Believe it or not ...

Jerry looked out of the corner of his eye. Mother sat in her high-backed chair, snoring away like a saw on a rotten old tree. The television blared her favorite re-run, some insipid 1972 episode of The Lawrence Welk Show. Jerry felt the window of opportunity screaming at him. Hurry up and take the plunge, old boy, she’ll wake up with a regurgitated snort at the next commercial break when Madge is hocking her Palmolive nonsense. Jerry could taste the sweet smell of a raucous Saturday night on the town with the boys.

Thank the Lord and Mother’s compulsive neatness that Jerry was in his socks and could tiptoe quietly out of the room and down the stairs to the basement. He put on his best disco wear. He’d take the train into Manhattan and meet the boys at the Stonewall. Of course she’d wake up some time before he made it home, but who cared? It was easier asking for forgiveness than for permission.

After dressing he looked at himself in the mirror. A rust red leisure suit, a pale blue silk shirt with a fabulous wide collar, and black shoes with 2-inch heels. He put on his gold chains. Why, he’d never looked better. Three months in his mother’s prison and, finally, his back had healed enough that the doctor said he could go out. Maybe the boys would have some weed or Quaaludes for him ... now that’d be one hell of a trip.

He took the shoes off. Going up the stairs, he’d make too much noise in these shoes. He’d put them back on when he got to the door. So he tiptoed up the stairs and, turning the corner after he reached the top, he stared her in the face.

She had on her pointy glasses and made a sugar bowl out of her body – both hands on hips, her mouth two thin lines pulled down on both sides, spider veins on the sides of her nose. She really needed to stop drinking so much scotch. And the pink bathrobe from the ‘50s and those bunny rabbit slippers. Jerry would rather face the Manson gang than this apparition.

“Where in the name of Jesus H. Chris do you think you’re going?” Mother said. “You march right back downstairs and take that hippie outfit off and put something normal on.”

“Mother, I’m 25 years old,” Jerry said. “I’m only going into the city to spend an evening with the boys.”

“You spend way too much time with ‘the boys.’ Didn’t anyone ever tell you, it’s not healthy to spend so much time with men?”