YOUR Crazy Mother …

The Mischievous Stick.

Myrna long ago discovered a foolproof (hmm…) way to keep the multitudes of burglars, rapists and murderers out of her house in suburban Salt Lake City — which, come to find out, is the very most dangerous place on the entire Earth. Her scheme is so simple it’s almost inspired. You take a broom handle, you shove it in the slot left in the track when a sliding glass door is closed. Voilà, no one can open the door, never, ever, ever. It doesn’t matter if you forget to lock the door. It doesn’t matter if the Devil himself or herself breaks the glass, he or she is not opening that door. Can anyone see the teensy-​​tiny cracks in this logic? I’ll leave that for you, dear reader, to contemplate.

Here be ye olde stick, after its crazy, crazy night.

Truth be told, she did not come up with the idea for the stick. Her father, my grandfather, carefully constructed these heirlooms for her before his passing into the much less dangerous afterlife. They adorn all the doors and windows of the house. Myrna carefully places them in their little cradles every time she closes the portals they guard. I suppose the secret of the construction of these ugly wooden amulets of protection has been passed down from generation to generation — a totem of safety for the lineage. I pledge here and now to break this vicious, irrational cycle. But, I digress.

Several nights ago, apparently, Myrna went to take her garbage out to the cans. She pulled the stick away from the door, took the trash out and upon returning found, for whatever reason, that the stick had fallen back into the crack, effectively locking her out without a key or a phone or any way to reach me (as she can’t remember my phone number). I’ll bet she was cursing herself for not bringing her purse with her (something I’ll cover in a future post). I’m certain that mayhem then ensued as she frantically tried to get back through the never, ever, ever opening door.

I don’t know what transpired exactly (thankfully), but she eventually had to have the neighbor across the street (whose name I do not know) drive her down to my work (a 20–30 minute drive each way at that time). I was in the middle of a sound check (I work at a nightclub and concert venue), with a band blaring away on the stage and a line of crazy, degenerate teenagers about a block and a half long outside the club when someone from the front door came to me saying my neighbor was there because my mom had had an “incident.” Of course, I thought the worse. Stroke, heart attack, burglar, rapist, murderer… I would not have imagined in a million years that the mischievous stick was at the root of mommy’s travails that eve.

I went down to the door to find the mild-​​mannered Mormon minivan man from across the street standing there. Come to find out, he fancies himself a sort of rock-​​and-​​roller and was very intrigued by the machinations of the sound check (I forget the name of the band — usually sometime before they even start performing). He then came to his senses and ushered me out to the parking lot, past the throngs of face-​​painted, sign waving, smokin’ and perhaps drinkin’ kids (it was kind of a circus, even for our club).  In the midst of this chaos was mom sitting in his standard-​​issue medium-​​blue minivan, sitting peacefully nonetheless, almost as if she were meditating before going into battle, bombs bursting around her as she said a silent prayer. It was quite surreal.

OK… here’s my key mom… I’ll be home after midnight, I don’t know exactly when, just leave the basement door open. “Oh no, I couldn’t do that, I’ll wait up for you.” Maybe we should hide a key outside somewhere. “I don’t know, someone could find it.” We’ll hide it really well. “Well, we can talk about it” (MyrnaSpeak for “over my dead body”.)

Oh no, I couldn’t do that, I’ll wait up for you.

I got home after a long, loud and somewhat irritating night making whoever it was that was playing look good (I’m a lighting designer) to find her sort of camped out at the door. It was 2 am. She was bleary eyed and somewhat incoherent. She then started up her usual litany of questions she doesn’t want answer to. Was it a busy night? Did I have time to get something to eat? Was there a big crowd? One would think she would know the answer to the last question, since she was there, but that doesn’t fit into the prerecorded message. I must admit, I was a tad frustrated. I took the stick and threw it in the back yard as far as I could. It was a pretty good throw for me, it went a long way. I ignored her disgust with my temper tantrum. I went downstairs to pull myself together for sleep — I had to be at the club at 10 am the next day for another fun-​​filled show. Then, I went out to smoke my last cig of the night and she’s out there looking for the stick, hobbling around with a flashlight. She spotted it and homed in like a bird dog, but not before I rushed in and grabbed it — the fleet foot of youth that I am. I locked it in my car (she hasn’t figured out how to unlock my car yet). She screamed, “don’t take that, that’s my security.” I yelled back, “if the door is locked, the door is locked, the damn stick doesn’t get you anything.” She then mumbled, “well, I’ll just go get another one tomorrow.”

don’t take that, that’s my security.

I’ll throw that stick away too. I can be a child also.