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Pinesol

April 22, 2007

” I’m good, pop, everything’s good”
” Thats good Paul..still goin’ to the gym? Gotta keep your hands fast, that’s what goes first I tell ya, the hand speed”.
” I go once a week at least “.
” You’re living the same spot, yeah”?
” She tried raising the rent couple months ago. I talked her out of it. I do little things for her, keeps her quiet”.
Pop took a drink of wine, stared at the peppers in oil and got the teary look. He looked down to pick up his cigarette and said:
” I still miss her, that fuckin’ bitch”. He started laughing while he was tearing up. We called her that sometimes, near the end, when she didn’t care who she yelled at, she just yelled in a low whiney rant. Curlique puffs back-lit by dappled beams, seeping through the musted dusty drapes. The smoke and the time.
My Mom: Jelly and butter sanwiches in my lunch with an orange, cut in half, wrapped in waxed paper. Ponds cream, Shinola, too much blood red lipstick, hairspray, Pinesol, the whole deal. Tight skirts bragging about her Old Man, the Boxer. A real Man that fucked a real Woman real good.
” Yeah, Pop, the fuckin’ bitch”. Now I started getting blubbery, reached over to the old man with both arms. Now it was my turn to give out with the bone crushing hug. The ones Mom gave me before school, going to the dentist, feeling sick, that same kind was what I gave to the stubbly-faced pug now. I tried to mash him into me, through me, give him a dose of the youth I had left. Maybe stop him feeling bad. Maybe remind him of Mom while it was good. She was good, my Mom.

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