Travels with Penny: True Tales of a Gay Guy and His Mother (3 page)

“Mom,” I tried to sound as stern as I could, “do not tell Dad you went to a sex shop.”

“That was a very interesting place,” she said.

“Mom, I’m serious. Please do not tell Dad you went to a sex shop. He’ll think I’m irresponsible and not taking care of you.”

“He will not.”

“Please, Ma. I don’t want him to worry about us.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” she waved me aside as if I were a bug.

Hours and God-knows how many dollars later, the four of us returned to the rented apartment rooms exhausted: Mom from splurging at every hole-in-the-wall boutique she could find and me from chasing her around Manhattan. I didn’t know where she got her energy, but I hope I have half as much when I get to be her age. I threw some packages onto the floor of the living room as Gary and Troy threw themselves onto the hide-a-bed and picked up the TV remote.

“What the hell are you two doing?” I demanded. They stared blankly at me, pretending they didn’t understand what I was talking about.

“If you can’t play nicely with my mom, you can’t come with us tomorrow.”

“Dave, don’t you think you’re overreacting just a bit?” Gary said.

“I don’t care. Promise me, no sex shops.”

“Dave, she’s a lot of fun—”

“What’s next? Buying crack on the street corner? How about taking her to a whorehouse while we’re at it?”

“She has two kids. She knows what sex is.”

“I’ll ditch you two. I swear to God.”

“I still don’t understand your problem,” Troy said clicking through the channels.

“My father—”

“Isn’t here,” he reminded me. “Your mother wants a vacation, Dave. You’re worse than a nun. Really, what are you protecting her from?”

I hate logical questions.

“Tomorrow will be easier for you,” Gary promised. “We have tickets to that play.”

“Something mom-friendly?”

They shrugged. “I think so. It’s called
When Pigs Fly
. How bad can it be?”

Satisfied that only the G-rated parts of New York City were in my mother’s future, I headed into the bedroom to give Mom her stockpile of purchases. I entered just as Mom, while sitting on the edge of the bed with the phone tucked into the crook of her neck, exclaimed, “David took me to a gay sex shop!”

After a slight pause, she continued, “Okay.” She held out the phone to me. “Your father wants to talk to you.”

I grimaced. Here comes the “you’re irresponsible” speech. “Hey, Pop.”

“What in the hell are you doing?!” His voice sounded an octave higher than normal.

“What?” When one feels guilty, one should always try acting innocent unless directed otherwise.

“You know damned well what. I told you she was your responsibility!” His voice had gone from strained to forced.

“Well … she wandered off.”

“Wandered off?” he said. “How can a fifty-four-year-old woman wander off?”

“She’s very … wandery … ”

“You need to take care of your mother,” he said. “What’s next? Taking her to buy dope?”

Proof that neurotics are a product of nature, not nurture. “No, Dad. Really. It’s all good.” Like I would know where to find dope.

“Bring her back to me in one piece! Put her back on.”

For the rest of the night, I fumed. Why did I get yelled at? It’s not my fault I have a curious, sex-obsessed mother. She’s an adult woman! What was I supposed to do? Tackle and hogtie her? Anyway, she was the one who had started the escapade with her, “Oh, let’s go see the inside of a sex shop” thing.

“What did your father say?” she asked out of the darkness as we lay in bed later that night. Her voice sounded thick with sleep.

“He’s mad at me because you went into the sex shop,” I whined. “Thanks for getting me in trouble.” When innocent doesn’t work, try whining. It never worked as a kid, but hey! I’m older now and have more practice at whining.

“Tough toenails, Tony,” She said. “Today was really fun. I had a good time. Thanks for bringing me with you.”

I didn’t respond. Innocence, whining
and
the silent treatment— she was getting the entire arsenal from me this time. She remained silent. Good. Maybe she would feel bad she’d gotten me in trouble with Dad. I let her stew for few minutes before I responded.

“’night, Mom.”

She was fast asleep. Moms really knows how to hurt sons.

* * *

“I notice you don’t have your wedding ring on,” my Mom said, pointing to my left hand.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I finally got to the point in my life where I could bring myself to take it off.”

“Oh,” she said, then gives me The Look.

Thanks to all the new theories of childrearing that rule out disciplining your children due to possible injuries to their self-esteem, I’m not sure how many youth today can identify with The Look. Ask any of us over the age of thirty and we all can tell you tales of how The Look molded our childhoods. Sometimes referred to as the “Mom Look” and the “Mom Eyes,” it has the effect of an emotional nuclear explosion. (I’ve even met one man from India who calls it “Mom’s Devil Eyes.” Apparently in India, there is a direct line from Satan to a mother’s psyche. As if there was ever any doubt.) There’s no avoiding The Look. The Look carries within it a magical ability to cause grown men to change into babbling children or cause an independent woman to question her choice to keep her maiden name. I suspect if Charles Manson’s mother had been around to apply The Look, Roman Polanski would still be living in Hollywood. If we could bottle The Look, society could save a fortune on police protection. For those of you under thirty, or lacking the experience of encountering The Look, The Look is a sideways glance from your mother which is a combination of inquisitive prying, acknowledgement, pity and condemnation for something you may (or may not) have done.

I could feel her eyes boring into my skull. Because I was raised with one of the Master Lookers, I knew Mom was expecting some kind of response from me about her wedding ring comment. Not a total soul-baring tell-all tale worthy of the National Enquirer, but a response of some sort was expected.

“We split,” I said simply.

She nodded and continued giving me The Look.

“He didn’t want to leave Seattle,” I said. This was the truth. My five-year relationship was coming to a close over the simple fact I wanted to continue my education into graduate school and he didn’t want to move away from his comfort zone of friends and family. I could understand it if he was a multi-millionaire business tycoon with a staff depending upon his involvement, but he was unemployed. His most pressing commitment was to
Days of Our Lives
.

“I wanted more and he didn’t, I guess,” I said.

“Really?” She knew there was more to the story.

“I asked him to come with me. He said no. I had to make a choice: continue school or not. I didn’t want to make the ‘not’ choice.” She nodded in understanding.

I continued, although I don’t know why I felt the need. “It pisses me off. Why do people say ‘I love you,’ when what they mean is, ‘I love you under these circumstances?’ Why don’t they just say that right off the bat and get it over with?”

She pointed to the theatre entrance. “Are they letting us in now?”

“I’m baring my soul and you’re wondering about grabbing your seat in the theatre?”

“I don’t want to miss the curtain. Your self-loathing will still be here after it’s over.”

She was right, of course. The patrons were already flowing into the lobby. That’s one thing about my mom—her powers of multi-tasking are off the charts. I wonder if it’s an X-chromosome thing or if it’s training from the days of laundromats, stick-shift cars and children on your hips.

As I man, I guess I’ll never know.

* * *

The theatre’s design made every seat a good seat. Mom, Gary, Troy and I sat a few rows back, center of the house. A tidy, humorous piece,
When Pigs Fly
was more of a musical review than a play. A thin storyline barely wide enough to hold the series of comedic songs and vignettes was just enough to keep the story flowing. Mom thoroughly enjoyed it.

I, on the other hand, laughed through clenched fists. Primarily playing to a gay audience, the entire show was filled with innuendoes and tongue-in-cheek jokes that I found hysterical but left Mom asking questions I would prefer not to answer.

“Cruising … like up and down Main Street in a 1950s Chevy?” she whispered.

“Cruising … as in looking for a brief sexual encounter.” I whispered back.

“Lube … Jiffy Lube?”

“Lube … Vaseline, K.Y. Jelly, sexual lubrication.”

“Oh! Like the sex shop!” She sounded excited as she put the pieces of the puzzle together. Me—not so excited. K-Y Jelly and Mom were three words and a hyphen I’d never wanted to put together.

Mom was quite capable of dealing with bawdy humor, but I am incapable of explaining bawdy humor to my mom. Especially when history has already shown that every bawdy reference in her ear comes out of her mouth to my father, who instantly hunts me down like a rabid dog and accuses me of turning my mom into a pervert.

In the second act, however, when the Cupid character pondered to himself whether to aim high for the “top” or low for the “bottom,” I ignored her when she leaned over and whispered, “What’s that mean?”

Some roads I don’t want to travel.

I thought I had succeeded with my plan to keep her isolated from sexual innuendos and content until later that night in the rented apartment when she called from the other room, “David!” Then, as I stood on the threshold, she held the phone to me and said, “Your father wants to talk to you.”

* * *

“Where are we going?” I asked her for the third or fourth time.

“To Macy’s. Hello! I told you that.”

She had told me lots of things. Like how she wanted to go into Tiffany’s to look around and wound up talking to the saleswoman about diamonds. The poor woman thought she had a rich old widow and was beginning to foam at the mouth before it became apparent that neither Mom nor I had enough money to pay for the cab.

“What are you going to get in Macy’s?”

“Duh!” She rolled her eyes. “We can’t go to New York and pass up Macy’s! Don’t you watch the parade?”

“No.”

“See?” She pointed to a nearby display window. “Oh! Pretty!” Then, moving on again, she continued. “If you watched the parade, you’d know Macy’s.”

“Ma, I know Macy’s,” I defended myself. “I don’t know why Macy’s is so important.”

I followed her into Macy’s, and she headed directly for the Men’s department, where huge signs advertised SALE SALE SALE. When it comes to shopping, Mom has a radar that rivals a dolphin’s ability to find a crab under six feet of rubble.

I stood, bored, watching people wander aimlessly amongst racks of clothes. She flipped through shirts, making strange faces at each one. “No. No. God, No! This is nice. This isn’t bad … ”

“What are you looking for?”

“Here. Try this on.” She thrust a shirt at me. I slipped it over my T-shirt. “No! Try it on. Duh! I need to see if it fits.”

I lumbered over to the dressing room and tried it on. I modeled it under unnatural florescent lights. She nodded. “Good. Take it off.” By the time I exited the dressing room, she had wandered back to the large table bearing the words HALF PRICE!

“Which tie do you like better?” She asked, laying down a green Pierre Cardin shirt still in its protective packaging and holding up three ties.

I glanced at all three. I hate ties. Between the holding of a blade against one’s throat and tying a knot around one’s neck, I wonder how men have survived this long. The fashion police are constantly trying to kill us. I pointed to the least boring of the three.

“I like this one. It’s nice. Come on.” She spun and headed to the register.

A hyper-friendly salesman with big teeth checked us out. “Having a good day?”

“Oh, yes!” Mom responded. “We’re headed to Ellis Island.”

“Oh,” the man responded, although I couldn’t distinguish if it was out of excitement or the hope of getting a larger sale, ergo a huge commission.

“We saw … let’s see … ” Mom thought. “We saw the Empire State Building earlier this morning. Have you ever been there?”

The man nodded and told her the price of the purchase. Mom ignored him.

“It was so nice! Just like in that movie with Cary Grant. You know the one where he is supposed to meet her on the roof of the Empire State Building?”

“That was
Sleepless in Seattle
,” I said.

“It was a Cary Grant movie first,” she said. The man repeated the price. Mom ignored him. “They always remake the really good movies.”

“I think the guy wants his money, Ma.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m just trying to be social.”

“It’s New York,” I whispered. “They aren’t real ‘social’ people.”

“You’re just like your father,” she sighed, pocketing the credit card.

The man practically threw the purchase at us and turned to help another customer. As we headed out to the sidewalk, I turned to Mom.

“So … Ellis Island next?”

She nodded. “I can’t wait. It is supposed to be great.” I held the door for her as we headed out into the throng. She handed me the bag.

“Here,” she said shoving past me. “Now you have a decent shirt to wear to work. And—” she checked her watch “—less than twenty minutes.”

“Is that why you bought this?” I asked. She nodded. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

“Because all you do is bitch about shopping,” she said, getting her bearings on the street. “Now you have a decent shirt, didn’t spend all morning hanging out with your irritating mother shopping and you can tell all your students you have a shirt from Macy’s.”

“Wow.” I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound trite. I failed.

She sniffed. “You dress like a slob. You need a decent shirt and tie.”

I resisted the urge to groan. I only wear a shirt and tie when I teach, and even then it’s only under duress. Most of the time, it’s jeans and T-shirts.

“Your father always said you dressed like a slob, too. You have no nice clothes.” This was stated as fact, no room for discussion.