Justin & Joan & Jones

Friday night, trapped at home.

Mom stumbles over to the BSR, 45 in her hand.

Parrot label. Must be... has to be Tom, right?

Maybe Englebert? No, not Englebert.

She’s on her fourth Screwdriver, WAY past Englebert.

She slips the 45 over the spindle, then hits the switch.

The tonearm lifts up, hovers a moment, snaps down on the outer groove.

The room fills with the sound of surface noise, then

Just help yourself...

…as my mother dances in place

shaking, shimmying, pursing her lips, mouthing the words.

Friday night

in our living room,

her boyfriend,

(his wife at home,

drinking herself to death)

slumps in his corner of couch, legs crossed,

eyes fixed, bleary half-crooked smile

puffing a Parliament.

He lays brick for a living,

cement cakes his boots.

Pocket-T-shirt pocket sags

with the auxiliary smokes.

He’s worn a groove in the couch.

"Just help myself, huh?"

he cackles, smoothes back his thinning hair.

thrusts his tumbler at my mother.

She stops dancing, says,

"Can't you get up just one time, you S.O.B.?!"

Justin answers, still holding the glass at arm's length.

"Joan, I've been working all day."

"What the hell do you think I'VE been doing?!"

My mother grabs his glass, goes back for her own.

Justin lights another smoke, notices his ashtray overflowing,

picks it up, adds "Joan!"

My mother doubles back.

"Give me that fucking thing!"

Off to the kitchen, butts SLAM in can,

freezer door YANKED open, gallon of Smirnoff slides out.

Then the metal ice trays.

THWACK on the table-top,

contents CRACK

into a green bucket, gold trim.

"How many?!" she calls.

"The usual." he responds.

"The usual." she groans.

CLINK CLINK CLINK CLINK

Now the vodka–

three fingers (maybe four).

Same for herself, then OJ to the top.

And back to Justin.

I huddle in my room nowhere to go,

no money to spend–14 year-old fat kid

strumming his guitar to Physical Graffiti

blasting from home-built speakers not nearly loud enough.

"Did I tell you what that bastard said to me at work today?!"

"Which one?!"

"What do you mean 'which one'?! Bernie! Who else?!"

"How the hell should I know, Joan?"

"How the hell should you know?!"

"Get out!

Get your fucking shit and GET OUT!"

"Calm down, Joan. Give me my drink."

She hands him the ashtray, fuming, then the glass, adding

"Get the next one yourself!"

Over to the turntable, she lifts the needle up, wanting the same song.

In that instant she hears Jimmy Page wailing, yells,

"Turn that shit down!"

I hear her (it's impossible NOT to) but don't respond.

"DID YOU HEAR ME?!"

Then the footsteps–

heavy, dreaded–

pound up the hall.

My door is thrown open.

My mother, bleary-eyed, yells,

"TURN THAT SHIT DOWN!"

"But I can hear you when I turn it down!"

"That's TOUGH SHIT.

If you don’t like it here LEAVE!

Go live with your father!"

The door is SLAMMED in my face.

Back in the living room

Tom starts a new one.

We're always told repeatedly the very best in life is free...

I plug in my headphones but it's no use–

I can feel them.