On Betrayal

At the nexus of scat and surgery, what/who is this I?

I knew a guy who told me of his experience with appendicitis as a child.  He was 11 years old.  He’s just living his life, being a kid, and out of nowhere comes a terrible sickness. Vomiting, fever, body-wracking pain.  He's rushed to the hospital and there they discover that his appendix is about to burst and must be removed.  Immediately.  So, some part of him, some UNNECCESSARY part which he can obviously live without, since they can remove it and he shall keep on living, it appears, was trying to kill him.  Almost succeeded in killing him.    That was the feeling/thought he was left with.  His own body tried to kill him.  His self tried to kill itself.  A most terrible betrayal.

That boy grew up and started writing poems.   Short stories.  Detective novels. 

I can't remember exactly when it was that mom began wearing shit on her face.

It was sometime shortly after divorcing my father that's for sure. They had been at each other for months. The whole thing was aggravated by the planning and construction of an addition to our house, admittedly a stressful time for any couple. Of course, nothing was ever on schedule, and the contractor my father had settled on was horrible; the entire project was already costing twice as much as the initial proposal and looked months from completion. Furthermore, the neighbors began complaining about sight lines, which caused problems in obtaining permits, and plans had to be changed, new blueprints were drawn up at the last minute. None of which is free. The addition itself was to be a master bedroom. It would extend thirty feet into the backyard, taking up half of the remaining lot. The only thing that ever went back there was my brother's dog. They already bought the bed: a giant wooden frame shaped like a sled. They had it shipped in from Pennsylvania. Now it sat in pieces in my brother's old room. There was going to be a beautiful new bathroom lined with Mexican tiles. A walk in closet. A ceiling fan. New rug. A set of French doors to look out on the yard. A middle class family waits their whole life for a remodel. It's what you work for; slave like a dog at your nine to five in hopes to one day take a cruise and add on to your house. It gave focus and reason to the ridiculous commutes, the overtime, the incompetent bosses. It helps to justify the empty work performed day in and day out, laboring for another family, while your kids went to public school and looked out for themselves. When my brother shaved his head and started getting into fights, we all said it was a phase. And we were right. You should see him now. Got a job in accounting at a car dealership in Monrovia. Makes over 40,000 a year. Wears a suit and has a nice haircut, up and over the ears. Sometimes people can't handle their situation and feeling trapped, they do something drastic to break away. I can tell you its not easy dealing with a parent who goes around with shit smeared across their mouth and over their eyes. She was given notice at work last week. I thought this would be the final straw. Enough with the shitface. But instead, she sucked in her gut, applied more crap, and got a job at Parks and Recreation.

Lately, I've seen her in the backyard collecting what the dog has left behind. She keeps it next to the bed in a brown paper sack. And sometimes, at night, after a steamy shower, she relaxes against her pillows with a good book, secretly dipping her hand into the little brown sack.

Such are the devastations of an inner betrayal. 

(“Scat” by Gordon Torncello,  reprinted with permission of the author)