On Sunday 04 November 1979, 52 American spies were given accomodations care of an indigenous Iranian government. They were released after 444 days. All random numbers...if your life is coincidental.
In Rochester, New York, the next day, Monday 05 November 1979, was sunny and fine...but for mommie dearest being gone. I lived on the third floor of our house. I woke up fairly early, before 06:00, and while urinating at the toilet, looked down to see the largest mass production consumer passenger vehicle ever built missing. It was a late 1970s station wagon, and it was not in our driveway. Odd.
I went down stairs, ate breakfast while inhaling verbatim every word the Dilation & Curettage newspaper had to inspire, and went off to school to smoke copious amounts of marijuana. The dude did abide.
I was in Mr. Simon's social studies class, sitting next to Andrea Whitaker. I had a wee bit of a crush on people with vaginas, and Andrea had one. I was working my first after school job. My employer, Price's Seafoods, was located at 12 Corners. Andrea would teasingly tell me I smelled of fish, an aroma some say resembles the aroma of an American 女性機. After being told by the red haired vixen of my dreams that I smelled of fish, I redoubled my efforts to scrub myself clean the night before and again in the morning before I went to school. I showed up one day, and, as Mr. Simon waxed poetically about how wonderful The Bard was, Andrea reached over and picked (or was it peeled) a fish scale off my forearm. She touched me! Gracious, I was thrilled.
Anywho. About halfway through the class, someone from school administration knocked on the door to the classroom and asked for me. I was not unaccustomed to prolonged negotiations with school officials. Nonetheless, no one in the room thought this an opportunity for me to display my lack of contrition. The official and I walked to the office without speaking. At the office, I was informed my mother had "been in an accident". From the American perspective, humanity is an accident. I was told someone would be there soon to take me to the hospital to be with my family.
At the hospital we were told Marcia had third degree burns over 90% of her body. In case none of us believed it, the Dilation & Curettage would have a picture of her barbequed body on the front page of the local section the next day. Also, just to make things look convincing, my father was shown her crispy body, purportedly alive. She died that evening. Or so we were told. Before long I was making ill mannered jokes.
On Brad's 90th birthday, I told him that the body he saw had been faked. Once you've been as tortured by humanity as my father was, one is far past understanding what I was trying to explain to him that day, Tuesday 01 May 2018. Amy, my stepmom did. Or so we were told. She left him not long after and lives in Madrid, having had more than her fill of a family which makes a Great White's remora look like a romper room.
Mothers & wives. Two & two done. None to go.
