#mudseries

 When mother comes home from her late night nursing home gig each morning, she likes to make tea, sometimes an earl grey, sometimes lipton, but always stolen from the break room at work. 

 The kettle screams and the daughter skips channels, settling on cartoons.  “One spoon or two?” Mother asks and pours the sticky clear goo carefully onto the tablespoon, as to not waste a drop. “Two” says the daughter.  With a grin, the mother continues pouring. The goo looks and acts like karo syrup. Slow and deliberate, and almost translucent enough to read through.   Morning sun mixes with steam from the kettle and warms the room. Mother carries the two cups of piping tea across the gold plastic line that defines the change from linoleum kitchen to shag carpetty living room.   “What’s on?” She says handing over a cup and setting down her own. “Tom-n-Jerry’s on” says the daughter who is in her twenties. “Been up for long?” the mother asks. “Yeah, all night. Just couldn’t sleep” says the daughter. “Well, this’ll help” the mother quips and nods to one cup then the other. The two of them take sips from their cups and slowly get stoned as the cartoon cat and mouse play on.   Mother has scored big this week. The dead box is not a place one usually finds medication, but sifting through it two days ago, she had found the holy grail of lucky drug finds. A bottle of Liquid hydrocodone, almost full. The label had been taken off, and when the old man who it actually belonged to had died, the supervising nurse on duty had cataloged and destroyed all medication found, but she obviously hadn’t compared the many medications with his chart, because if she had, she would have noticed a bottle missing.

Each school day, I walked to the bus stop never setting foot on a sidewalk. There were dirty paths in the sparse grasses on either side of the cheaply paved roads and marshy smelly ditches that seemed to never drain.   The only part of town that saw pavement in the last decade was the main strip leading from the stadium and the Progresso soup factory parking lot 2 miles away. I knew this place was a step down.  It was one of those cracks you hear of that people slip through, never to be seen again.  But here we were, Mud running from another man and situation she couldn’t control only to find herself starting over again, losing a large part of what was left to a new guy who never earned it. During the year and a half spent in HydePark, there was a new word added to my vocabulary, serial killer.  I didn’t understand what made a repeat killer so special as to give them a new word.  I mean, the only difference between a serial killer and a mass murderer was time, and the only difference between either and a soldier at war, or a tobacco executive, was a means of employment telling them to do it. Brass in Pocket on the blue transistor in my hand,  these are the things I thought of on those walks to and from the bus stop. I had not yet been touched by death.  I had not witnessed any more than the word itself in a dictionary,  or a bloody story in the christian bible. Still, it held an interest, because I was 10  and things that were beyond my experience I took to be romantic,  or at the very least, worth a look. It was here in Hyde Park where all of that changed and I experienced many of my firsts. I guess it could be said that it started with that walk to the school bus. You see I had to pass 2 very creepy things on my way there and back every day. The first was a funeral home with a rather busy crematorium. I never saw families there, or people for that matter. It was as if the place was run down just enough that all it was good for was to burn folks. And so it did. If I was late and missed the bus I would be treated to that sickening smell wafting from the floo on my return home. The second and creepier still was “the doll house” porcelain dolls with walking eyes all dressed up like Miss Havisham on her eternal wedding day. They lined the windows, heads on heads. Frocks stiff and lacey, and a sign that read “Eye and Joint Repair!”. It was the kind of sight that could make you lose your train of thought. I would try to distract myself from it, but it always pulled my gaze. My mind would wander to a soiled Geppetto lifting the little girls yellow dress so it covered her face while he worked on her knee without scrutiny. Filthy beard, and a sandwich with too much mayonnaise. It drips from bread to beard to the doll’s foot landing on her shoe. He notices, and wipes the shoe with a dirty rag that used to be a dirty towel now in pieces. He continues to polish the mayo away and it’s shiny, very pleasing. He smiles, wipes his hands, shoulder-cuff brushes his beard and goes back to the lemon girl’s knee. By the time I reach the bus stop I am dizzy with the weirdness running through my brain. The other kids notice. Yep, I’m the weird one. Not the fat one…that’s a few years away yet. They make fun of my clothes, my accent, my hair, my name; I just tune out and wonder how many people work at that funeral home, and how many leave in an urn. One afternoon on my way home I see Kevin, the older boy from the bus stop. He had skipped school that day and was alternating kicking a rock and hitting it with a stick like some kind of white trash hockey-soccer. We are crossing the road toward each other. His rock gets away from him and I kick it back. We are standing in the middle of the road, not so much of a “hey” exchanged, but we are volleying the rock back and forth. When a car comes by he kicks the rock to the curb and we both follow. He asks, “So what are you up to?” “Going to Mr. Special’s” I respond. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it saying “cool, lets go”. This kid is one that entertains himself at the bus stop in the mornings by bullying me. I file him under the “boys are mean in a group but nice enough people one on one” drawer in my head. Kevin, 12-13 yr old male = ok (when no one else is looking). We walk over to Mr. Special’s and go in. The owners smile at me and scowl at him. He doesn’t seem to notice. I buy a long neck glass bottle coke and a whatchamacallit candy bar. Kevin smokes his cig and ashes on the floor. When we leave Kevin tugs at my sleeve. “This way” he says. We’re on the dusty path alongside the one nicely paved road. We walk most of the way to the stadium before ducking back into the dilapidated neighborhood. We are sharing the candy and soda along the way. When the drink is finished he grabs the bottle from me and tosses it straight up in the air. It comes down hard shattering in a 6ft arc. My heart racing, this is what bad is. This is scary but fun. Kevin and I start running, we stop a block or so away and he lights another cig. I look around breathless and see something writhing in the street. Whatever it is, it’s on the center line. The figure looks disoriented or hurt, or both. The street is not busy, so I inch closer. Kevin notices and follows. It’s a cat. A stripey fat tom cat, and he’s been hit. There isn’t much blood. I reach for him. Kevin says “what’r you doing?” “go find me a box, we have to help him” I responded. To my amazement he did just what I asked. First he took it upon himself to direct traffic as I lifted the injured cat and walked back to the road’s edge. I sat there till he returned with a liquor box from a package store nearby. The cat was semi-draped over my shoulder. When I tried to lift him and place him in the box, he resisted. He must have been in considerable pain. He scratched and bit my shoulder with some ferocity. I was shocked and dropped him in the box where he lay motionless but still whining in pain. We took turns carrying the box on our way back to the duplex next to the HVAC supply warehouse where I lived. Once there, Kevin hangs out a bit until my soon to be step father raven appears. Kevin then makes an excuse and leaves abruptly. Raven looks in the box and declares the cat only has minutes to live, that it would be merciful to end its misery now. I cry and argue, not really understanding the situation. “There isn’t that much blood coming out it’s ears, and how would he know it can’t be saved? Why can’t we try? My mom’s a nurse, she’ll understand” I thought. “I just have to keep him from twisting it’s neck until mud gets home.” When Mud arrives, I am still guarding the box. “what’s all this?” she asks. “don’t let him! We can fix it. he’s just a little hurt!” I yelled out. “I tried to call but you had already left” raven said calmly. As she leaned over the box, she said “oh leg…” at the same time Raven added “we have to end this” mud looked at me at said “honey there’s nothing we can do”  “but..” I said. She looked at me with imploring eyes, “you see the bits of blood coming out it’s ears, and how it’s only moving part of it’s body?... that’s a brain hemorrhage and paralysis leg, it’s brain is bleeding, and it’s partially paralyzed…”    “but..” I tried to interrupt. She held up her hand to silence me,  “…it’s cruel to keep this guy alive leg. He’s in great pain and nothing short of extensive surgery will help, and he would probably still die anyway.” I deflated. I had nothing else. This was the truth and no spin or super power was going to save that cat now. I looked in the box. I was crying a bit. He was opening and closing his eyes almost rhythmically.  I said I’m sorry and goodbye to him in my head as if he could read my thoughts.  Mud lead me away. She put her hand on my head and turned to raven as we walked into the house, “call us when he’s buried so we can say goodbye ok?” he agreed and went to find a shovel. Mud asks me where I found the tom cat and I relay the story to her. When I get to the part where the cat bites me she looks as if she’s been slapped awake. The color drains from her face and she calmly asks me to show her where. I pull my shirt to one side from the neck to expose the bit of shoulder the tom cat bit. She gasps and tells me to take off my shirt, which I do immediately. “How long ago did it bite you?” she says frantically, as she cleans the bites. I am getting really nervous now, and tell her it’s been an hour or more. She questions me further on where the cat was from, “did it have a collar” she asks. “No,” I say, “I don’t know, I mean I didn’t see one.” She quickly finishes dressing the tiny wounds on my shoulder and says, “you’re going to show me where you found this cat.” We pass raven on our way to the car; she pulls him aside stopping him from digging the grave. They exchange quick words I can’t really hear. They glance at me and nod in agreeance. Mud comes back to the car; he abandons the hole and heads for the box. “it’s not deep enough” I said. “its fine” she says back. “Now where did you find this cat?” I tell her the destination is a few blocks away. When we arrive, I show her the bit of road and she goes house to house looking for an owner. Of the people who actually answer the door, a few of them know the cat but say they think it’s a stray. This is just what mud didn’t want to hear. We look at the spot in the road and all around. No collar. Mud is looking worried and depressed. I’m scared and in need of an explanation. She begins to explain. She tells me that without an owner, it’s likely that the cat never received a rabies vaccination. It’s possible the cat got hit because it was lethargic and dying of rabies. If so, it is also possible that the cat transferred this sickness to me through that series of bites. I tell her it doesn’t hurt…which is a lie. She tells me it doesn’t have to hurt. It’s a blood thing. I ask what will happen to me. She side steps the question and says the cat will have to be tested. “That’s how they tell if a bite can lead to rabies, they test the source.” She is now trying to calm me and herself, by acting like everything will be just fine, but I can see it is a forced confidence. Still, she is my mother and I believe she can fix anything. Upon our return, I noticed the hole is still there, half dug and empty. The box has been flattened, no tom cat. When we go inside the house, there’s raven, he says to mud;  “it’s in the crisper, we have to keep it cold till Monday when the techs are back to test it.” “The whole thing?” mud asks. “No just the head” he responds. What they are talking about washes over me as I get the picture. “There is a….cat head in my fridge.” My brain screams. “Just…the…head??” still thinking…then I say out loud, “why the..” raven answers, “that’s the test. It’s a brain test. And the only way to test the brain is to…” “but…” I say. Mud chimes in, “he’s right leg.” “What happens to me? And where’s the rest of the…” I say and raven holds up a black garbage bag heavy with its answer to my second question. He walks out and mud starts to explain the gravity of the situation to me. “On Monday they test the cat’s brain to see if it was infected.” I am struck by the word “infected” but continue to listen. “If its negative, then no harm done. Your tetanus is up to date and all is good, but if it comes back positive….”  “yes??” I ask. “If it’s positive, then you start with a series of shots to keep the sickness at bay” “shots?” I ask. “Yes, shots. A series of stomach shots you will have to get for a long time.” “how long” I ask. She looks away and says to the curtains, “I don’t know honey, the doctor will tell us that on Tuesday.” …“Tuesday…” I muttered. “But…it’s Friday.” She dismisses my words with a cheery disposition, “we, are going for a drive. There’s nothing we can do till the test comes back and I don’t feel like cooking anything in that…fridge right now….if you know what I mean..” She gives me a smirky smile and wipes my teary face in that mom way.  Like everything was going to be just fine. When we get back we have 2 kinds of pizza and an understanding that no matter what, life would go on for everyone but that tom cat. Getting out of the car I look over at the hole…it’s still there, untouched. I glance around for the black trash bag, and notice the box is gone too.  “Where’s the rest of the cat?” I thought. But that was the least of my concerns. I spent the weekend with a cat’s head in my fridge and the possibility of rabies looming over both of us. The end of his suffering being the beginning of mine, My dreams were filled with needles and bites and pats on the head with grownups saying “it’ll be ok leg…just…one…more…” When Tuesday came, I was told the cat was just unlucky crossing the street, there was no rabies and I was to be spared the stomach shots. The hole in the yard was never filled. I never found out where the rest of the cat was. I felt lucky but sad every time I saw that hole, and to this day still weary of a stranger’s bite.   

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I couldn't save her the first time I was selfishly saving myself which changed us both and made her desperate the second time I really tried, she chose him the third time I didn't even try she was younger then than I am now and she had given up the fourth time I had no idea I thought I was being strong she was crying for help with everything but words I did nothing then she had strokes little ones a legion of destructive electricity marching through, tearing though her brain a pin point at a time the fifth came I was ready, I can do this I’m in my thirties my shit together healthy marriage, good job, successful business everything she always wanted but never had I can do this, I’m ready I can help her, I can make it better she'll be with US, we can do this it was tough, at times she was child like the damage was done she did not progress for three years we did what we thought was right only to have a spider, a liver, and a coma converge on my watch I was there I couldn't save her she woke to say goodbye I watched her take her last breath I signed the papers I couldn't save her

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When i was 8, Mud and I were living with a dude named Elliot, and his 2 kids. One afternoon, mud called me into the bedroom they shared. "Shut the door" she said. So I did, and turned to face her. Mud stepped aside to reveal what was approximately 3-4 grand in cash. 10's 20's 50's and 100's, spread out all over the bed. I asked if I could jump in it. "Yes”, She said. “but I know exactly how much is there, so no pinching" I crawled across the paper pallet and stood up.  I kicked my legs out and fell on the pile. The bills flew above my head and quickly floated down.  I rolled and writhed. There was so much of it.  So many smelly paper rectangles. I started to neatly stack and sort the bills according to denomination. Fanned it all out again, and stacked it back up. I counted it and handed it back to mud asking, when we were leaving for our trip to spend it. I was told he had sold a car, and was going to buy a new one with it. Boring, but that was Elliott.  I made a sweet roll to see what it would look like in my pocket…it was cool. Mud pretended to be a customer in a shoe store and  I was the owner with an Italian accent for some reason. Mud drew a mustache on my lip with eyeliner, then she and I played like pirates with loot for the next hour before he got home. When he arrived, she grabbed the ponds and wiped off my stache,  gave me 5 dollars and told me to go wash my hands and ride my bike to the handy.  A fiver was a big deal at the time, but after this experience, it seemed less somehow.  I got to the handy, which was a convenient store just past the construction dunes at the end of the subdivision.  Sweaty 5 in my fist, I looked around at all it could buy while subtracting from the 5er in my head.  I started to feel uncomfortable with the idea of breaking it.  I just didn’t want to.  Yeah I also wanted things, …but the freedom to choose, to save it and choose later was somehow way more enticing. To play with it, to be what I thought a pirate was.  It could be anything, and it could allow me to choose.  I asked the clerk for change. “five ones?” i said, and he gave it to me.  I stuffed the bills in my shorts pocket, after the sweet roll, it was like nothing at all.  I checked my pocket several times on the ride home to make sure they were still in there.  When I got home, I took the 5 ones and tried stacking, but it just wasn’t the same.  I folded each one neatly and stuffed them into my piggy bank one by one. It was a lackluster moment compared to the writhing, but it sparked an interest.  The bills made no sound as I stuffed them in the pig,  but knowing they were there made me feel safer somehow. The untapped potential of what I could possibly obtain with enough money was enough to make me happy and give me hope that even my most unlikely dreams were not just possible, but obtainable.  I had found a secret power in choice, and feeling prepared when the choosing finally came. .

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I was 9. She lived across the street She was 2 years older than me. At first, I was amazed that she even spoke to me, and when we became friends, I felt cooler by association. She was a bad girl, and I didn’t mind one bit. Somehow when we were together anywhere I seemed to get into some kind of trouble. With that, my mother, "Mud" had said I wasn’t allowed to play with “Christine” anymore. So, you see, I wasn’t supposed to be there that day. It had been a week or more since the order had been given. I was fully aware of the rule I was breaking…but I did it anyway. She wanted to show me something, and I was dying to see it. “Does it have a name?” I asked. As she lead me to her backyard. “of course numb nut, it’s Fluffy.” She said, stepping over a frisbee. “typical” I responded. With an eye roll. “what!? She’s fluffy!” christine said defensively. “Yeah, but killer or fang would be cooler, don’t you think?” I offered. We rounded the shed and there she was in her cage. A white rabbit with black splotches, and very fluffy indeed. “oooo pretty” I said, as Christine reached for the cage door. Just before she touched the handle, we heard Christine’s mother bellow somewhat drunkenly. “Shit! I’ll be right back. Do not open the cage, my mom’ll kill me if fluffy gets out again” “mmm hmm” I muttered, not really listening. As soon as she was out of sight, I reached out and opened the cage. “Well lookit you, aren’t you a cute little…” …and that’s when the fucker bit me.

I jerked my hand back. She dug in and locked her jaw. I screamed in pain and terror as the bunny’s head clunked against the cage. I was trying to get my hand out…not the damned evil beast. But the rabbit had locked down hard, piercing the webbing between my thumb and forefinger on my left hand. Where the hand went, the bunny was sure to follow. Flailing my arm with this demon attached to it, I smacked it against the shed, the swing set. Anything that was my height or taller got a bloody bunny beating, and yet, fluffy the evil one would not let go. Then there was screaming…but not my own this time… ..things get sorta hazy after that. The last thing I remember from that day was butterfly bandages and looking out for something hoppy and menacing bent on revenge. That night and those that followed were filled with nightmares. Imagery both specific and relentless. I suppose if it had ended at that, the nightmares would’ve faded, the fear forgotten and a hilarious anecdote born. But no. A week later, still grounded for injuring and then losing the demon seed “fluffy”. I was being loosely babysat by another neighbor along with 4 other children till our mothers got home from their day. HomeBoxOffice “HBO” was a new thing to the springy florida suburb we lived in. Someone turned on the TV, and there it was. HBO was playing “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”. We all knew it was adult themed and supposed to be funny, so we watched. I had no idea what was to come. Yep..you guessed it. The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog. Everyone around me laughed hysterically. I was not laughing…not anymore. What I now understand to be a brilliantly farcical scene, terrified me at the time. It made my hand hurt. I could still see it when I closed my eyes. I left the room to get away from the sound, but I could still hear it. So I hid in the bathroom, which is where I was when Angie the babysitter found me. That day I had my first Valium. That night the bad dreams persisted, only now the little fucker could fly, and kill. Although I haven’t had such a nightmare in perhaps 30yrs, to this day, rabbits still creep me out. It’s called leporiphobia. It’s irrational…I get that. But I just don’t like their hoppy-ness, their evil twitchy little noses. That blank soulless stare. Not cool dude, not cool.

Which is why, “There’s Nothing we Can’t Face….Except for Bunnies.”

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