Here’s a question. Will I ever be able to put together an act that doesn’t make me cringe so hard my dick shrivels up into a sad little piece of tortellini? All my jokes suck! Nobody wants to hear an awkwardly tall gay guy whine about what it’s like to grow up without any friends.
I throw my phone across the bed in a fit of frustration. I have such a love–hate relationship with my Notes app. Sometimes the jokes flow so easily my fingers can barely keep up. Other times the screen taunts me, a backlit reminder that I’ll never be good enough. I’ll never get to live out my fantasy of writing an act so good that I get up on stage one day and just kill it. You know? An act so funny and perfectly delivered that everyone in the audience has no choice but to love and respect me.
I know, I know. It’s an idiotic thing to fantasize about. I’ve seen enough comic interviews on YouTube to know that everyone bombs in the beginning. But maybe I’ll be the exception! (Did you think my delusional expectations were limited to romance? Listen, I contain multitudes.)
Anyway. It’s almost ten and Mom’s still not home. Should I be worried? I’m kinda worried. We got back from the Shore more than two hours ago, and then she ran back out for a quick CVS run. That should have been a thirty-minute situation at most. Especially on our budget.
Just as I’m about to reach across the bed to retrieve my phone, I hear the front door open and slam shut. The sound is followed by the smell of… cigarette smoke?
Shit. Something bad must have happened. Mom hasn’t smoked in years. I creep out of my room and see her attempting to open a new bottle of Luna di Luna at the edge of our peeling Formica countertop. Her hands shake, her cigarette dangles. She can’t get a good grip. Jesus. This is an entirely different woman than the one I had a heart-to-heart with on the beach a few hours ago.
“Mom! What’s going on?” I leap toward her and grab the bottle before it falls and creates a bloodbath on the linoleum. Those magnum bottles are like sixteen dollars, you know. “What happened?”
My gut tells me it’s Richard and his bullshit. I really hope I’m wrong.
“It’s Richard and his bullshit.” Mom takes a final drag of her cig and places it in a half-full mug of dirty water in the sink. “I don’t even know where to begin. I just feel so” — and now they’re coming — “extremely” — yep, she’s crying — “ugh” — aaaand I’m crying — “stupid.”
Having such easily triggered tear ducts is exhausting. Like, really? We’re about to have another night of bawling? This is getting to be ridiculous.
Maybe I should add it to my act. My mom and I cry so much, it’s amazing either of us ever has to pee.
I finish opening the wine, pour us a couple of glasses, and guide her to the couch so we can sit down and discuss. It’s a déjà vu moment for sure. “Here.”
“This is bad.” Her voice is steady and grim. “Like, really bad.”
“I never liked that prick.” I take a sip of wine and center my breath. “So what happened?”
“You were right is what happened,” she says. “He’s been living a double life. He was never gonna finalize the divorce. He was never gonna settle down here. He —”
“How do you know this?” I ask. “What the hell happened at CVS?”
“The house.” She takes a frantic sip. “I got a Zillow notification for a new listing in Short Hills. It was his house. Our house. He put it on the market.”
“Mom,” I say. “I thought we agreed to stop looking at real estate porn online. It only makes us feel bad about ourselves.” I pause for a second as I realize the true weight of what she just told me. “But oh my God. Seriously? You just found out from the Zillow app? He didn’t say anything?”
“Nothing.” Her voice goes up an octave as she punches one of our stringy Big Lots throw pillows with her free hand. “Nothing! So I called him from the parking lot.”
“And what did he say?”
She places her wineglass down and reaches into her purse for a fresh cig from her shiny box of Newports. She knows I don’t approve, but I slap her hand to solidify my position.
“What?” she says. “This is an extenuating circumstance.”
“So is lung cancer.” But I sip my wine and let it go. “What happened when you called him?”
“He got pissed at me.” She takes a drag, and it does seem to help her relax. “Said I shouldn’t have been snooping on him. As if real estate listings are top secret or something. Can you believe that?”
“Yup.” I shake my head, thinking about Luke’s outburst from yesterday. “I can.”
“And then —” she’s interrupted by her own impulse to gasp for air while holding back a sob. “And then —”
“Oh, my God, what?”
“He dumped me.” She almost breaks down again but finds her strength in the filter of her cigarette. “I should have been the one dumping him, and he dumped me. You should have heard his ass. Going off on this rant about how I’m ‘the most high-maintenance side bitch he’s ever had.’” She flicks an ash into one of the empty wineglasses we left out last night. “I was like, ‘side bitch?’”
“Shut up.” I wish I could save her right now. I wish I could get Richard in a room and just torture him. Like some Saw movie shit. “Who was the… main… bitch?”
“His wife!” she shrieks. “He hasn’t been traveling all over the country for work. He’s just been splitting his time between here and their house on the West Coast.”
On some level I’ve always known this would be the inevitable culmination of their relationship. It was almost too easy to see coming. The idea of her (or us) ever actually living in Short Hills always seemed like more of a pipe dream than an actual future.
But despite all my skepticism, I still wasn’t prepared for the pipe to burst. I wanted Richard to prove me wrong. For Mom’s sake.
He picked the wrong day to prove me right. Between him and Luke, the current of rage that’s been crackling in my bones since last night has now escalated into full-on explosion territory. My body won’t be able to contain it much longer.
“I’m so sick of being treated like shit by these guys,” I tell Mom. “We need to do something. Don’t you wanna do something? To get back at them?”
“Joey.” She narrows her watery eyes at me. “We already talked about this.”
“Listen.” I sit up and my back stiffens with determination. “I know you’re nervous about getting in trouble. But we have both made so many stupid decisions based on these assholes. And they could care less. Someone has to hold them accountable!”
“Joey —”
“You know that documentary we love about Monica and Bill?” I ask. It’s time to evoke our lifelong folk heroine. “Remember how everyone bashed Monica like she was some kind of homewrecking slut? Even though he was the one who kept buying her gifts and stringing her along with empty promises and lame excuses?”
Not to mention the fact that he was fifty and literally the most powerful man in the world. Monica was basically a kid — only a few years older than I am now.
“And then there was Hillary,” Mom bleakly adds. “Standing by him the whole time.” She lights another cig and refills our glasses. “Fuck Monica, right? As long as the perfect blond wife forgives him.”
Good. She’s getting worked up. I can totally sway her.
“That’s what I’m saying. It’s not fair.” I gulp my wine until the glass is empty and take a big breath. “We have to do something to make it fair.”
Mom purses her lips as I continue my descent into drunkenness, guzzling the rest of the wine directly from the bottle. Hopefully all those beach fries will provide a starchy enough base to keep me from throwing it up later.
“So what do you say?” I ask. “Don’t you wanna have a voice?”
We stare at each other for a moment, then down at our empty wineglasses on the coffee table. The fake wood is stained with watercolor-y red splashes from our sloppy pours.
“Fuck it,” she finally answers. “You’re right.”
“Yes!” I wrap her up in a big messy hug. The current of rage in my bones instantly feels less suffocating — like it’ll soon have a chance to escape my body. “I’m so ready to fuck shit up.”
“I think the baseball bats are all the way in the back of the bathroom closet.” She peels herself up off the couch and flips her hair back so it falls perfectly over her shoulders. “We’re gonna need to get some new spray paint, though. I’m sure the cans we have under the sink are expired by now.”