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Melt
The ice cream sandwiches
are melting on the car floor in the inferno of my frustration triggered by my
mother’s request, more like a demand, that I return the sandwiches to the store
because, after devouring half the delicious treats, she realized the image on
the box exaggerated their actual size. Deception of this type justifies coercing
me to drive by her place on a Saturday morning as if I’ve got nothing better to
do than pick up the ice cream, suffer for a glacial age in punishing traffic, then
twiddle my thumbs in the long customer service line at save-money-live-better Walmart.
There,
I must ask for yet another reimbursement on behalf of a woman who takes the gâteau
as far as splurge and purge is concerned, proof of which is that she not only makes
me return ice cream, but also clothing she’s already worn at ladies’ league church
bingo. To top it off, she confesses in her saccharine-sweet voice that, for
heaven’s sake, isn’t she so lucky to have me around, what with her sons both too
busy, their wives nagging them to mind the youngsters while they grab a dose of
well-deserved Saturday morning R&R at the spa. Now there’s a luxury I’d kill
for any day rather than be stuck behind the wheel like this with ice cream dissolving
into a frothy white liquid, seeping into the floormat, passenger side, about to
stink the bejesus out of this excuse of a car, its air conditioning busted, fuel
gauge tempting E, a monstrous Chevrolet Silverado up ahead, spewing exhaust,
not giving a noble frig about responsible citizens like me.
Normally,
I do more than my fair share for the environment except when, like now, I’m cruising
across town on an absurd mission with, on one hand, my pitiful longing to tell
her, stop trespassing, and on the other, my equally pitiful silence knowing she
always wins the argument or pretends to. Furthermore, she denies her problem,
more like an illness, call a spade a shovel, tell it plainly like it is and be
darn sure to add that the whole charade turns me into a red-faced nuisance in
front of the girl at customer service who rolls her eyes, then cracks gum in my
face as if to say I’m onto you lady, but the pay here is such a rip-off, rather
than mess with you, I’m gonna follow the corporate script that instructs us to parrot,
have a nice day.
And
boy, do I ever look like I could use not only a day, but a nice life, one in
which I hammer my mamma with excuses, such as I’m too busy, I got another damn
UTI, a new love interest, a feverish flu, a crucifying migraine, or simply a
desperate need to quit playing proxy. Otherwise, I too will melt, from purpose
to pointlessness, from solid crystals into a sour pool of dairy or whatever
it’s made of, no secret there’s barely any milk in ice cream these days, more
like carrageenan and some type of gum. Not the kind you chew, not bubble-gum
ice cream either, something she’d tell me to return to the store because it
didn’t fulfill its bubbly promise and was merely another attempt by rapacious
retailers to dupe her.
She
of all people, faithful follower of the shopping channel, loyal Walmart
customer, innocent widow dependent on her late husband’s railroad pension plus my
overly generous good will already worn so regrettably thin it must, from now
on, be rationed. That means, no more listening while she works me, claims it’s
payback time, or reminisces about how she dutifully served my paternal
grandmother until the old gal’s battery flatlined and she joined my father in
hell to sizzle along with the rest of his cursed clan. God help them. They’re so
unlike her angelic brood, of which I’m a fine example, I, the expendable
daughter at her hop-to-it disposal, who would never, heaven forbid, disappoint or
disobey her except at the next green light where I’ll exit this circus, hightail
it back to her lair, sit her derrière in the front seat, feet firmly on the floor,
puddle underneath, then deliver her lickety-split to Walmart.
There,
she can parade through the rock-bottom-price doors, white goop like babies’ vomit
oozing from the limp cardboard box in her hands, the soles of her memory-foam
slip-ons leaving an incriminating trail of footprints from my Toyota in the jammed-packed
parking lot. From there, she’ll head all the way to the service counter where
she will have to confront the crackers of gum who will later gossip about her at
their dinner table in a you-should-have-seen-what-happened-today story that
ranks in the all-time top ten, earning her a brava. And along the way, she
can appreciate what a torture the drive is, especially when it looks and stinks
like a flock of laxative-loving seagulls dumped on the car floor, whereas, in reality,
it’s just a once-and-for-all reminder that something has to change.