A Mom I Can Get Behind by David Prosser
Demon-summoning black metal singer Charlie decides to trade in his mother for a new model.
"It's always clean up after yourself, mow the lawn, put it back in my purse, get a real job, stop trying to summon entities..."
"Is that it?" the guy behind the desk, Mr. Parker, asks, after I trail off, reliving the trauma. There's so much trauma. He flips around his laptop screen, showing me the bulleted list.
"Probably not," I say, "but it gets you in the ballpark. Although you forgot amp volume."
"Is it essential?" Parker asks.
"What do you think? Ma can't stand anything above three, which - you play guitar?"
He shakes his head.
"Well, three is a joke."
He adds Amp volume to the list.
Who knew the future could be like this? Forget flying cars. This, now this is the future: trading moms in. And, I mean, why not? Why not get a say in the matter? This is the United States, after all, not some backwater. Of course, there has to be a catch, a dumb "age cutoff."
"Just my luck," I say. "A thing like this comes along and I'm too old to take advantage. Story of my life."
"How old, exactly, are you?" Parker asks.
"Thirty-two in February."
"Oh."
"I know I don't look it," I say, sweeping back my shoulder-length jet-black hair so he can get a good look at me. "What's the age cutoff?"
"To tell you the truth," Parker says, waving me closer, looking around conspiratorially, and I bang my knee good scooting my chair in closer to his desk. "I can bypass the cutoff, no problem."
"Well, now we're getting somewhere," I say. "That's more like it."
"Of course, it'll be extra."
I pay him the "extra" in a coffee shop a block away. Then ask, "Just for my own personal edification, what is the age cutoff?"
"Twelve."
"Jesus. And you don't think bypassing protocol won't raise a few eyebrows? Are people gonna be coming after me, Parker?"
"No, the system thinks you're twelve."
"But I'm not."
"The system thinks you are. That's what matters."
Even with a sweet deal like being able to trade your mom in, things take time. First, the system's got to get to know my mom in order to match me with a model. Parker says "model" is a non-demeaning term for what they are. "But human, yes?" I ask.
"Better," Parker says.
"There's better than human?"
He assures me there is, though I'm skeptical. But she wouldn't need to exactly set the world on fire to be better than the mom I've already got. So, I figure I'll roll the dice.
The first phase of the thing, of the system getting to know my mom so it can replace her, is me wearing special glasses that record what she does, both audio and visual. I also have to wear a heartrate sensor which tracks my stress levels when I'm around her. This way the system, Parker told me over lattes, gets to know my particular "mommy triggers."
"Your eyes bad or something?" Ma asks me in the kitchen.
"No, I just wear 'em for the look of the thing," I say.
"A comedian. Stop following me like a puppy. I can make my own breakfast, Charlie."
"I know you can, Ma. I just like observing ya. I'm a student of the human condition."
"You want toast?"
"I want white toast, golden brown. I want it firm but not burnt. And as far as eggs go, I don't go in for -"
"Who are you talking to?"
"You, Ma."
"Doesn't sound like it. You know we only have wheat toast. And I serve eggs one way."
"I know, Ma. You're nothing if not consistent. I'm just making a personal record of my likes and dislikes, for posterity's sake."
"Boy, if you don't like the way I do things, you can eat elsewhere. Live elsewhere, too."
In the basement, we arrange the totems on the floor and sit cross-legged just outside the circle we've drawn in cigarette ash. The totems, naturally, are inside the circle, consisting of classic black metal albums. One, Bathory's Blood Fire Death, is even in a portable CD player with headphones attached, which we believe will start playing if we're successful because what entity wouldn't want to rock out to it? We flip through our incantation books, searching for potential entities to summon, ones we haven't tried to get to appear previously.
"How's the mom thing coming?" Jared asks.
I haven't told anyone except for Jared. Parker said not to. That if it came out, it'd be my ass on the line and not his - that he fixed it that way, for it not to be traced back to him. But keeping a thing like this from Jared is no easy feat. Besides, Jared would never out me as a grown man masquerading as a twelve-year-old in order to get a new mom; we're in a black metal band, for Satan's sake. Besides, I have my own plausible deniability: AJ.
AJ's this squirrely kid who lives down the street who I take pity on from time to time. Poor little guy hasn't a friend in the world. That's why I occasionally let him sit in on a D&D game with me, Jared, and Tony - the drummer in Unholy Crusade 666, my black metal band - and I occasionally let him drop by for movie night as long as he shuts the fuck up. Parker said I needed a cover to make it work, in that one in a million chance that someone comes calling to check on twelve-year old Charlie. "Who might come?" I asked.
"Social workers," Parker said.
But with AJ, if the social workers come around, I have someone to pass off as the twelve-year old me. And all I have to do is make sure AJ gets a steady supply of candy and that Ma 2.0 makes him sandwiches anytime he wants one.
"Even past midnight?" AJ asked.
"Now, doesn't anytime include past midnight?" I said. "She'll fling one through your goddamn window whenever ya want."
And for the pleasure of 24/7 sandwiches and a weekly candy allotment, AJ will be on-call - when he's not in his sixth-grade class, of course - whenever I need him. I'm currently crafting his answers, the ones he'll need to memorize. Like, if they ask him for my social security number, Charlie's birthdate, etc. To make the whole thing work, Parker got my actual birth date in the government system changed. So now, I really am thirty-one going on twelve.
Jared and me have tried summoning a whole host of entities. Your Aleister Crowleys. Your Hitlers. Your princess of Hell. Although I don't say it out loud, I am beginning to think that summoning is for the birds. I tell Jared the whole mom thing is coming along. "Baby-steps," I say. "Slowly but surely."
Jared lowers his hood - when we summon, we wear black hoods and robes - and scratches his blood-red goatee. "What's going to happen to her, anyway?"
"They'll take her away."
"Yeah, I know. But... after that?"
I tell Jared what will happen once they bring in Ma 2.0. Namely, Ma 1.0 will be put into a nice place. She won't just get stuffed into some dusty, cramped warehouse or be put in some shithole. No, this will be a nice place. Parker says there'll be artificial turf for her to walk on and everything.
"What about the money?"
"I get a little, but most goes to keeping her alive. Think of it like a retirement community for failed moms."
We keep flipping through our books. "What about this one?" Jared says.
I look at the artist's depiction of the witch, Esmerelda Von Bruinshtick, from before the whole Salem scene went down. She looks like every central casting witch I've ever seen, warts, pointy hat, creepy grin. "I guess," I say, and we put our hoods back on and read the summoning passage from our books.
Later, I think Bruinshtick sounds a lot like broomstick, which may explain our failure.
I've had more honey down my throat than Winnie-the-Pooh. Tried every type of citrus, tea, infusion, you name it. And it all works until it doesn't because being the lead singer in a black metal band is a lot for vocal cords to take. "Why don't you try singing?" is what the dipshits usually say. But you don't sing black metal, that is, not unless you're doing some hybrid copout shit. No, you scream black metal because when you're staring into the void that is existence, calling out the hypocrisy of it all, it's either shit or get off the pot. And you only know you're doing it right when it feels like your throat's tearing itself apart.
But with Ma 1.0 upstairs in the living room, watching one of her "stories" or doing God knows what, I have to polite scream - which basically means half-ass it. So, is it any wonder that we haven't signed a record deal? You can't get industry attention playing an amp at three, whisper-screaming, unable to even practice with your drummer due to "the racket," and then expect that to translate to death metal perfection on stage. I make sure I get these thoughts down on the recorder. The last thing I need is Ma 2.0 giving me more guff about the same shit. What I need, what I really need, is a mom I can get behind. Not the one I got who stands in the way of my dreams, putting her thumb down on the scales, preventing greatness from blossoming in her own son, saying shit like, "I will not be your patron for the arts!"
"It's of the arts, Ma. Not for."
Anyway, practice goes about as well as it can, which is not well given the constraints.
Ma is really sawing wood tonight. Jesus, talk about noise! I wish I could dial her down to three. "See, this right here? Snoring is no bueno," I whisper into my recording glasses, which are likewise capturing footage, and simultaneously displaying my heartrate on the right lens, which is elevated at 116 bpm, and further evidence of why Ma has got to go. "I need rest so my voice can recover. If my voice can't recover, I can't scream. And if I can't scream -"
"What are you doing?" Ma asks, and slides her sleep mask up onto her forehead.
"You're dreaming, Ma."
"No, I'm listening to you carp. Get out of my room."
"As you wish, Ma. Your wish is my command."
I am beginning to think our last summoning was not the bust I had thought it was. For instance, last night while trying to sleep I heard a cat meow followed by a woman say, "There, there, pussy."
I turned on the light, but there was no one there. No cat. No witch. I consulted the summoning book. It says if we can get this Esmerelda Von Bruinshtick to physically appear she'll grant one dark wish. Jared and I - and Tony to a lesser extent, being only a non-specific drummer of heavy music - have the same wish: to be fucking death metal rock stars.
That came out wrong.
We don't want to fuck death metal rock stars. We want to be death metal rock stars. But in order for that to occur, I've either got to get Ma 1.0 out of the house so we can do things proper for a change or get this witch to grant my wish. But the dumb book says nothing about just hearing the entity. After I turn out the light, her stupid invisible cat purrs for what feels like forever.
Parker tells me on the phone it won't be long now. And I say, "You said that last week." He tells me to be patient. This is new tech, after all. You don't rush new tech unless you want Ma 2.0 to accidentally stick you in the oven by mistake. "Jesus. Has that happened?" Then I say, because there's a lot of silence after that, "Hello? Parker?"
"It won't be long now," Parker says.
I watch Jeopardy! with Ma. It's one of those things we both enjoy, even though outside of the music and movie categories, I'm pretty clueless. Ma does all right though with geography, American and European history, and classic cinema. I suppose our ritual's a throwback, a holdover from when Dad was alive and we used to gather around the tube with our dinner trays and play along while we struggled through Ma's "cooking." Dad had a knack with car and sports categories, and anytime he got anything else, he'd joke, "There goes that one neuron," or, "Still got it."
During the commercial break between Jeopardy! and Double Jeopardy!, I about do a spit-take with my ginger-honey tea infusion. It's a commercial for the obscenest product I have ever laid eyes upon that does it: a replacement for sons and daughters. For a fee, apparently mothers and fathers can now trade in their old sons or daughters, who they perhaps have had a difficult time with, for fresh "models" that will actually live up to their expectations.
Watching this abomination of a commercial, my stomach turns seeing these model sons and daughters frolicking with their beaming parents in flower-filled fields while my glasses display my rising heart rate over the whole uncanny affair. I glance over at Ma, and I can tell the fucker is thinking about it. We trade uncomfortable smiles, but I know then and there: I've got to beat her to the punch, get Ma 2.0 in here before Son 2.0 shows up first. It's a race against the goddamn clock.
It could be I overreacted. Ma, for all her faults, isn't the kind of person to put me out to pasture, which, if true, hopefully means she won't see Ma 2.0 coming. I wish it could be different. I'm not evil, after all. I just play evil in a death metal band. If Ma knew anything about death metal, she'd know this is par for the course. That this is the exact kind of thing you should expect from the lead singer/guitarist in an authentic death metal band.
But Ma doesn't get me, and that's why she's got to go. If she got me, really got me, she wouldn't stand in the way of my dreams; she'd support them like a proper mom should. She'd be sympathetic, not hypercritical all the time, trying to sidetrack me with mundane bullshit when I need to practice my scales or while writing lyrics or practicing my stage showmanship moves. So, although I feel bad, I know I need a mom I can get behind, and that trumps the feeling. Someone who's in my corner for a change, not jeering, throwing shit, booing for me to get off the stage.
My phone rings and I answer. Parker tells me he's been tipped off that social services are on their way. They want to know why twelve-year old Charlie isn't in school. Thankfully Ma is not in the house. She has gone to visit Aunt Tilly for the afternoon. But at the moment, I'm way more concerned that AJ isn't in Ma's goddamn house because, despite my boyish good looks - when not made-up in corpse paint, that is - I doubt I will be taken seriously as a twelve-year old.
I get AJ on the horn after trying him five times. "Why didn't you answer before, you little shit? Social studies? Well, get out of it. You ever hear of a re-take? You can re-take your goddamn test." Eventually I get him to fake a case of the Hershey squirts and tell him to get his volatile fanny to the office so I can pick him up. While driving to the middle school, Parker tells me the social workers are almost to Ma's.
The school does not buy me being AJ's eccentric uncle. I tell them that's 'cause I'm once removed, and the secretary scratches her head wondering if that makes me qualified or not to check my once-removed nephew out of school. I don't have time for this, so I say, "Fine, keep him." I tell AJ he can forget the sandwiches. That the only one Ma 2.0 will be making sandwiches for is me. He asks about the candy, and I respond, "What do you think?"
Racing home, I tell Jared to meet me there. I say, "Emergency 666," and he knows that means an emergency of the highest fucking caliber possible has come to rain on our unholy death metal parade.
All our corpse paint training, the long hours of learning the intricate art that is death metal makeup, is paying off in spades. I tell Jared to go easy with it, though. Less Addams, more Modern Family. If the social worker thinks I'm in too much of a bad way, it won't work. I wish that witch would fucking show herself. I can hear her doing something with an invisible cauldron, it bubbling away in some other dimension I can't lay eyes on, but if she doesn't physically appear she's only good for Halloween sound effects.
Jared answers the door and uses his established cover: uncle from out of town. Just a kooky uncle with blood-red hair that runs down to his ass. Thankfully, I had him put on a long-sleeved shirt. His pentagram and Satan as a goat, in addition to his many other twisted tattoos won't help him sell caring, responsible uncle. He leads the social worker, Ms. Velt, up the stairs. "He's just a little under the weather," I hear outside my door.
Parker told me this might happen. So, he had me collect various school materials just in case, and had phony home school documents made that were, as Ms. Velt was entering into my room, becoming uploaded and real in the system. Parker said, any minute, they'd pop up and I'd be in the clear. But Parker also says Ma 2.0 is coming any day now, and it's been two weeks.
I've got the covers up to my chin, and have my legs bunched up to sell that I'm just an under the weather twelve-year old sized boy. I cough a little and open my eyes like it's a struggle to do so when I hear footsteps entering.
"Charlie?" Uncle Jared says.
"Yes?" I respond, doing my best Pee-wee Herman voice.
"This nice woman, Ms. Velt, is here to ask you a few questions."
"Okay," Pee-wee says. "I'll try."
"Do you mind if I turn on the light?" Velt asks, and I shake my head.
"His eyes are sensitive now," my uncle says.
She nods at this and drags a chair up to my bed. "What grade are you in Charlie?"
"Sixth."
"How old are you?"
"Twelve."
It goes on like this, and I crush it like I do when one of my Jeopardy! categories comes up. Then she throws a curve ball. "I just need you to stand for me."
"I... can't," I say.
Ms. Velt turns to my uncle. He adds, "He's very sick."
"Has he seen a doctor?"
"Mm-hmm," Uncle Jared says.
"Okay. I'm just going to take your blanket off."
"No!" Pee-wee and Uncle Jared say, and Velt raises a suspicious eyebrow.
"He has, uh - a rare -"
"- Blood," Pee-wee says.
"- Skin condition," Uncle Jared says.
"Is it a blood or skin condition?" Velt asks.
"Both," Uncle Jared says. "Like I said, very ill."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Velt tells him, and frowns at me. "But I still need to check for any physical signs of maltreatment."
I look at my uncle, and I am not bowled over with confidence. He looks like he is cracking, and I am sweating under these covers and feel my makeup starting to run down my temples. My nervous uncle says, "I understand."
He may, but I don't. Ms. Velt starts to peel the covers back, and I wince, shutting my eyes tight, wishing that she would disappear off the face of the Earth - and she does.
"Holy shit!" Jared says. "Where'd she - what just happened?"
I throw the covers off of me and un-pretzel my body. "I'll tell you what happened," I say, sitting up. "I just blew our death metal rock star wish on that social worker."
"I thought the witch needed to physically manifest?"
"They all think that," we hear Bruinshtick say. "So long, suckers!" and then hear no more from her or her witchy world.
Parker tells me it's all set, not Ma 2.0 - "soon, soon" - but my sixth-grade home schooling legit-ness in the mysterious, all-powerful system. I still need AJ, though. I tell him during movie night, during a screening of Cannibal Apocalypse in the basement, that he can still have his sandwiches and candy as long as he learns a thing or two about how to get off campus when I need him, in case another looky-loo shows up. Speaking of Ms. Velt, her disappearing act created another problem: Detective Whitley.
This cigar-chomper shows up and starts poking around, saying that her last known whereabouts were at Ma's house. "Well, she never showed up."
"And just who are you?" he asks me, flipping open a pocket-sized notebook.
Thankfully, Parker forwarded me my cover identity after he fixed little Charlie's home school status in the system. "I'm Jazz O'Rourke," I say to the guy in the raincoat who looks like he's hoping to get cast as the lead in a Columbo reboot. Thank Satan Ma is still at her sister's.
"Well, if you happen to remember," Whitley says, and hands me his card, but, thankfully, doesn't follow up with, "Oh, just one more thing..." He leaves, and I phone Parker but get a message that he's out of the office for the night.
"Boys," I tell Jared and AJ, descending the basement stairs. "We need to up our game."
Later, while Escape From Alcatraz plays on the screen - and I have AJ take notes - I look at the clock on the cement wall and think, It's not like Ma to stay out this late. And doesn't she kind of hate Aunt Tilly?
The problem with the well-aged is that they could pop on a pair of prescription glasses at any moment and you wouldn't think anything of it. But these glasses look an awful lot like my glasses, and that can only mean Ma has pulled the trigger and is now collecting data for my replacement, Son 2.0. I mean, who does she think she's fooling? Muttering while she putters around the house, talking about "please" and "thank you" and "gainful long-term employment." I know what she's up to, all right.
Parker finally calls me back and I tell him that soon has passed; it's time to shit or get off the pot. I tell him about Ma.
"Oh, this is a lot of pressure," he says.
"You think this is pressure?" I say. "Wait 'til your head's lying on concrete with my boot on top."
"Is that a threat?"
"Not if you come through."
"You don't understand," Parker says. "It's so much easier replacing a son than a mom."
"Why? Isn't it all algorithms and shit?"
"Yes, but a mother is a much more complex creation."
"I don't care about any of that," I tell Parker. "Hurry the fuck up or you'll learn what it's like to fuck with a death metal rock star."
On Sundays Ma and me go down to the park after church. Unfortunately, living with her means I have to go to church with her and listen to Reverend Eisley drone on and on. In the park, while skipping stones on the pond, I dictate for Ma 2.0, "I don't like church. You can believe what you want, but don't force it on me."
I do this while Ma sits on a bench feeding ducks, saying, "The least a son can do is go to church with her. Hold the door open for her, take in the groceries for..."
When I drive Ma's old Cadillac down our street, I see Parker walking to his car. He clocks me and does an about-face, smiling and waving. "Who is that?" Ma asks.
"You know," I say, "that is a good question, Ma. Let me find out. Make sure everything's on the up-and-up."
She sighs and I exit the Caddy and follow Parker to his car. He tells me, "Say hello to Mom," and pops the trunk. Inside the trunk is my synthetic mother, everything a man could hope for in a mom. The kind of mother you picture when you close your eyes and dream of the theoretical, ideal form of mom. Kind face, soft features, floral print house dress, nonjudgmental to her core, and sexy as hell. In fact, maybe a little too sexy. I didn't ask for sexy. That kind of Ma I don't need. Then again, it isn't exactly like this is my real mom. Fooling around with Ma 2.0 wouldn't be weird unless one of us made it weird. There's one thing, though. "Kind of small, isn't she?"
Then I give Ma 1.0 a nod, 'cause she's looking this way nervously from the passenger seat, but I'm not worried because she can't see in the trunk from her vantage point, and even if she could, once Ma 2.0 crosses the threshold, the deal is permanent according to the system. Then wham-o! Parker'll take her away to the place upstate he told me about, to the Mother Retreat.
"Oh, you just add water," he says. "Once you do that, she'll grow full-size and spring to motherly life."
It doesn't make sense, but then what does these days? I gently pick the eyes-closed Playmate-looking Ma 2.0 up by the waist. She's pocket size, fitting in the palm of my hand. I walk up to the caddy in the driveway and smile at Ma 1.0 and wave Ma 2.0 at her.
Ma gets out of the car. "You're too old for dolls."
"No!" I say and can't help but grinning even though Ma is again trying to belittle me, make me feel small for my particular interests, just like she's always done. "You don't get to tell me what to do anymore. You see this? This is your replacement. You're through, Ma. Finished!"
"I knew you were plotting this, boy," she says, shaking her head, folding her arms across her chest.
"Same as I knew you planned it yourself, Ma. Which is sick! You never believed in me!"
Parker is getting uncomfortable at this public display of mother-son discord, even though no one else is outside. "Please, Charlie, Mrs. Brolly," he says. "Let's not end it this way."
"How else did either of you expect it to end?" Ma says, her voice catching, on the brink of tears. "You brought this on yourself, Charlie."
"Fuck off," I say. "Parker, you can have her. I need to get my real Ma inside and water her."
Ma 1.0 is crying, sure, and it does hurt to see her like that, resting a hand against the Caddy for support, but what can I do? I need to get her goddamn thumb off the scales before it's too late. I don't tell her, but I think, I'll come and visit you sometime. Me and Ma 2.0 will come and check in from time to time. Put on some Jeopardy! or something. I head up the walkway for the door, but before I can enter, it opens and this kid hops out. I jump with Ma 2.0 in my hand because I didn't expect to see some pre-teen walking out of my house, although he looks nice enough. He's smiling. He spots Ma 1.0 and looks like he might explode from excitement.
"Oh, shit," I hear Parker say.
This kid runs to greet Ma in the driveway, and Ma, still crying but now smiling too, bends down, opening her arms out wide to hug this kid like he's her own flesh and blood. And so I know the jig is up. Ma beat me to the punch. I throw Ma 2.0 into the street, and Parker's car comes close to running her over as he leaves.
I rush for the only mother I ever needed. I'd hug her, except she's already hugging Son 2.0. "Oh, Ma," I say. "I fucked up. I fucked up good, Ma."
I get on my hands and knees. I do it even before the car with Parent Solutions on its side pulls up and two beefy guys exit. I do it because a boy only has one mother, and because mothers are supposed to forgive their sons, even when, maybe even especially when they've been very bad boys. I try to tell this to Ma as I'm hauled off. Attempt to plead my case as they stuff me in the backseat and lock the doors. Even as they drive off and I watch Ma through the rear window playing an impromptu game of hopscotch with Son 2.0 on the sidewalk, I continue to plead my case, bawling my eyes out.
I say, "I'm sorry, Ma. I'm sorry I'm such a fuckup. I'll do better, Ma. If you just give me a chance, Ma, I promise I'll do better. I'll be the son you deserve. You don't need 2.0, Ma. 1.0 can change, Ma. 1.0 can be a son you can get behind."
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
"Is that it?" the guy behind the desk, Mr. Parker, asks, after I trail off, reliving the trauma. There's so much trauma. He flips around his laptop screen, showing me the bulleted list.
"Probably not," I say, "but it gets you in the ballpark. Although you forgot amp volume."
"Is it essential?" Parker asks.
"What do you think? Ma can't stand anything above three, which - you play guitar?"
He shakes his head.
"Well, three is a joke."
He adds Amp volume to the list.
Who knew the future could be like this? Forget flying cars. This, now this is the future: trading moms in. And, I mean, why not? Why not get a say in the matter? This is the United States, after all, not some backwater. Of course, there has to be a catch, a dumb "age cutoff."
"Just my luck," I say. "A thing like this comes along and I'm too old to take advantage. Story of my life."
"How old, exactly, are you?" Parker asks.
"Thirty-two in February."
"Oh."
"I know I don't look it," I say, sweeping back my shoulder-length jet-black hair so he can get a good look at me. "What's the age cutoff?"
"To tell you the truth," Parker says, waving me closer, looking around conspiratorially, and I bang my knee good scooting my chair in closer to his desk. "I can bypass the cutoff, no problem."
"Well, now we're getting somewhere," I say. "That's more like it."
"Of course, it'll be extra."
I pay him the "extra" in a coffee shop a block away. Then ask, "Just for my own personal edification, what is the age cutoff?"
"Twelve."
"Jesus. And you don't think bypassing protocol won't raise a few eyebrows? Are people gonna be coming after me, Parker?"
"No, the system thinks you're twelve."
"But I'm not."
"The system thinks you are. That's what matters."
Even with a sweet deal like being able to trade your mom in, things take time. First, the system's got to get to know my mom in order to match me with a model. Parker says "model" is a non-demeaning term for what they are. "But human, yes?" I ask.
"Better," Parker says.
"There's better than human?"
He assures me there is, though I'm skeptical. But she wouldn't need to exactly set the world on fire to be better than the mom I've already got. So, I figure I'll roll the dice.
The first phase of the thing, of the system getting to know my mom so it can replace her, is me wearing special glasses that record what she does, both audio and visual. I also have to wear a heartrate sensor which tracks my stress levels when I'm around her. This way the system, Parker told me over lattes, gets to know my particular "mommy triggers."
"Your eyes bad or something?" Ma asks me in the kitchen.
"No, I just wear 'em for the look of the thing," I say.
"A comedian. Stop following me like a puppy. I can make my own breakfast, Charlie."
"I know you can, Ma. I just like observing ya. I'm a student of the human condition."
"You want toast?"
"I want white toast, golden brown. I want it firm but not burnt. And as far as eggs go, I don't go in for -"
"Who are you talking to?"
"You, Ma."
"Doesn't sound like it. You know we only have wheat toast. And I serve eggs one way."
"I know, Ma. You're nothing if not consistent. I'm just making a personal record of my likes and dislikes, for posterity's sake."
"Boy, if you don't like the way I do things, you can eat elsewhere. Live elsewhere, too."
In the basement, we arrange the totems on the floor and sit cross-legged just outside the circle we've drawn in cigarette ash. The totems, naturally, are inside the circle, consisting of classic black metal albums. One, Bathory's Blood Fire Death, is even in a portable CD player with headphones attached, which we believe will start playing if we're successful because what entity wouldn't want to rock out to it? We flip through our incantation books, searching for potential entities to summon, ones we haven't tried to get to appear previously.
"How's the mom thing coming?" Jared asks.
I haven't told anyone except for Jared. Parker said not to. That if it came out, it'd be my ass on the line and not his - that he fixed it that way, for it not to be traced back to him. But keeping a thing like this from Jared is no easy feat. Besides, Jared would never out me as a grown man masquerading as a twelve-year-old in order to get a new mom; we're in a black metal band, for Satan's sake. Besides, I have my own plausible deniability: AJ.
AJ's this squirrely kid who lives down the street who I take pity on from time to time. Poor little guy hasn't a friend in the world. That's why I occasionally let him sit in on a D&D game with me, Jared, and Tony - the drummer in Unholy Crusade 666, my black metal band - and I occasionally let him drop by for movie night as long as he shuts the fuck up. Parker said I needed a cover to make it work, in that one in a million chance that someone comes calling to check on twelve-year old Charlie. "Who might come?" I asked.
"Social workers," Parker said.
But with AJ, if the social workers come around, I have someone to pass off as the twelve-year old me. And all I have to do is make sure AJ gets a steady supply of candy and that Ma 2.0 makes him sandwiches anytime he wants one.
"Even past midnight?" AJ asked.
"Now, doesn't anytime include past midnight?" I said. "She'll fling one through your goddamn window whenever ya want."
And for the pleasure of 24/7 sandwiches and a weekly candy allotment, AJ will be on-call - when he's not in his sixth-grade class, of course - whenever I need him. I'm currently crafting his answers, the ones he'll need to memorize. Like, if they ask him for my social security number, Charlie's birthdate, etc. To make the whole thing work, Parker got my actual birth date in the government system changed. So now, I really am thirty-one going on twelve.
Jared and me have tried summoning a whole host of entities. Your Aleister Crowleys. Your Hitlers. Your princess of Hell. Although I don't say it out loud, I am beginning to think that summoning is for the birds. I tell Jared the whole mom thing is coming along. "Baby-steps," I say. "Slowly but surely."
Jared lowers his hood - when we summon, we wear black hoods and robes - and scratches his blood-red goatee. "What's going to happen to her, anyway?"
"They'll take her away."
"Yeah, I know. But... after that?"
I tell Jared what will happen once they bring in Ma 2.0. Namely, Ma 1.0 will be put into a nice place. She won't just get stuffed into some dusty, cramped warehouse or be put in some shithole. No, this will be a nice place. Parker says there'll be artificial turf for her to walk on and everything.
"What about the money?"
"I get a little, but most goes to keeping her alive. Think of it like a retirement community for failed moms."
We keep flipping through our books. "What about this one?" Jared says.
I look at the artist's depiction of the witch, Esmerelda Von Bruinshtick, from before the whole Salem scene went down. She looks like every central casting witch I've ever seen, warts, pointy hat, creepy grin. "I guess," I say, and we put our hoods back on and read the summoning passage from our books.
Later, I think Bruinshtick sounds a lot like broomstick, which may explain our failure.
I've had more honey down my throat than Winnie-the-Pooh. Tried every type of citrus, tea, infusion, you name it. And it all works until it doesn't because being the lead singer in a black metal band is a lot for vocal cords to take. "Why don't you try singing?" is what the dipshits usually say. But you don't sing black metal, that is, not unless you're doing some hybrid copout shit. No, you scream black metal because when you're staring into the void that is existence, calling out the hypocrisy of it all, it's either shit or get off the pot. And you only know you're doing it right when it feels like your throat's tearing itself apart.
But with Ma 1.0 upstairs in the living room, watching one of her "stories" or doing God knows what, I have to polite scream - which basically means half-ass it. So, is it any wonder that we haven't signed a record deal? You can't get industry attention playing an amp at three, whisper-screaming, unable to even practice with your drummer due to "the racket," and then expect that to translate to death metal perfection on stage. I make sure I get these thoughts down on the recorder. The last thing I need is Ma 2.0 giving me more guff about the same shit. What I need, what I really need, is a mom I can get behind. Not the one I got who stands in the way of my dreams, putting her thumb down on the scales, preventing greatness from blossoming in her own son, saying shit like, "I will not be your patron for the arts!"
"It's of the arts, Ma. Not for."
Anyway, practice goes about as well as it can, which is not well given the constraints.
Ma is really sawing wood tonight. Jesus, talk about noise! I wish I could dial her down to three. "See, this right here? Snoring is no bueno," I whisper into my recording glasses, which are likewise capturing footage, and simultaneously displaying my heartrate on the right lens, which is elevated at 116 bpm, and further evidence of why Ma has got to go. "I need rest so my voice can recover. If my voice can't recover, I can't scream. And if I can't scream -"
"What are you doing?" Ma asks, and slides her sleep mask up onto her forehead.
"You're dreaming, Ma."
"No, I'm listening to you carp. Get out of my room."
"As you wish, Ma. Your wish is my command."
I am beginning to think our last summoning was not the bust I had thought it was. For instance, last night while trying to sleep I heard a cat meow followed by a woman say, "There, there, pussy."
I turned on the light, but there was no one there. No cat. No witch. I consulted the summoning book. It says if we can get this Esmerelda Von Bruinshtick to physically appear she'll grant one dark wish. Jared and I - and Tony to a lesser extent, being only a non-specific drummer of heavy music - have the same wish: to be fucking death metal rock stars.
That came out wrong.
We don't want to fuck death metal rock stars. We want to be death metal rock stars. But in order for that to occur, I've either got to get Ma 1.0 out of the house so we can do things proper for a change or get this witch to grant my wish. But the dumb book says nothing about just hearing the entity. After I turn out the light, her stupid invisible cat purrs for what feels like forever.
Parker tells me on the phone it won't be long now. And I say, "You said that last week." He tells me to be patient. This is new tech, after all. You don't rush new tech unless you want Ma 2.0 to accidentally stick you in the oven by mistake. "Jesus. Has that happened?" Then I say, because there's a lot of silence after that, "Hello? Parker?"
"It won't be long now," Parker says.
I watch Jeopardy! with Ma. It's one of those things we both enjoy, even though outside of the music and movie categories, I'm pretty clueless. Ma does all right though with geography, American and European history, and classic cinema. I suppose our ritual's a throwback, a holdover from when Dad was alive and we used to gather around the tube with our dinner trays and play along while we struggled through Ma's "cooking." Dad had a knack with car and sports categories, and anytime he got anything else, he'd joke, "There goes that one neuron," or, "Still got it."
During the commercial break between Jeopardy! and Double Jeopardy!, I about do a spit-take with my ginger-honey tea infusion. It's a commercial for the obscenest product I have ever laid eyes upon that does it: a replacement for sons and daughters. For a fee, apparently mothers and fathers can now trade in their old sons or daughters, who they perhaps have had a difficult time with, for fresh "models" that will actually live up to their expectations.
Watching this abomination of a commercial, my stomach turns seeing these model sons and daughters frolicking with their beaming parents in flower-filled fields while my glasses display my rising heart rate over the whole uncanny affair. I glance over at Ma, and I can tell the fucker is thinking about it. We trade uncomfortable smiles, but I know then and there: I've got to beat her to the punch, get Ma 2.0 in here before Son 2.0 shows up first. It's a race against the goddamn clock.
It could be I overreacted. Ma, for all her faults, isn't the kind of person to put me out to pasture, which, if true, hopefully means she won't see Ma 2.0 coming. I wish it could be different. I'm not evil, after all. I just play evil in a death metal band. If Ma knew anything about death metal, she'd know this is par for the course. That this is the exact kind of thing you should expect from the lead singer/guitarist in an authentic death metal band.
But Ma doesn't get me, and that's why she's got to go. If she got me, really got me, she wouldn't stand in the way of my dreams; she'd support them like a proper mom should. She'd be sympathetic, not hypercritical all the time, trying to sidetrack me with mundane bullshit when I need to practice my scales or while writing lyrics or practicing my stage showmanship moves. So, although I feel bad, I know I need a mom I can get behind, and that trumps the feeling. Someone who's in my corner for a change, not jeering, throwing shit, booing for me to get off the stage.
My phone rings and I answer. Parker tells me he's been tipped off that social services are on their way. They want to know why twelve-year old Charlie isn't in school. Thankfully Ma is not in the house. She has gone to visit Aunt Tilly for the afternoon. But at the moment, I'm way more concerned that AJ isn't in Ma's goddamn house because, despite my boyish good looks - when not made-up in corpse paint, that is - I doubt I will be taken seriously as a twelve-year old.
I get AJ on the horn after trying him five times. "Why didn't you answer before, you little shit? Social studies? Well, get out of it. You ever hear of a re-take? You can re-take your goddamn test." Eventually I get him to fake a case of the Hershey squirts and tell him to get his volatile fanny to the office so I can pick him up. While driving to the middle school, Parker tells me the social workers are almost to Ma's.
The school does not buy me being AJ's eccentric uncle. I tell them that's 'cause I'm once removed, and the secretary scratches her head wondering if that makes me qualified or not to check my once-removed nephew out of school. I don't have time for this, so I say, "Fine, keep him." I tell AJ he can forget the sandwiches. That the only one Ma 2.0 will be making sandwiches for is me. He asks about the candy, and I respond, "What do you think?"
Racing home, I tell Jared to meet me there. I say, "Emergency 666," and he knows that means an emergency of the highest fucking caliber possible has come to rain on our unholy death metal parade.
All our corpse paint training, the long hours of learning the intricate art that is death metal makeup, is paying off in spades. I tell Jared to go easy with it, though. Less Addams, more Modern Family. If the social worker thinks I'm in too much of a bad way, it won't work. I wish that witch would fucking show herself. I can hear her doing something with an invisible cauldron, it bubbling away in some other dimension I can't lay eyes on, but if she doesn't physically appear she's only good for Halloween sound effects.
Jared answers the door and uses his established cover: uncle from out of town. Just a kooky uncle with blood-red hair that runs down to his ass. Thankfully, I had him put on a long-sleeved shirt. His pentagram and Satan as a goat, in addition to his many other twisted tattoos won't help him sell caring, responsible uncle. He leads the social worker, Ms. Velt, up the stairs. "He's just a little under the weather," I hear outside my door.
Parker told me this might happen. So, he had me collect various school materials just in case, and had phony home school documents made that were, as Ms. Velt was entering into my room, becoming uploaded and real in the system. Parker said, any minute, they'd pop up and I'd be in the clear. But Parker also says Ma 2.0 is coming any day now, and it's been two weeks.
I've got the covers up to my chin, and have my legs bunched up to sell that I'm just an under the weather twelve-year old sized boy. I cough a little and open my eyes like it's a struggle to do so when I hear footsteps entering.
"Charlie?" Uncle Jared says.
"Yes?" I respond, doing my best Pee-wee Herman voice.
"This nice woman, Ms. Velt, is here to ask you a few questions."
"Okay," Pee-wee says. "I'll try."
"Do you mind if I turn on the light?" Velt asks, and I shake my head.
"His eyes are sensitive now," my uncle says.
She nods at this and drags a chair up to my bed. "What grade are you in Charlie?"
"Sixth."
"How old are you?"
"Twelve."
It goes on like this, and I crush it like I do when one of my Jeopardy! categories comes up. Then she throws a curve ball. "I just need you to stand for me."
"I... can't," I say.
Ms. Velt turns to my uncle. He adds, "He's very sick."
"Has he seen a doctor?"
"Mm-hmm," Uncle Jared says.
"Okay. I'm just going to take your blanket off."
"No!" Pee-wee and Uncle Jared say, and Velt raises a suspicious eyebrow.
"He has, uh - a rare -"
"- Blood," Pee-wee says.
"- Skin condition," Uncle Jared says.
"Is it a blood or skin condition?" Velt asks.
"Both," Uncle Jared says. "Like I said, very ill."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Velt tells him, and frowns at me. "But I still need to check for any physical signs of maltreatment."
I look at my uncle, and I am not bowled over with confidence. He looks like he is cracking, and I am sweating under these covers and feel my makeup starting to run down my temples. My nervous uncle says, "I understand."
He may, but I don't. Ms. Velt starts to peel the covers back, and I wince, shutting my eyes tight, wishing that she would disappear off the face of the Earth - and she does.
"Holy shit!" Jared says. "Where'd she - what just happened?"
I throw the covers off of me and un-pretzel my body. "I'll tell you what happened," I say, sitting up. "I just blew our death metal rock star wish on that social worker."
"I thought the witch needed to physically manifest?"
"They all think that," we hear Bruinshtick say. "So long, suckers!" and then hear no more from her or her witchy world.
Parker tells me it's all set, not Ma 2.0 - "soon, soon" - but my sixth-grade home schooling legit-ness in the mysterious, all-powerful system. I still need AJ, though. I tell him during movie night, during a screening of Cannibal Apocalypse in the basement, that he can still have his sandwiches and candy as long as he learns a thing or two about how to get off campus when I need him, in case another looky-loo shows up. Speaking of Ms. Velt, her disappearing act created another problem: Detective Whitley.
This cigar-chomper shows up and starts poking around, saying that her last known whereabouts were at Ma's house. "Well, she never showed up."
"And just who are you?" he asks me, flipping open a pocket-sized notebook.
Thankfully, Parker forwarded me my cover identity after he fixed little Charlie's home school status in the system. "I'm Jazz O'Rourke," I say to the guy in the raincoat who looks like he's hoping to get cast as the lead in a Columbo reboot. Thank Satan Ma is still at her sister's.
"Well, if you happen to remember," Whitley says, and hands me his card, but, thankfully, doesn't follow up with, "Oh, just one more thing..." He leaves, and I phone Parker but get a message that he's out of the office for the night.
"Boys," I tell Jared and AJ, descending the basement stairs. "We need to up our game."
Later, while Escape From Alcatraz plays on the screen - and I have AJ take notes - I look at the clock on the cement wall and think, It's not like Ma to stay out this late. And doesn't she kind of hate Aunt Tilly?
The problem with the well-aged is that they could pop on a pair of prescription glasses at any moment and you wouldn't think anything of it. But these glasses look an awful lot like my glasses, and that can only mean Ma has pulled the trigger and is now collecting data for my replacement, Son 2.0. I mean, who does she think she's fooling? Muttering while she putters around the house, talking about "please" and "thank you" and "gainful long-term employment." I know what she's up to, all right.
Parker finally calls me back and I tell him that soon has passed; it's time to shit or get off the pot. I tell him about Ma.
"Oh, this is a lot of pressure," he says.
"You think this is pressure?" I say. "Wait 'til your head's lying on concrete with my boot on top."
"Is that a threat?"
"Not if you come through."
"You don't understand," Parker says. "It's so much easier replacing a son than a mom."
"Why? Isn't it all algorithms and shit?"
"Yes, but a mother is a much more complex creation."
"I don't care about any of that," I tell Parker. "Hurry the fuck up or you'll learn what it's like to fuck with a death metal rock star."
On Sundays Ma and me go down to the park after church. Unfortunately, living with her means I have to go to church with her and listen to Reverend Eisley drone on and on. In the park, while skipping stones on the pond, I dictate for Ma 2.0, "I don't like church. You can believe what you want, but don't force it on me."
I do this while Ma sits on a bench feeding ducks, saying, "The least a son can do is go to church with her. Hold the door open for her, take in the groceries for..."
When I drive Ma's old Cadillac down our street, I see Parker walking to his car. He clocks me and does an about-face, smiling and waving. "Who is that?" Ma asks.
"You know," I say, "that is a good question, Ma. Let me find out. Make sure everything's on the up-and-up."
She sighs and I exit the Caddy and follow Parker to his car. He tells me, "Say hello to Mom," and pops the trunk. Inside the trunk is my synthetic mother, everything a man could hope for in a mom. The kind of mother you picture when you close your eyes and dream of the theoretical, ideal form of mom. Kind face, soft features, floral print house dress, nonjudgmental to her core, and sexy as hell. In fact, maybe a little too sexy. I didn't ask for sexy. That kind of Ma I don't need. Then again, it isn't exactly like this is my real mom. Fooling around with Ma 2.0 wouldn't be weird unless one of us made it weird. There's one thing, though. "Kind of small, isn't she?"
Then I give Ma 1.0 a nod, 'cause she's looking this way nervously from the passenger seat, but I'm not worried because she can't see in the trunk from her vantage point, and even if she could, once Ma 2.0 crosses the threshold, the deal is permanent according to the system. Then wham-o! Parker'll take her away to the place upstate he told me about, to the Mother Retreat.
"Oh, you just add water," he says. "Once you do that, she'll grow full-size and spring to motherly life."
It doesn't make sense, but then what does these days? I gently pick the eyes-closed Playmate-looking Ma 2.0 up by the waist. She's pocket size, fitting in the palm of my hand. I walk up to the caddy in the driveway and smile at Ma 1.0 and wave Ma 2.0 at her.
Ma gets out of the car. "You're too old for dolls."
"No!" I say and can't help but grinning even though Ma is again trying to belittle me, make me feel small for my particular interests, just like she's always done. "You don't get to tell me what to do anymore. You see this? This is your replacement. You're through, Ma. Finished!"
"I knew you were plotting this, boy," she says, shaking her head, folding her arms across her chest.
"Same as I knew you planned it yourself, Ma. Which is sick! You never believed in me!"
Parker is getting uncomfortable at this public display of mother-son discord, even though no one else is outside. "Please, Charlie, Mrs. Brolly," he says. "Let's not end it this way."
"How else did either of you expect it to end?" Ma says, her voice catching, on the brink of tears. "You brought this on yourself, Charlie."
"Fuck off," I say. "Parker, you can have her. I need to get my real Ma inside and water her."
Ma 1.0 is crying, sure, and it does hurt to see her like that, resting a hand against the Caddy for support, but what can I do? I need to get her goddamn thumb off the scales before it's too late. I don't tell her, but I think, I'll come and visit you sometime. Me and Ma 2.0 will come and check in from time to time. Put on some Jeopardy! or something. I head up the walkway for the door, but before I can enter, it opens and this kid hops out. I jump with Ma 2.0 in my hand because I didn't expect to see some pre-teen walking out of my house, although he looks nice enough. He's smiling. He spots Ma 1.0 and looks like he might explode from excitement.
"Oh, shit," I hear Parker say.
This kid runs to greet Ma in the driveway, and Ma, still crying but now smiling too, bends down, opening her arms out wide to hug this kid like he's her own flesh and blood. And so I know the jig is up. Ma beat me to the punch. I throw Ma 2.0 into the street, and Parker's car comes close to running her over as he leaves.
I rush for the only mother I ever needed. I'd hug her, except she's already hugging Son 2.0. "Oh, Ma," I say. "I fucked up. I fucked up good, Ma."
I get on my hands and knees. I do it even before the car with Parent Solutions on its side pulls up and two beefy guys exit. I do it because a boy only has one mother, and because mothers are supposed to forgive their sons, even when, maybe even especially when they've been very bad boys. I try to tell this to Ma as I'm hauled off. Attempt to plead my case as they stuff me in the backseat and lock the doors. Even as they drive off and I watch Ma through the rear window playing an impromptu game of hopscotch with Son 2.0 on the sidewalk, I continue to plead my case, bawling my eyes out.
I say, "I'm sorry, Ma. I'm sorry I'm such a fuckup. I'll do better, Ma. If you just give me a chance, Ma, I promise I'll do better. I'll be the son you deserve. You don't need 2.0, Ma. 1.0 can change, Ma. 1.0 can be a son you can get behind."
This absurdist humor was very well done. In an age of AI, who's to say it can't happen? Cottage industries are blossoming all the time. I kept picturing the recently-departed Ozzy Osborne in the MC's role and Shelly Winters as Ma. The idea of "adding water" and Ma 2.0 will attain full-size tickled me. Funny, ribald, off-center, well-done.
ReplyDeleteTerrific drama! The race between Ma 2.0 and Son 2.0! Gripping! Enjoyable narrative voice! Fun! Excellent story!
ReplyDeleteDelightfully goofy and darkly funny, A rollicking read!
ReplyDeleteHow lovely to start the morning off with this darkly comic, absurdist dystopian satire about unfulfilled dreams, parental disappointment, and everyone’s longing for unconditional acceptance...
ReplyDeleteThank you for this story, which made me smile, awkwardly, all morning :-) Well Done!