You know what they say about the road to Hell and good intentions?
Well, they were talking about my mother, Mona.
Her good intentions. My hell.
That woman has driven me to the brink so many times it's amazing I haven't pulled the trigger. Just think, if I had, I be getting three squares, plenty of unstructured time, a bit of fresh air, some interesting new friends. And at six feet, I'd look hot in an orange jumpsuit.
Yep, life with Mona makes jail seem like a Four Seasons.
However, even though I've managed to walk the fine line of restraint, it's not my virtue that keeps us on an even keel. It's actually Mona's.
Virtue, not a word I thought I would ever use to describe a fifteen-year-old hooker who unexpectedly became a mother. But the happy event of my birth occurred far enough in the past to give us both distance and perspective. How far back, you ask? Well, as Mona would say, let's leave age out of it. But trust me when I tell you life with Mother was a series of misadventures best viewed through the prism of time.
I don't remember exactly when it dawned on me that my life was far from normal. Mona named me Lucky—that should've been the first sign, but I don't really do subtle, so I breezed by that one.
For the first ten years of my life or so, I thought my 'family' was pretty average. Of course, my 'family' consisted of a mother, fifteen years my senior and a retired hooker, now madam of an eponymous establishment in Pahrump, Nevada, where prostitution is legal, several dozen 'aunts' who came and went, literally, and a tough old crow who cooked for us. The sole male figure in my formative years was a gentleman named Lenny the Slicer.
Before you jump to conclusions, let me tell you, by Nevada standards, that was a fairly traditional childhood. Okay, perhaps that's a bit of wishful thinking. However, since we all are the products of where we've been, and I'm not an axe-murderer or a porn star, I think I turned out pretty well, all things considered.
After all, I'm a Vice President at the Babylon, Las Vegas' premier Strip property. Of course, I do have some unique views of men—I've been told that most shrinks would consider me an annuity. Personally, I don't see it, but, then again, I live in a perpetual state of delusion. What can I say? It's one of those self-preservation life skills.
Besides, most other red-blooded, marginally well-adjusted adult females have issues with their mothers. I'm no different. Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing, I haven't a clue. It's just a real thing. And I take some comfort in it—and I delight in the thought of watching a silver-spooned Summerlin gal try Mona on for size…that would make a YouTube viral video for sure.
But, while Mona has the unerring ability to push every button I've got, she also has an uncanny knack for pulling her tush out of the fire before she gets roasted. All because she does what she does for the right reasons. Oh, she may not start off that way—she has a near fatal case of leap-before-you-look disease. But in the end, somehow it all comes out right. And while good intentions pave the road to Hell, they also line the path to redemption.
Take for instance, the time Mona heard that all the mothers were raising money for a Brownie troop. I was Brownie age, so Mona had to jump on the wagon. Of course no one asked me if I wanted to be a Brownie (I would've rather sewn my eyelids shut). Mona simply assumed I would want to join in. But, as her child, I carried the taint. No invitation came my way. To be honest, whether I wanted to be a part or not, the exclusion hurt.
Anyway, you can imagine how welcoming the mothers of the other girls were to Mona. After all, they were not only mothers; they were wives.
Personally, I was satisfied at the uneasy co-existence, more than happy to let them pretend Mother and I didn't exist. Mother, on the other hand, had a low tolerance for hypocrisy. If the town was going to live off the license fees collected from the skin trade, then according to Mona's way of thinking, it was very bad form to treat us as outcasts. She sorta had a point.
Mother didn't understand the nuances of self-preservation like I did, or she didn't care. Either way, she was hell-bent on kicking some local butt, and I was along for the ride.
The beating heart of Pahrump, Nevada was the Piggly Wiggly Grocery Store on the main drag through town, Highway 160—the road to Death Valley. Somehow that seemed appropriate: we might not have lived in Hell, but we certainly perched on the outskirts. And I wallowed in the irony.
One of the managers was a client of ours, so Mona applied the thumbscrews and got him to agree to let us hold a bake sale in front of the store one Saturday morning. As luck would have it, the sun rose that day. We set up our picnic tables. Each of Mona's girls had baked a favorite. They busied themselves setting out their concoctions, vying for the best spots, the most visible locations. Most of them wore Daisy Duke shorts and halter-tops. I was amazed. They only put on clothes for dignitaries and heads of state—I was touched.
Saturday was a busy shopping morning so a crowd soon gathered. The men looked curious and amused—a few of them looked guilty. The women scowled. Arms crossed tightly across their chests, they tilted their heads back slightly so they could peer down their noses. Soon the Sheriff arrived. He double-parked his car and leaned against the hood, eyeing the girls with a studious look as if he was a 4-H judge choosing a prize heifer.
From behind the tables, the girls called to the crowd. "Devil's Food cupcakes, a little bit of sin to take home," one of them cooed, making me cringe.
She was right; I'd tried them. Okay, I'd eaten two, and they were sinful, I just didn't think promoting yet another form of sin was going to endear us to the locals.
"And these brownies, " another chimed in. "No calories at all, I promise." Mother hadn't let me try those, I don't know why.
The crowd remained unmoved. A concrete moat separated us from them. From her post by the doors to the supermarket, Mona eyed the crowd as she chewed on a fingernail. I could almost see the wheels turning, which had me scared.
After a bit, the girls lost their enthusiasm and fell silent. For a moment we were frozen, unsure. Then a weak voice sounded from the back of the crowd. "Excuse me. Let me through, please."
Heads turned. The crowd parted. "Excuse me." The voice kept saying as someone moved toward the front. Finally, a small woman broke through and stepped into the space between us.
Mrs. Watkins. The Reverend's wife.
I couldn't believe it. As timid as a two-year-old clinging to her mother's skirts, the woman never spoke to anyone. And for sure she never sought to bring attention to herself.
The Missus took a breath, squared her boney shoulders. Absently, she brushed down her threadbare dress. Pulling her wallet from the black patent leather purse on her arm, she squeezed open the catch and pulled out some coins. "The brownies are fifty cents?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'll take two."
And that brought down the wall. The crowd surged in behind her.
The brownies were the most popular. The crowd seemed to grow happier the more brownies they ate. To this day, Mona swears there were no 'secret ingredients' in those chocolate morsels, but I have my doubts. I know my mother.
Several high school boys showed up with instruments and the town partied the day away in front of the Piggly Wiggly.
We raised more money than had ever been raised at a Bake Sale before. And, somehow, Mona had brokered a truce between the girls and the locals. Don't get me wrong, we weren't ushered into the fold, but we weren't outcasts anymore, which was nice. And, much to my horror and Mona's delight, I was crowned a newly-minted Brownie.
Another success for Mona.
I can't say Take Your Daughter To Work Day turned out quite as well.
But that's another story.
