Monkey See, Monkey Do, Monkey Snap

Last week, I stepped off a plane so that I could help my mother end her nine year long abusive relationship with Mike. I flew from Seattle to Idaho for the specific reason of helping my mother move into a new house and lose Mike in the process. Five minutes after I picked my bag off of the carousel, I buckled my seatbelt in my mother’s car and listened to her explain that she was not leaving Mike. Further, she explained, she had never had any intention of leaving him. Before going to see her, I had felt something like sadness that I had hurt her with my stories. Upon hearing that Mike would be making the move with her, I forgot all about guilt and remorse. I was furious.I spent the week packing boxes, in preparation for the move. I channeled my anger at my mother and Mike into packing those boxes. Instead of having any real rational discussion with me about her living situation, my mother played American Idol on Jacob’s PS II, ignoring everything I said in favor of computerized scorn from a digital Simon Cowell. In between bouts of singing Karaoke, she and Mike argued about everything from the color of the sky to who contributed more to the misery of their marriage. When my mother left the house, Mike continued the argument by swearing at everything he could see, hear, or imagine. I had once again been suckered by my need to believe that hope persists against all odds.

On the day of the move, my mother decided that what little work she had done had been “just too much” and started to scream in everyone’s face about how men had been oppressing women since the dawn of humanity. She brings up women’s issues at the drop of a hat, so I told her that if she didn’t want to pick up the plates herself, I would do it for her if she would just be quiet. She could not have been more offended.

“Do you think you’re funny, BC?! Do you? How dare you! How dare you! Who do you think you are!” Sitting on the porch as I loaded her box of dishes into her trunk, my mother screamed at me for the sin of male frailty. It was like every other rant she had ever had before. Only this time it was different. I was different. Something inside of me snapped.

A lot of stupid people would have tried to use reason to argue against her. I may not be a genius, but I’m far from stupid. I know reason only works against actual human beings, with actual cerebral function. “How dare you talk to me that way, Mr. Man!” I hissed. “I am a female divinity! I am the best woman you will ever have in your life! Do you hear me?! Do you hear me?!” Imitating my mother has never been difficult, as she only has six or seven truly distinct ideas.

Sneering at my mockery, my mother said, “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Do you think I’m just going to sit here and listen–” I screamed at the top of my lungs as loudly as I could. Placing my hands on my hips I started dancing all around the car, massaging the imaginary crick in my back, not caring about any neighbors who felt the need to stare.

“I am not going to listen to this! Do you hear me! Do you hear me! I am your mother! I gave birth to you!” Although I did not actually cry, I wrinkled my mouth and started brushing under my eyes. “You do not appreciate how hard I work! You don’t! You just don’t get it!”

My mother stared at me dumbfounded, blinking slowly. I could tell she had been planning on yelling a few of the same things before I had beaten her to the punch. One of the best things about stealing someone’s personal voice and reducing it to absurdity is that it leaves them with absolutely nothing to say. Instead, she picked up a child’s toy and threw it at my feet. “Fuck off, BC!”

“BC, stop yelling!” Mike called from the kitchen. I could hear from his voice that he wanted to fight. I was more than ready.

As easily as I had become my mother, I became Mike. I had nine years of arguments as character study. As soon as he stepped outside to see what was the matter, I tucked as much of my upper arms into my shirt as possible, squatted down low to mimic his height, and began to mutter a neverending string of swear words. “Shit cock fucking cunt whore! Fucking shit hell fucking in the shit, cock sucking motherfucker in the goddamn ear!” With my arms hidden inside of my shirt, and my hunched up legs giving me the frame of a Russian gymnast, I had mimicked Mike’s frame perfectly.

Before Mike had any time to respond to my imitation, I bounded up the steps and butted my chest into his. “Fucking shit cock fuck!” I yelled so loudly spittle flew from my mouth into his face. “Cock fucking whore with the dick in her tight fucking pussy!” Mike opened his mouth to say something but I shouted “COCK!” in his face before he could get the words out of his throat, and pounded my fingers into his chest all the while asserting “Dude man bro, my father was the best fucking man who ever lived! Dude! Bro! Frickin’ primo as all hell, man!”

“BC, what the fuck is wrong with you?!” Mike demanded, suddenly afraid of me.

“Shit fuck!” I replied, not caring if my voice was going hoarse.

My mother cried, “Mike, make him stop!”

In the spirit of every single argument I had heard since arriving, I allayed her fears by saying, “Cock-whore! Pussy fuck!”

“I don’t fucking sound like that, you fucking fuck!” Mike cried in horror.

Tired of simply screaming obscenities, I switched to making fun of every single one of Mike’s speech impediments as well as his and my mother’s love of karaoke. I launched into half of “You’re the Best” only I failed to pronounce every “st” and instead sang:

“You’re the bess! The bess! No one’s ever gonna keep you down! The bess! The bess!”

I quickly followed with “Simply the Bess.” Without waiting for requests I followed with “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” because in addition to not being able to pronounce “st” sounds, Mike pronounces “ect” as “eck.” For a solid minute I danced around the yard demanding “Juss juss a little respeck, juss a little respeck!”

While my mother and Mike watched in horror, I fell to the ground cackling like a madman. Whereas before I had been either Mike or my mother, as the grass tickled my cheeks I became them both. An amalgam of two of the worst ideologues to ever walk the face of the Earth, I twitched on the ground having an argument with myself.

Pounding pseudo-small arms and legs into the ground, I screamed, “Fucking primo shit whore! Cheapo ass Jew rig frog fucking son of a bitch!” Then fake crying at all the terrible things to ever happen in the world I moaned, “You don’t get it! You just don’t get it! I hate men! Do you hear me?! I hate men! Men are pigs! Pigs!” I retorted by asserting that, “Ponape is the best most frikkin’ primo island ever! Fuck you fucking mother-fuckers! Shit slut!”

For once in their lives, not arguing with one another, my crazy mother and her half-savage islander husband stared at me. “Do you think he’s gone insane?” Mike asked.

“What’s wrong with him?” my mother pondered.

I could have told them that I was using myself as a mirror to show them who they actually were. I could have told them I was using method acting to better feed back the absurdity of their logic back to them, in a more cogent manner than mere words ever could. It would have all been a lie. I did it to be cruel. I did it because I have lived my entire life listening to two idiots who thought they belonged in the Roman Senate. I did it because it was just.

It was hard to pick myself up from the grass, because my stomach hurt. I had been laughing harder than I had for several years. Walking up the porch, with Mike and my mother to either side of me, I murmured, “I’m thirsty now,” and went inside. I slammed the door shut behind me. It was several minutes before they felt safe enough to join me.