Chimay, Mom, and my Space Buddy . .

So I was sitting at a favorite booth, debating on whether I’d stay awake long enough for another Chimay.  I picked up my phone for probably the 17^th time just to make sure something vitally important hadn’t escaped my notice on Facebook.  You never know, you know? 
Wait. How can you know if you never know if you never know? 
Never mind.
Anyway, I wake the phone up and there’s a guy smiling at me.  Weird smile, sort of like it starts at his ears and works its way down to his mouth.  And it’s not just a picture – it’s a video.  I know because I look up and to my right while I try to figure out what’s going on and when I come back the guy is coming back from looking to his left, like he’s trying to see what I’m looking at.  It’s a live video.
What the . . . ?


"Hello." 

Great.  The live video is talking to me.  And I’m trying to figure out how to respond to that deep opening of conversation.  In a flash, a moment of brilliance strikes and I say . .

 

“Who’s this?”

“Me.  Do I look all that different?” 

I spend half a second thinking about that before I realize the answer didn’t come from the phone.  It’s coming from 2 feet in front of me.  My involuntary reaction has me looking at where the voice is coming from and my phone jumps at the same time I do and lands in my chopped salad.  The guy on my phone is sitting on the other side of my salad – the one with the phone in it. Somehow, I forget to look and see if he’s still on the phone.  I suppose it didn’t matter.

“MAN, WHAT IS IT WITH YOU AND YOUR ENTRANCES?!”

It’s my Space Buddy. Remember him?  He’s here, looking like he’s aged about 10 years since last time I saw him.  It’s been a while, but not 10 years.

“What’s with the beard?  And the wrinkles?  And is that an age spot?  What, do you folks age fast, like how we do with our dogs?”

The questions are coming out faster than I can figure out what they sound like.  This might not be a good idea, as I suspect this creature could turn me into baked tapioca pudding with a side of broccoli if he wanted.

He says, “How’s the pizza?”

That stops me cold.  How’s the pizza?  What’s that got to do with the price of beefsteak in Bangkok?
  

Oh, wait.  He’s looking at the little plate with the leftover crust.  Never mind.

“It’s good.  Was good.  Probably still is, if we ask for some more.  Would you like a slice?”

“No, I’ve already had some.  Quite a lot, in fact.  Had one slice from every place in town that sells it.  But thank you.”

One slice from every place in town.  When, I wonder.  Over the last three weeks, or the last 117 femtoseconds?  With this guy, it’s like I said – you never know.

“Beer?”

“No thank you.”  

And then that look of benevolent impatience, the one that says he really has great affection for me but wishes I wasn’t so obtuse.  I manage to rein in the dumb, and open the door. 

I say, “So, what’s new?”  I manage to avoid adding something brilliant, such as “Besides the beard and the wrinkles?”

“Actually,” he says, “one of your traditions.”

 “Which one?”

 “Today’s”

Today’s?  Oh, yes!  Mother’s Day.  Okay, this sounds easy.  So with this astounding insight into what he’s curious about, I say, “You mean Mother’s Day?”

Well look, how am I supposed to know, really?  This guy could beam himself to Nepal in the time it took me to remember that my phone was still sitting in my salad.  Who knows what they celebrate over there?  Still, it seemed like a dumb question.

“That’s the one, yes.”  Then the trademark smile, the one that says “Boy, it sure would be nice if we could turn up the wattage here . . . “

Me: “What would you like to know?”

Him: “What does it mean to you?”

Me: “Me as in me, or me as in us?”

As you can tell, once I get my feet under me, my intellect starts to make razors look like butter knives.  He’s probably thinking “sharp as a cue ball.”

“You, personally.  I’m comfortable with the idea that you’re representative of most of your people.”

Ah, yes.  I remember that’s what he said way back when I first met him. Although, I’d like to think my love of Turkish coffee sets me apart at least a little.  I launch in . .

“Well, pretty much.  But I do know this one lady, a mother in fact, that pays no attention to it at all, at least no more than what’s necessary to respond to well-wishers.  Come to think of it, though, she changed her profile picture today. Has her Mom in it.  I thought it was terrific, because I adore her Mom.  Her Dad, too, but I guess I should say I he’s fantastic or awesome, something like that.  Sounds a little weird to say I adore him, you know?”

“No, I don’t.  That’s why I talk to you.”

Oh.  Yeah.

“Well, it’s this thing with our language – a lot of times, a word carries more meaning than just its definition.  You have to be around it for a long time get a sense of what words do that.”

“Is that why ‘fat chance’ means the same thing as ‘slim chance?”

“Not exactly.  That comes from a thing we call sarcasm.  It’s another way we say one thing by saying another, but sarcasm is what you use when you’re trying to be funny.  Or mean.”

“How do you tell the difference?”

“Tone of voice, body language, facial expression.  It’s complicated.”

“So I’ve noticed.  And that profile picture you mentioned – isn’t that where you take a picture from the side, like when someone gets arrested?  Is this lady in trouble with the police?  Why would they put her Mom in the picture?”

It takes me a moment to get my head around what he’s saying . .
“Hunh?  Oh. No. No, not at all.  This profile picture is different.  Profile can mean more than what you look like from the side, although she looks beautiful from every side. I . . .”
 

I realize I’m going down a rabbit trail that has nothing to do with the subject at hand, although I’m curious as to how he would react to that story . . .

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.  Anyway, profile is word we also use to refer to a description of someone.  Where they live, what they look like, their address, that kind of thing.  When you get on this thing called Facebook . .”

“You mean that thing you’re always looking at on your phone?” 

 

At which point I realize my phone is still soaking up olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette.  I sigh and reach for it, but when I turn it over, it’s spotless.  I look at it, and then at him.  He has that dealing-with-a-little-kid smile on his face.  And I can’t help it – for a moment I am taken over by the gratitude I have for this guy.  For a moment, I wonder if he has saved my life without me knowing it.  He obviously saved my phone.  And given it a full charge, I notice.  It was at 16% when he showed up.

“Yeah, that’s it.  Anyway, you put a picture of yourself on your profile, shows people what you look like.”

“You don’t look anything like a cat, though.”

“What?”

“A cat.  Your picture is a cat.”

 

Oh, yeah.  George, my beloved friend Angela’s cat.  Most folks probably think it’s Charlie.  It ain’t.  It’s George.  George is my friend.

He says, “That cartoon is hilarious.”
 

You see?  You see how this guy can grab the inside of your head and throw you across the room?  I resist the urge to sound like Mel Blanc saying “And I will love him and pet him . . “

But then he does it!  And starts laughing like a hyena.  I’m dumbstruck.  After a few seconds I realize the only thing to do is Marvin the Martian saying “Isn’t that lovely? Ooooh!”

He points at me and starts laughing harder.  He knows I nailed it.  At this point I realize the other tables around us aren’t making any sound.  I look over at one and say, “We’re rehearsing.”

I don’t think anyone believed me.

Eventually things subside.  Took a while, but we made it.  I explain how your profile shot doesn’t have to be of you.  It can be anything you like.  Or don’t like.  He asked if I would always have George as my profile shot, and if anyone thought George was carried away by the owl, which required another explanation about cover photos.  He wondered what they covered.  Made me think of Will Smith in “I, Robot” complaining about how Bridget Moynahan was the dumbest smart person he ever met.  No, I told him, George was fine as far as I knew.  The whole thing made me change my photos.  Seemed weird to have a guy from outer space thinking my friend’s feline got carried away by a predator bird.

“Okay, okay.  We have to get back to the subject!  Mother’s Day!”  I say this like it was his fault we silenced a half-dozen tables imitating The Man with a Thousand Voices.
 

“It’s a celebration of the love we have for our mothers.”

I pause for just a moment, because it hits me that I have no idea how his race, or whatever they would be called, come into existence.  Do they have mothers and fathers?  I had no idea.  For some reason – perhaps to keep from getting off track again – I don’t ask him abut how they get here.  Or there, wherever they are when they get there.

“Our mothers are completely unique to us.  We have fathers, and usually brothers or sisters or both, and they are all unique to us, but there is something about a mother, a Mom, that simply doesn’t exist in anyone else. Part of it is the fact that they are women.  We’ve learned that while a baby is in the womb, the mother’s body will secrete a substance if the baby is a boy.  This substance actually damages a neural connection between the two halves of our brains and reduces our ability for emotional connections.  Fact is, men can’t love like women can.  So they start out being able to love us more deeply than our fathers can.  Another part is something I don’t think any of us can define – there is something that makes the love a mother has for their children different from what they have for anyone else.  It’s not that it’s better, just different.  Well, I don’t know.  Maybe it is better.  But somebody else would have to figure that out.  Too much for me.  But bottom line, the difference in a mother's love is found when a grievously injured soldier never cries out for his Dad.  He cries out for his Mom."

“Did you know your mother loved you?”

“Yeah, I never doubted it that I remember.  I used to have strange nightmares sometimes, though.  It would be some situation where my Mom just walked away from me, leaving me without a backward glance, like she forgot me.  She never did anything even remotely like that in real life.”

 

To this he said nothing.  I got the impression he knew absolutely nothing to say to it.  I suppose I’ll go to my grave never knowing why I had those dreams.

“And you loved her?”

I left using “Yeah” when I answered him.

  

“Yes.  She was like an arm, or an eye.  Part of me.  Always there, even when I wasn’t.”

  

He said nothing, simply gazed across the table, waiting.  Looking back on it, I think he was waiting for me to start thinking about my Mom, as if he didn’t want to be bothered with the encumbrance of words.  I looked away, mostly forgot he was there, and thought.

                               __________________________________

Mom was Irish.  Her Mom was the first of her family to be born in the States.  Nana had married some French Canadian fellow with the last name of Dufresne.  Not dew-frez-nee like you might think.  Dew-frayn, instead.  She had three daughters and two sons.  Mom was the oldest daughter, and you could tell.  She was the natural leader of the sisters, the way first-borns usually are. 
Mom worked at W.T. Grant, a department store long passed into history.  I remember the company building a new store while we still lived in Massachusetts, and hearing a conversation between her and a coworker.  Neither was happy about the working conditions as they helped with the stocking process.  It was hearing that conversation that taught me cuss words were supposed to be whispered.  Later, I learned that that was a rule that didn’t always apply.  Apparently, the building wasn’t heated yet, and this was causing considerable discontent.
 

She transferred to Mid-City when we moved to Virginia in 1966.  It was a “modern shopping center” at the time.  I loved it.  I don’t know when she retired. The most curious thing about all this is that in spite of my Mom working what was apparently a full time job, I always remember her being home.
Mom had a gift that I’m not convinced every Mom has.  She had a “there-ness” that I can’t define.  If I came home and she wasn’t there, she still was.  You didn’t do anything while she was gone that you wouldn’t do while she was there.  For that, you went somewhere else.  Maybe Tommy’s house, where it seemed like you could do anything, even though that was hardly true. 
 

She had a force of personality.  She was the kind that could have you feeling like you just slammed her finger in the door when you were acting like a jerk.  She was the kind that the other family members looked to when drama broke out.  It was her home where the parties were held. 
She was the cook.  I still believe that had I written down her spaghetti sauce recipe I would be a rich man. At around 350 pounds.
 

She was a provider. 
 

Christmas was always miraculous. 
 

I can remember exactly one occasion when I was hungry, and that was only because about an hour passed beyond normal dinner time.
Nothing I needed, and very little I wanted, was ever missing.
 

She was, in every way a Mom operated, a remarkable example of the type.
 

But more than anything, Mom was the one thing I needed probably more than anything – stable.
It’s something that I have had in very short supply since she’s been gone.  If I have any, it’s probably coming from someone else.
Through my younger years as I would spend time at the homes of friends, I saw examples of how I would not want my Mom to be.  I thought them curious, but also something to be grateful I didn’t have.

Was Mom a saint?  Hardly.  But what did it matter?
Mom loved me, and I was the type that proved she did so unconditionally.

“And you believe that was her greatest accomplishment?”

“Yes,” I answered to an empty bench seat.

His voice from the phone.  The screen changed to Facebook, a picture of a beloved friend whose head rests on her daughter’s bosom.  A wedding photograph.  A Mom’s love.

I collect the check without getting another Chimay.  I leave, go home.

And open the laptop.