Mitchell's Mom
I always considered myself a mechanic: methodical, precision-focused, able to diagnose exactly what would make the machine of another person fail. It takes a lot of know-how and skill to break down an engine perfectly so it can be put together again. A good mechanic never starts a job unless he knows how each step is going to go, all his tools are on hand, and he’s got sufficient time to twist all the bolts. As I buzzed my mother into the building to see my new apartment, I looked around one last time to make sure it was ready. She was a Honda Civic, and I was going to tear her down to the chassis.
When I buzzed her into my new building, she smiled on the security camera before her face disappeared behind the battered steel door. She’d aged well, if you judged by strangers and at a distance. Only up close did the seams in her self-control showed: the jaw too tight for a social call, the hands worrying her purse with thin echoes of the tics I’d hated inheriting. She wasn’t stupid. It had been years since the two of us had been on speaking terms.
“Hi Mom,” I said, as we exchanged the ritual hug. Scent of department store perfume, the resilience of thick wool against my face. “It’s been too long. I missed my mom.”
She clung to me, and I heard her voice quiver. “I never thought I’d hear you say that, Mitchell. I missed you, too.”
The new place was barely furnished: some IKEA shelves already buckling with the weight of my books, a thrift-store couch with springs that stabbed into your spine, a folding table in the “dining nook.” Mother passed her gaze over it all, calculating, searching for errors in taste she could collect and file away. Her lips were taut, her eyes the gray of TV static on a dead channel.
“I brought some paint swatches,” she said, setting her purse down on the table with a thud of resigned disappointment. “These walls…Mitchell, they’re rental white. You of all people…”
“Isn’t that better than living in a mausoleum of colors you stole from a Martha Stewart catalog?” I said.
She bristled. “Darling, I only want you to be proud of where you live. You should bring women here, eventually.”
“The ones I like, don’t last long enough to care about the walls,” I said, lighting a cigarette just to see her flinch. “I don’t play the long game, Mom. i find ‘em, finger ‘em, fuck ‘em, and forget ‘em. You want coffee?”
She eyed the pack, then me. “You’re still smoking, hmm?”
“What can I say? Childhood trauma makes people self-destructive.” I blew smoke in direction, inwardly smiling at the way her shoulders shook with polite coughing. “Also, I’m an asshole.”
She pretended not to hear, already drifting through the open arch into my kitchen, the platonic ideal of a guest desperate for something to clean. “Do you have anything except instant?” she called, opening cabinets. “Or is it the same old…” Her voice died when she saw the knife rack, the gleam of steel lined up in order of increasing lethality. “You don’t even cook,” she said, quiet and flat. An accusation.
“Maybe I’ll start,” I said with a shrug. I took her coat and hung it on the hook behind the front door. “I don’t know, Mom. There’s just something about these blades. They speak to me. Like some people look at a Degas or some shit.”
I took out the instant coffee, though I had a brand-new French press with expensive hand-selected Ethiopian beans, and ran the water until it was tepid. Rather than measure the coffee, I just tipped the side of the jar until about an inch lay in the bottom of the cup. Filled it to the rim with warm water and poured out a full inch. I sat it on the table in front of Mom with a single half-and-half pod.
“I’ve learned to like some of the finer things in life,” I told her, leaning into the sardonic ignorance of the swill she was sipping. “Life is short, you know. Once you know what you want, you go for it.” I stared at her, feeling my eyes go cold and distant. “No matter how often you were told you’d never amount to anything.”
“I was just trying to motivate you,” she spat angrily. “Do you have to bring up all my failings as your parent?”
“No.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “But I have a long fucking list of them.” I turned my head and looked out the window. “Anyway, I didn’t ask you to come here to rehash old news. I think it’s time you and me started a new chapter. You know?”
She shook her head with a resignation I remembered from my high school grad night, when Dad skipped the ceremony to drive his girlfriend “to urgent care.” Back then she’d curled her lips and muttered about disgrace and genetics, but now she mostly just lived in the ruins. At the time, I’d felt betrayed by Dad. Over time, I realized how much of it was Mom’s fault, though. Christ, what man wouldn’t need a side piece when they crawled into bed with this bitch?
“Is that the plan?” She looked around the apartment. “You aren’t really the forgive and forget kind. But I guess every dog can learn a new trick.”
I made a mental note to make her pay for that comment. Outwardly, I just shrugged and put my hands behind my head. Leaned back in the chair. My cock throbbed as I realized I was actually putting my plan into motion.
“And every whore can suck a new dick,” I said. “How about it, Mom? Been sucking any new dick lately?”
Cold judgment met my grin. I smirked. Chuckled.
“You never did have a sense of humor,” I chided. “I’m just asking if anyone’s crawling between those thighs or if you have cobwebs on your pussy these days. You’re still young, Mom. A decent piece of ass if you aren’t a dead-fish fuck.”
“I didn’t come here to be insulted,” she said softly. Drawing her false dignity around her like a cloak. “I was hoping my son would somehow turn out to be a decent human being.”
“Hope is for chumps,” I shot back. “Like I used to hope my mother wouldn’t beat my ass for being gifted in mechanics rather than academics.”
She scoffed. “There is no talent in mechanics. Dirty, grease monkeys.” Her shoulders lifted as she took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to let go of ...