Martini
03-02-2009, 02:10 AM
My mother never accomplished a grand career or had a satisfying or rewarding job. She took a book keeping class when she was young and took what she learned there for every conservative job she has ever had. For most of my life, my mother has always been an assistant, a secretary or a book keeper. “Assistant,” has always been a more gratuitous title, due to its implication of status and necessity. Of course, someone who needs or has an assistant must be paying their “assistant” well or at least capable of it.
There was the oil company where she brought me on Sundays with a small 13” T.V. and a little plastic beach chair; there was BACA (Brooklyn’s Arts and Culture Association), where she worked as a book keeper; there was the hot dog wagon, which was one of her attempts at autonomy; the fairs, where she rented a spot at street fairs in Brooklyn selling sunglasses and having children decorate their own cupcakes; the teacher’s store in borough park during its busy season; and then the cosmetics company, where she has been the bosses “assistant” for 15 years.
After 35 years of decent work experience you might assume that financially she found some struggle but was ultimately able to fair well. My mother has claimed bankruptcy once and she is currently, defensively avoiding it for the second time in less than 20 years. There was a period when I was allowed to have anything I wanted. Can you imagine telling a kid, here’s a book, with pictures of toys, “just circle the letters next to the toys you want, that’s all,” followed with a wink and a big smile.
A few weeks later a big box with an enormous doll house, a new bike, Barbies’, Barbie’s 57 Chevy, Barbie’s mobile home, Barbie’s studded wedding dress, My Little Pony’s and Shera accessories, arrive.
While my mother slept till 4 pm, I played with all my new toys; wearing out my imagination until all of make believe had become apparently fake and boring; until I had nothing else to pretend about; until I ran into my mother’s room and short stopped in front of her bed and stared at her sealed eye lids and exhaling mouth.
A few weeks later, it was, “wait for the answering machine to get it,”
yelling, “REEEE-TAAAAA! See who it is first,”
“Hello, this Carpol Collections, please call us back,” They said.
“This is your third notice. Carpol will be investigating all credit activities,” the robot said.
“Mom, should I return my toys?” I asked.
“I’m going to take Reeta from you, if you don’t start answering the phone,” My dad said.
There was the oil company where she brought me on Sundays with a small 13” T.V. and a little plastic beach chair; there was BACA (Brooklyn’s Arts and Culture Association), where she worked as a book keeper; there was the hot dog wagon, which was one of her attempts at autonomy; the fairs, where she rented a spot at street fairs in Brooklyn selling sunglasses and having children decorate their own cupcakes; the teacher’s store in borough park during its busy season; and then the cosmetics company, where she has been the bosses “assistant” for 15 years.
After 35 years of decent work experience you might assume that financially she found some struggle but was ultimately able to fair well. My mother has claimed bankruptcy once and she is currently, defensively avoiding it for the second time in less than 20 years. There was a period when I was allowed to have anything I wanted. Can you imagine telling a kid, here’s a book, with pictures of toys, “just circle the letters next to the toys you want, that’s all,” followed with a wink and a big smile.
A few weeks later a big box with an enormous doll house, a new bike, Barbies’, Barbie’s 57 Chevy, Barbie’s mobile home, Barbie’s studded wedding dress, My Little Pony’s and Shera accessories, arrive.
While my mother slept till 4 pm, I played with all my new toys; wearing out my imagination until all of make believe had become apparently fake and boring; until I had nothing else to pretend about; until I ran into my mother’s room and short stopped in front of her bed and stared at her sealed eye lids and exhaling mouth.
A few weeks later, it was, “wait for the answering machine to get it,”
yelling, “REEEE-TAAAAA! See who it is first,”
“Hello, this Carpol Collections, please call us back,” They said.
“This is your third notice. Carpol will be investigating all credit activities,” the robot said.
“Mom, should I return my toys?” I asked.
“I’m going to take Reeta from you, if you don’t start answering the phone,” My dad said.