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!”
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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.