Raw – boned Eric, our introduction
over as rapidly as it had begun, continued his chit – chat with a
few words about what was happening outside the junk – mail factory,
a venue when we were at work … we never saw. Was the rain coming
down still and had it started to fill up the ditches yet? “No, no
it’s nice out finally. Smells terrific, too. So what’s a nice
guy like yourself hole up in here for anyhow? What are ya’, 17 or
something?”
“Bingo, Legion! You’re goo – od.
Ding, ding, ding: give the lady the washer and dryer! Here? This
joint? We – eeell, gotta have the money. Gotta have the coins,
ya’ know? Gotta have the tunes and the wheels and the girls. Need
the money, ya’ know, for gas and tapes and my girlfriend!”
“She high maintenance, Eric? You’re
still in school yet, right? Your folks don’t mind? 40 hours every
week?! That’s incredible, Eric! You don’t get near ‘nough
sleep, do ya’?! That’s soooo hard on you, Eric!”
“Well, no, she isn’t but I just
gotta have some money. Ya’ know how it is, right? Yeah, full –
time; come here right after school lets out. O, my folks? Well,
they got other little kids to take care of. So what’s a nice lady
like you doin’ workin’ a joint like this here?”
“Huh? O, me? Me? I gotta give a
doctor … ah, um, … ah … child support.”
Not even a blink. Not a hesitation.
“Whoooooa.” Then? … Then nothing from him but a soul –
searching stare down at me. I put my two lips back together again
and looked up at Eric with a tiny smile, more or less flattened, a
Lionel Portia – sized deadpan one, right into those two blackened
holes somewhere deep upon Eric’s forehead which may have contained
eyeballs.
About 15 to 20 seconds later from
betwixt that soft, gaunty stare, there came the kind of wisdom from
out of Eric’s mouth with which only a guttural teenager pulling
down his own full weight in everything that he did could have been
responsible and respectful enough to utter. Four words –– four
words incredulously intoned into Ancestral history –– that
deserve to be their very own chapter title in a book on
Accountability that I shall someday write, … … “And
… he TAKES it?!”
I gave him my extra orange at break and
brought a second one every night after that one. I have never known
Eric’s last name, and I was never assigned – again – to work on
another machine with him. But such wisdom from a kiddo whose eye
sockets holding his windows to the real world which couldn’t have
sunk inside himself any deeper deserved anything I could do to
keep him … growing. A truly righteous Ancestor – in –
Training.
As much as the Good and Wonderful Dr.
Herod Edinsmaier was legally entitled to child support under
Iowa statute, as much as he had working for him all of the folie à
deux affiliations and liaisons in each and every one of their various
forms both in and out of the Court which included not only the
Nottingham Sheriff – like Spouse Fannie but also the Great Juggern
Aut Misein and His Many, Many Ancestral Progeny, as much as Murderous
Herry knew before my first support payment that he would never, ever
need it and that I so, so would, as much as he knew before my first
payment that he would probably go on to misplace some of my checks so
passive aggressively arrogant and entitled (excused away as …
‘forgetfulness’) was he that he just never bothered himself with
the work of remembering to get three of them to the
bank before actually losing them!, … as much as all
that, … high school senior and exhausted and hungry, junk mail
factory production worker and the true, 17 – year – old older
brother type, Eric, was stating the following in just those
four words, “And … he TAKES it?!”
“Well, yeah, the law says he can have
it, but … but … but … just how kind and wise
and just does that make him?! He’s a TAKER!
Plain and simple. Aprovechar – but with an added, plunged
dagger just twisting it around and around inside you, Legion, just as
brutally and bloodily as he can churn it! How much kinder, well, not
kinder so much as magnanimous would he have been, ya’ know, to’ve
just muttered there inside that courtroom, ‘Gee, thanks a lot,
Judge – Sir! Thanks for letting me win this one up against the
Bitch – O. I so appreciate that. Ya’ know, I truly do! But
ya’ know, Mistah JudgeMan, I don’t need it. And, an’ I know
that she will. So, … so hey, why don’t you jus’ let her pay
her heating bills with it or somethin’. Bet she could routinely
use it for that at least. Like I said, thanks for lettin’ me
legally beat up my Ex – Pussy, Your Honor – Sir, but I’m gonna
be a big, big person here and just ask that you take it back. Ya’
know, make it official that my ex – Cunt dudn’t owe me. That she
dudn’t need to pay me the child support since, ‘specially ya’
know, … since she can’t!”
* * * * *
pp 295 - 296
Mother - Fucking
Chapter Twenty – Seven
An Opera in Three Acts –– But with Five Parts
Acts One and Two: Parts One, Two and Three
“ ‘The body of a woman is filthy, and not a
vessel for the law.’ --- Buddha.
‘Three things are insatiable –– the desert, the
grave and a woman’s cunt.’ --- Arab Proverb.
When man made himself God, he made woman
less than human. ‘A woman is never truly her own master,’
argued Luther. ‘God formed her body to belong to a man, to have
and to rear children.’
In the grand design of the monotheistic male, woman was no more
than a machine to make babies for him, with neither the need nor the
right to be anything else:
‘Let them bear children till they die of
it.’ Luther advised. ‘That is what they are for.’
”
--- Prophetess Dr. Rosalind Miles in Chapter Five
entitled “The Sins of the Mothers”
of her Scripture, The Women’s History of the
World, verse – page 102.
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