations.

My mother just wanted me to be cautious and, of course, not to trust Alisa.

Thursday
Dear Adam,
I hope, when you talk to Alisa, you don’t confide everything in her. Specifically, regarding your financial condition. She doesn’t have to know all your personal business. You don’t know if she repeats it to her mother or not.

In any event, keep certain things to yourself. If you get married, that’s another matter! But, until that happens, it’s better to remain a man of mystery than one who bears [sic.] all. Girls like a little challenge.

Love,
Mom

I’m just a regular guy raised by an ordinary middle-class single mother. Her letter made it sound like I shouldn’t divulge to Alisa that I’m really an heir to the Rockefeller estate and let’s just see if she would fall in love with me for the simple oppressed man I was just pretending to be. You’re good, Mom. Check. Got it! Though maybe I should have tipped Alisa off about the guy pretending to be my insane uncle back in Miami . . .

Adam,
Another reminder—

Don’t ever let Michael (your uncle) into your apartment.

Love,
Mom

Man, THAT guy simply MUST have been evil. What could have happened between the two of them? I asked my mom’s sister, Aunt Bonnie (who grew up with both of them) to explain. This is what she had to say: “Your mother hated your Uncle Michael because he was Nan’s favorite child and only son. When it came to Michael, he could do no wrong.” (Well, THAT sounded familiar.) Aunt Bonnie continued, “Aside from that, I think your mother could be a little bipolar, chemically imbalanced, and partially paranoid schizophrenic . . .”

Now, where was I? Right. Alisa.

It was time to break out of my shared bedroom and get my VERY OWN pad. I needed a place where Alisa could act as if she weren’t living with me on a daily basis, in order to please her parents. Gretchen would have to find someone else to pawn off her strep-throat germs on, as I ended up renting a bachelor apartment with room enough for my grand piano (just so you know, my old upright from college was stored in a safe place), a nice television, a futon, and me. (And Alisa. Shhh.) The place was on a popular street in Los Angeles called Willoughby. If you are a fan of The Twilight Zone, you’ll recall the episode “A Stop at Willoughby.” It was about a man in his twenties or thirties looking for a little escape from his daily, overworked life. He found it in a town of the aforementioned name that ended up being his idea of heaven. That apartment was a little like that for me, and Alisa and I were truly happy there.

Parents, upon hearing that their kid has moved into the big leagues with his own place, might consider sending some sort of a housewarming present or congratulatory note.

Monday
Dear Adam,
Do you think it’s a good idea to leave the piano in the lobby of a building you’re not in anymore? Personally, I would put it in storage for $100 for 1 month. It may even cost only $50.

There’s something new for roaches called Combat. You can buy it at Ralphs. There’s no mess and no smell and it works. I got it for my kitchen.

A thought—Alisa is your girlfriend. But until the two of you “tie the knot,” I don’t think you should confide about very personal matters. Do you? Some things are better kept confidential.

I love you—
Mom

Who am I, Mom? Batman? WTF? What are these “personal matters” I should keep from Alisa? I wish you’d let me in on the secret you hold. Am I really an alien life force who can only be harmed by roaches found on Planet Earth? I’m close, right?

Adam—
Did you ever stop to consider why you always get so angry with me? I’m only interested in the best for you. I’m not your enemy, and lately, you’ve been treating me as if I am. If I’m not always positive and do not always come up laughing, it’s because I’ve not always had it easy. I don’t have a husband to protect me like some women do, and I’ve learned not to be so trusting. So, don’t be so hard on me and so judgmental. I love you. You know that. And if I say things to irritate you, stop to think where I’m coming from. I only want the best for you because you deserve it.

A thought—and please don’t get angry at this . . .

Until you’re ready to get married, you should use some protection because you don’t want to be a father before any marriage takes place.

Love,
Mom

I wasn’t ready to get married. In 1989, Alisa and I broke up. Not soon after, she married an attorney. (I had a FEELING she was just after my money.) Anyway, I kept that apartment on Willoughby with my steady flow of income from playing piano five nights a week at a local restaurant. During the day, I learned how to be a travel agent, and eventually got a full-time job booking and ticketing travel for large corporations. It was a high-stress office environment, but it afforded me the luxury to travel first class for little money to faraway places. Very faraway places. Very faraway places that were very far away from my mother, who never seemed very far enough away from me.

Speaking of my mother, she soon found Miami to be too hot, too humid, and too close to UNCLE MICHAEL. It was time for her to make a move again. Where could she go? Where would she go? I wasn’t sure, but I had an inkling that it’d be a wise move for me to start building a shelter. Changing my identity. Signing up for the government’s Witness Protection Program. Anything. Because something was coming. And no one was safe. Not even nuns.

November 7, 1989
Adam,
Just some things you should know about.

1. In the orange bag in your apartment, there should be my will in there. If not, Leonard Cooperman, in Miami, has the original.

2. My life insurance is with Mutual of Omaha.

3. You are not responsible for any of my debts.

4. Mariah is paid up. The rent was paid either to her, Mariah Bumble, or to her daughter who’s a nun in Oakland, CA. It was always paid by check. If she says that some rent is owed because in the past she tried to collect the rent twice from me saying she forgot, just tell her you’ll sue her daughter’s order in Oakland, for collecting money and not reporting it. That will scare her. She’s very protective of her daughter, the Nun. She doesn’t want any bad publicity. I’m just telling you this because she, Mariah, is not to be trusted, and I don’t want her conning you in any way. Not that I expect anything to happen to me, but, I would want you to know how to handle some difficult issues. And she would try to benefit from the situation especially if she thought you didn’t know to whom I paid the rent. The nun’s name is Bridget Bumble. Don’t let her take advantage of anything.

Keep this paper so you can refer to some of the names, if you need to. Don’t let this letter upset you. I’m just being very methodical. I don’t intend to let anything happen to me until I see all of my grandchildren.

Love,
Mom

How can anyone so methodical be so chaotic? So many details about shit. Leonard. Mariah. A nun in Oakland. I don’t know who ANY of these people are, nor did I need to know. I just wanted to live my life. Was I being selfish? Shellfish?

Sat.
Adam—
Do me a favor—

Please don’t eat sushi!

Thank-you—

Love,
Mom

At that moment, eating sushi became one of the defining actions of my adult independence: I would eat what I wanted to eat when I wanted to eat it! Yes . . . the worm had turned!

The hour had finally come to shift my gaze somewhere beyond the sea. Perhaps somewhere, waiting for me, was the next contestant in the HOW-LONG-CAN-YOU-DATE-A-GUY-WITH-AN-INSANEMOTHER SHOW! (Especially now that the mother would be moving to the same fucking city as her poor fuck of a son.) Focus.

Enter Dana. She holds the proud distinction of being the first person I ever dated who KNEW I might have a problem with more than just my car tires.

Wednesday
Dear Adam—
That tire has me concerned. You said that your tire was flat and you had it fixed. Well, I don’t know how they fixed it, but you can’t ride around on a tire that has been patched up. That would be ok for a spare, but not for everyday use. It’s like putting a band-aid on a cut. That won’t heal the cut.

Please go buy a new tire or as many tires as you need. You can put it on your credit card. You’ve had the car for some time now and I’m sure it needs tires. It’s nothing to fool around with, Adam. If the tires are not good, it’s too dangerous. Especially on the highway!

Love,
Mom

Did Dana know what peril lurked ahead? Perhaps. She certainly witnessed the growing collection of letters I was keeping. “Hey . . . why are you saving all those letters from your mother? That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Dana was studying to be a therapist. I’m sure she could have written her thesis on me. She suggested that I not even look at the letters. “Just throw them out. They’re invasive! Why read them if they make you sick?”

And now, a phone conversation that likely took place later that same week:

“Hey, Mom! I met this really nice girl the other day. She’s a friend of an old college friend of mine. She’s going to be a psychologist! I know. Pretty serious! Anyway, she had some advice for me. Yeah. She thinks I should stop reading the letters you send me all the time. Yeah. Really.”

Thursday
Adam—
My coworker that spoke to you on the phone has a 27-year-old son who just got back with his girlfriend and he said he told his son to “wrap it up” for at least 6 months and then go for an AIDS test as it takes that long for anything to show! (Both go.)

He said it’s best for any man to keep it wrapped. As it only takes 1 time!

Play it safe!

Mom

Well, she had a point, but so much for being happy for me. I also wondered what her obsession was with venereal diseases. Didn’t she know I had a good head on my shoulders? I decided to call a trusted cousin to see if she could offer some insight to this situation. My cousin Laurie in Las Vegas had known me for many, many years and was quite familiar with my mother’s paranoia and general approach to day-to-day living. I asked her why she thought my mother was obsessed with VD. After a long pause on the phone, Laurie replied, “I have no idea. Maybe she loves you?”

“Do you love me, Laurie?” I asked. “Of course I do, sweetie!” Laurie replied. I continued, “Then why haven’t you ever written me about venereal disease?”

Dana and I soon found an apartment and moved in together. This was the first time I was to be officially living with a girlfriend around the clock, without having to keep it a secret from the girl’s family. And that sounded like the PERFECT reason for my mother to celebrate by moving to Los Angeles.

I started working as a full-time travel agent in a much nicer office, while playing piano a few nights a week. In my spare time, I was pursuing my career as a singer/songwriter by recording my original music in various studios. A friend of mine in the television world was able to place a few of my songs in his made-for-TV movies. Of course, there was NEVER any mention of ANY of that trivial crap (my dreams, love life, career) when it came to my mother’s correspondence or interactions. She was far too concerned with the goddamn will.

Tuesday
August 21, 1990
Adam—
It’s very important that you do not lose the Will. The Last Will I made named you executor and that’s the way I want it. I had a Will made before with Nan as executor, and I forgot the attorney’s name that has the current Will but he’s in Miami and he worked at the Juvenile Court House when I was a social worker. He is not related in any way.

I made this Last Will after I made the one with Harvey.

Please do not lose this letter until you find the Will because this can be a legal document that a Will does exist naming you the executor.

Love,
Mom
Joan

Unbelievable! So die already, will ya! Or stop talking about it. A few months later . . .

November 7, 1990
Dear Adam—
Just a note to let you know my Will is in that orange bag that you put away. It is the last one I made and it has YOU as executor. I made one before that has Nan as executor. But that was when you were in High School. I can’t remember the attorney’s name that made it up for me in Miami. He was one of the attorneys that I worked with at Juvenile Court when I was a social worker for the State. Not that I anticipate anything happening to me. I just want you to be aware of the facts. All I have is a life insurance policy with Mutual of Omaha.
Love,
Mom

Enclosed find a picture of the intestines found in a health food store. Just follow doctor’s orders and you’ll be fine.

OF COURSE I had stomach problems. All this talk about death was making me ill. Suddenly I was lactose intolerant. Scratch that. I was EVERYTHING intolerant. It seemed as though anything I ate gave me a stomachache. Fortunately, I had that picture of the intestines my mother sent. I took it with me to each and every doctor I visited back then. They all instantly understood my trouble without my even mentioning her weekend visits to our apartment, her excessive phone messages asking where we were at any given minute, and the letters she continued to send that I insisted on compiling. Now I get it. (Sorry, Dana.)

In April of 1992, the LA riots happened. Now everyone in Southern California thought they were going to die. My mother could have started a new club. Instead, she was able to pull some strings and get a job at USC, my old school. This allowed her the chance to relive my life with a fuller and better understanding. She began working as a housemother for a sorority on campus. (Hey, if you can’t be an overbearing mother to ONE, why not be an overbearing mother for ONE HUNDRED and get paid for it?) Anyway, when the riots actually began, my mother headed straight from the sorority house to our apartment for refuge. She ended up sleeping on our living room couch until the threat of imminent danger subsided.

Let me just say the riots weren’t half the terror of her camping out at our place. I don’t remember how Dana and I made it through, but I’m pretty sure my mother never received another sleepover invitation. I received this after she went back home to my alma mater . . .

Tuesday
Adam,
I know you and Dana will probably get married some day and I’m happy for you. But I hope you’re both being cautious about having children, because you first have to be in a financial position to support them. But I’m sure you and Dana are bright enough to be responsible and then again, it’s none of my business.
Love,
Mom

Hmm . . . from the tone of that letter, maybe there was hope for her yet.

Months later, I arranged a trip for Dana and me to head back to Philadelphia to attend my best friend Dave’s wedding. At the same time, I planned to reunite with my evil relatives in New Jersey. My uncle Bill (my dad’s brother), his wife, and my three first cousins decided to meet at a local restaurant in the city. When the day arrived, we all hugged, shook hands, and eventually sat down at a very long table to stare at the piles of pictures Uncle Bill had brought that showed my father at various stages of his life. We brushed up on our family history and shared some of our personal stories, and about three hours later, I was still alive. They hadn’t murdered me. I had no idea why I was ever included in their twenty-year feud with my mother. But in the end, just meeting them was a giant step for Adam-kind.

Wednesday
Dear Adam—
Please don’t tell Bill or any of his children anything about me. I don’t want them knowing anything. It’s none of their business. I don’t trust them. I had good reason to keep you away for as long as I did. They wanted nothing to do with you or I from the day your father died and they are nothing like you or your father! If you insist on communicating with them, please be careful.
Mom

Rule number one was now null and void. I was convinced that my father’s side of the family were not descendants of the Hatfields. On the other hand, my mother was driving a wedge between Dana and me, as the topic of my mother became all we ever spoke about. And my mother’s intrusions were endless.

September 3, 1992
Adam—
If your manager does not fix the stove in a short period of time, I will have this lawyer I know write a letter to the owner telling him of the problem. So let me know if you need a lawyer’s letter. By law, you have to have a safe operating stove, and if he takes too much time fixing it, the manager is NOT doing his job! Your rent includes a stove and it poses a hazard (safety).
Love,
Mom
P.S. Good luck! And let me know if you need a letter.

I’m afraid of my ex-boss. The one I had the hearing with.

Don’t give your address to anyone. She may want to retaliate! (She’s crazy.) Also, when you use bomb in the house, you have to rinse dishes and put food away!

(I know, I know. Stop acting like a Mom!)

Mom

It was at that point that Dana and I stopped acting like a couple and decided to go our separate ways. The whole ménage à Mom was too much for her. Dana struggled with it for a long time, as we truly cared for each other. But it was impossible for my mother to just let us be. And believe it or not, I didn’t see it. The only thing I saw was that Dana and my mother were constantly pulling me in opposite directions. That must have been exactly the way my father felt with his family and his wife. I needed to be alone for a while. I moved into a one-bedroom apartment by myself and began to figure things out.

Perhaps I had been an accomplice to this never-ending drama the whole time? The moment had come (again) to ask my mother to leave LA. She, too, understood that the space would do us both some good. She ended up moving back to Miami (again) and getting a job as a hostess in a popular deli.

Before she got on the plane, however, she did manage to share a little last-minute career advice, for old time’s sake . . .

May 1993
Adam—
Philip said to send a tape to Barbra Streisand, Malibu, CA, and the postman will deliver it to her as he has her address. You have nothing to lose. Why not try it?
Love,
Mom

OK. Call me a skeptic, but I’m not really sure Barbra Streisand opens her own mail. I guess my mother’s male-pal-of-the-hour, “Philip,” knew better. After all, he DID know where she lived! (Please forgive me in advance, Babs, for divulging your whereabouts to the world.)

As for my mother’s move back to Miami, I had faith that she would ultimately find happiness there.

November 24, 1993
Adam—
After I spoke to you today and you asked me if “I was happy,” I wondered if something was wrong with you! How could you ask me that? Do you think I’ve been having a good time?

I have no home, no job, and I’m struggling just to keep a roof over me and you ask “if I’m happy”!!

I haven’t seen you in 4 months. I’m lonely and yet you ask me that. Don’t you realize what I’m going through?

Nan & Michael are fucking out of their heads and I have no one to talk to. You wanted me out of LA. I should ask, “Are you happy?”

You got what you wanted.

Mom

Whoops.

Well, don’t worry . . . my mother wasn’t homeless. She was safe in Miami around her mother and her beloved brother. The real issue here was that I was happy and that I was successful in basically deporting her (for now) from the entire western coast of the United States. Her letter ALMOST made me feel guilty about the whole thing. Then I got this and I immediately felt better.

Adam—
Hopefully—I can see you before you leave for New York ’cause I have something for you that you can use in N.Y.

I hope if ever you have intruders in your apt. while you are asleep & wake up—you let them have whatever they want and that way—they won’t bother you & leave you alone. Don’t start fighting with them. Keep your windows locked. You’re right on an alley on the 1st floor!

Also—drink bottled water—the pipes in your bldg. are old & the water could contain lead.

Love,
Mom
(That’s how mom’s are.)

That just slays me. Is that truly how moms are? Anybody?

About eight months later, when I still didn’t have a proper answer to that question, Dana and I decided to get back together. It was easy to fall back in love. It was familiar, it was romantic, and—in the beginning—it was nice again. I wrote my mother a letter to tell her about it, but it came back to me unopened, as I had addressed it to:

Adam’s Mom
Miami Beach, FL

I assumed the mail carrier would know her address. Or did I? Hmm . . . do you think I was being passive-aggressive to my mother? To myself? To the mail carrier?

Anyway, my reunion with Dana was highly charged and everything seemed on course for our relationship to move into marriage. We decided to take a trip to Australia for a little vacation, and since I was a travel agent, it would be first class all the way. Looking back, I’m sure she believed I was going to pop the big question while we were traveling, but I wasn’t ready for that. I was too busy worrying about more important things.

Saturday
Adam—
Nan told me to tell you there are sharks in the water in Australia. So don’t go in the water.

Love,
Mom

There she goes again, blaming my grandmother. (Her mother.) I recently asked my now-ninety-four-year-old grandmother about this. She didn’t remember ever saying that to my mother. Granted, she hardly remembers my MOTHER at this point, but IF SHE DID, I guarantee you she’d have no recollection of ever even saying the word “shark” in a sentence, let alone of giving that advice to me via my mother.

My mother’s fear was written all over her face. Every moment of every day was consumed with thoughts over what could possibly go wrong for me, especially while I was out of her reach. Far away. Overseas. She even went to the trouble of having some dude named Larry draw a sketch of her on a napkin that she kindly included in the following letter.

Sunday
Adam—
Enclosed find sketch Larry did of me—don’t my eyes look sad?

Anyhow—bon voyage and have fun—

Love,
Mom
P.S. Is this a better note?

Doesn’t that just scream “HAVE FUN—DON’T WORRY ABOUT LITTLE MISS SAD EYES OVER HERE!”? Ah, thank you, Larry (whoever you are), for capturing the essence of confidence, joy, and complete lack of fear that was, is, and always will be my mother. (Are you available for parties?)

Of course, no going-away present would be complete without a listing of my mother’s insurance policies.

NYCERS
New York City Employee’s Retirement Services

Just want you to know if anything happens to me, this is the place you call as you are listed as my beneficiary in the event of my demise and you continue to collect $200 a month.
Mom
(over)
Did you know I was the only one in the history of New York City that ever placed 100% on the civil service exam for social workers? I have the letter they sent me to that effect. Nan saw the letter.

To paraphrase: “In the event something does happen to me while you’re away having fun in some other part of the world, you’ll be well cared for thanks to me and you can tell your children (that you’ll eventually have) that I was the only person to score 100% on a civil service test in New York. And you get $200 a month! Have a great trip!”

When Dana and I returned to California without an engagement ring, it should have been all over. Yet we were caught up in the routine and decided to move into a condo together in a nice neighborhood, about an hour away from the travel agency I worked for. Word on the street was that no matter where we fled, there were bad people waiting there for us.

Dear Adam & Dana—
Am at my desk and thought I’d drop a line re: Halloween.

When you open the door to give out candy, please make sure it’s children at the door as they’re having robbers go out on Halloween to rob people’s houses. I read it in the paper.

Also, when you go to Miami on Thanksgiving, please don’t give Michael a ride anywhere as he goes to “bad” places and don’t let him drive the car. Just stay far away from him. Really!! I sent Nan the pictures of you and me, Adam, in Boston that you gave me.

Take care of each other.

Love,
Mom

In 1995, my mother had had enough of Miami for good. (Again.) It was time for her to move on with her life. She hopped a flight from Miami Beach and landed in New York City. (Again.) Only THIS time, my little Jewish mother had a plan.

Saturday
Adam—
This is my plan. When I get the ticket from you to go to California on Thanksgiving, I’ll stay with you for that weekend. Then, I’ll stay with Reva for three weeks. The lady near Melrose.

Then, I’ll fly to NY on December 26th, stay with Bonnie for 2 weeks, then move into the woman’s residence in NY and live there while I work at that paper on Wall Street. I can’t stay here any longer than Thanksgiving!!! I’d rather be dead. This is no place for a nice girl like me! So, when I call to make my ticket, it will only be 1-way.

Love,
From
Your Lutheran Mom

Bam! The Lord works in mysterious ways.

When I asked her what she meant by her sudden conversion to the Lutheran faith, she told me that she had just been to a Lutheran service that week, and was “very impressed with the whole thing.” Ultimately, her newfound religion was still not enough to pardon her sister, Bonnie, or her nephews, Andrew and Steven.

Friday
Adam—
Nan is leaving next Thursday. I’m going to sleep over Tuesday night so I can see her for a while.

Bonnie still smokes pot. When she goes to Andrew’s I think they smoke it together. If you’re still going over Christmas vacation to New York, be aware of this. Can you believe, a father smoking pot?!! Anyhow, call me old- fashioned or what, but make sure you wear your seatbelt when you drive with Andrew OR Steve—He smokes too.

If I sleep over at Bonnie’s, she stays up late and the smoke from the pot fills the room. It’s not even an “in” thing to do anymore.

I have sooo much to do when I go to LA. I have to see Jane, I want to get a tan, get my nails done, and go shopping at the Beverly Center. And I can’t wait to see you. I haven’t seen you in 7 months. Isn’t that long enough?
Much love—
Mom

I wonder if her aversion to pot smoke was part of her Lutheran phase. And do Lutherans like to get tans? And come to think of it, if she likes getting tan so much, why the hell did she move out of Miami?

Friday
Adam—
This is the amount I told you for your birthday. It now comes to the $100. I told you. I bought you a warm hat for the snow. Should I mail it? It’s snowing today. I have a cold.
Mom

Once again, let’s give it up for Miss Annie Wilkes. Miss Annie Wilkes, everybody!

When it came to sending inappropriate correspondence, my mother apparently had a mailing list of recipients aside from me. Yes, there were others who knew my mother to be “Postal Mom.” (Postal Mom © 2011 Adam Chester.) Sadly, I don’t believe those people ever responded to her mail either. Even more sadly, some of the other people to whom my mother wrote were the very people I worked with. That’s right. You heard me. My mother wrote to my co-workers. And why not?! She believed that anyone, anywhere, who was in any position to have contact with me should be her pen pal.

The travel agency I worked for was a small but busy corporate office that handled the business for many large advertising agencies in the LA area. The staff of this 850-square-foot room consisted of me, one other agent, the owner of the company (who also booked travel), and Bill, the gentleman who opened the mail and put together all the tickets for the customers.

Check out these postcards she addressed to the STAFF of Travelcare. I recite the lyrics to the song “You’ve Got a Friend” whenever I read these, only it’s my mother, not James Taylor singing the lead. “You just call out my name . . . and you know wherever I am . . . I’ll come running.” Sounds pretty. But then I realize she’s singing it to the entire staff of Travelcare. And they are all doomed.

#1.
Hi!!
Here I am in NYC now!
Love to all—
Joan Chester
6 Charles St.—1D
N.Y., N.Y. 10014

#2.
Hello again from New York! The heat wave broke at last!
Love,
Joan

What mother corresponds with people she doesn’t really know? And we’re not talking about a holiday card here! Notice the word “again” in her second postcard. I’m telling you, she wrote to these poor people all the time just to make sure they knew how to contact her IF (and when) anything were to happen to me. (Again.) I can still hear Bill from the office saying “Oh, good . . . it’s another postcard from your mom.” Seriously, can you say “two-weeks’ notice”? But who could get mad at a mother who was getting on in years and might croak at any given moment . . .

Sunday
Dear Adam—
As I’m getting on in years, you should know that my will is in the piano bench and my life insurance is with Mutual of Omaha.

There, I feel better.
Love,
Mom

Yeah, yeah. $30K and a car she no longer owned. I know, I know. Though what I want to know is: Who the hell moved the will out of the orange bag??

Have you noticed a pattern here? Do something embarrassing, then send a will or an “I’ll Be Dead Soon” letter. Those postcards to my work finally got ME to respond in writing. It’s too bad my mother hasn’t been saving MY letters. I mean, letter. From the sound of her response below, I bet it was a doozy.

Thursday
Adam—
Thanks for the letter. I just realized how unfair I’ve been to you. Yes, I have looked toward you as the parent. (See what happens, roles get reversed). I don’t mean to swamp you with my problems. I’m so thankful you have someone like Dana that can be there for you and understands. You’re lucky. Hopefully, things will work out. I love you and you’ve always been the best son anyone could have. I do realize I can’t be the center of your life. If I said anything to the contrary, I was being a spoiled little girl. Ignore it.

Love,
Mom

Thanks for that, Mom. (I mean, my little girl . . .)

It was right around then that Dana and I split up for good. Uncertain as to where to go, I moved temporarily into my friend Tim (one of the moles from my old apartment) and his wife’s house, while I went looking for a new place. Turned out to be the most prolific time in my life for writing music. I was off to the recording studio to work on what would be my very first commercial release. I was doing alright, but it was hard at first being without Dana. We had been on and off as a couple for years, though for years we both knew it wasn’t working.

Thursday
Adam—
You need to speak to someone. You can do it on a Saturday. I’ll ask my doctor if he knows anyone in LA. Or, you can ask your internist for the name of a psychologist. Even your eye doctor (who you like) could recommend someone.

It’s hard when something ends. But, there’s always a new beginning down the line. Hold your ground. You deserve the best and you will get it! You need a helpmate. Someone that gives, not takes!

Love,
Mom
P.S. Make sure you use rubbers! Don’t take chances.

I NEED TO SPEAK TO SOMEONE? Unbelievable. And as for the rubbers, I think my mother missed her calling. She should have looked into getting a job working for the CDC.

I remember the day I first opened this next letter. It was late and I’d just arrived home from a long writing session with a lyricist I’d been working with . . .

Saturday
Adam—
Have you written anything lately?

Get Heiden’s [sic] classical pieces and listen. There’s many passages you can translate into pop music.

It would be very interesting.

Get busy.

You’ve let your writing go.

Love,
Mom

Adam slowly looks up from inside the recording studio and . . . and . . . Scene.

Several months later, I adopted a dog I named Hadgi, and started seeing a twenty-year-old Armenian girl (she looked a lot older) by the name of Vicky, whom my mother met during a quick visit to LA. Vicky was young and innocent, and she had no idea how messed up I truly was.

Adam—
It was a delight seeing you and Vicky. Let me know when your travel plans materialize so I know what’s happening. Is your car insured for other people to drive?
Love,
Mom

As you can tell, my mother had nothing but nice things to say about Vicky.

In the fall of 1996, I finished my CD that I appropriately titled “You Don’t Know Me . . . from Adam,” and dedicated it to Vicky. Since I didn’t have a major record label deal, my efforts were focused on getting it distributed to the masses. It would take some serious grassroots marketing to get the word out about its release. I knew if there was one person who could assist, it was my mother. Obviously, I was right.

Adam—
I told everyone at work about the CD. They are all going to buy it! About 20 people!
Love,
Mom

A year later, I cashed in on those royalties and took Vicky on a first-class trip to Spain and Morocco.

May 16, 1997
Adam—
Enclosed find a little check to buy brunch for you and Vicky.

I love you.

When are you going on your vacation? And where are you going? Are you still going to Spain? Morocco is in South Africa and is nowhere near Spain!

I’ll speak to you next week.

Love,
Mom

Obviously, my mother would not be my first choice for the “phone-a-friend” portion of any game show.

When it came to wealth, my mother’s strategy always involved things that could instantly change your life. There was never a real plan or a willingness to start on the ground floor and work her way up. Oh, no. It was always about a gift from someone or a friend helping out, or winning the lottery or coming into possession of a valuable object. Take this letter, for instance.

It’s a quarter. Better yet, it’s a dirty American quarter from 1994. Any questions?

This is just a prime example of one of several letters I received without a single written word on it. But there in the center of the blank page would be one little item attached with a piece of Scotch tape. I refer to these as my “I-can-help-you-get-rich-quick-by-taping-something-to-a-piece-of-paper-that-could-be-worth-a-lot-of-money-because-it-looks-important-to-me-but-I-can’t-really-tellyou-why” letters. Some displayed pennies. One featured a mysterious key. And this . . . a dirty American quarter from 1994.

Turned out that coin wasn’t worth anything more than twenty-five cents, and the vintage was all wrong. The year I was looking for was 1998. That was the year I found what money can’t buy in the form of the girl who would soon become my wife and the mother of my two beautiful children.