Rewriting Us

He strolled back to where we'd been standing, and spotted me behind the plant.

"I feel like pizza," I said with a smile. "But not here. Antonio's Pizza is the best. Let's get out of here."

***

Bono already knew Antonios. Two gorgeous waitresses and a third who was "only" hot greeted him. They spoke to him with a familiarity that was unmistakable. He ordered two large pizzas for the two of us.

As the smiling waitress took our orders to the kitchen, I said, "You do know you're paying for those pies, right? I mean you got no digits. You're getting no money."

He nodded and waved off the question. "It's all a numbers game, man. I'm telling you, a few nights out sarging with me and you'll see that it is fucking inevitable. You will be bringing a new hottie home every night. You're a good looking guy. I mean, looks aren't everything, but they sure won't hurt for you."

"Sarging" was a pick-up-artist industry term for going out to practice hitting on women.

"That's not going to happen, Bono. The bet wasn't about numbers. It was about you picking up the woman I chose. You lost." There was only one woman who interested me.

He made a sour face, like I was the one who had lost and was still losing. "Typical Nice Guy mentality, Don. It's never about the one woman. It's about women, and that's where your problem is. That woman was a hottie, no doubt. But you've got to let her go." He saw something in my face that spelled out: not an option for me. He rolled his eyes, and added, "At least until we get your head straight about women."

I had to admire his confidence, his certainty that he had found the way even though it had not gotten him what he insisted it would get him. When the food came he ate with great care to stay neat and clean. But he just kept eating and eating and eating, only pausing to drink. I managed half a pie plus one slice. All the rest went to Bono. You'd almost think he'd won the bet.

As he dabbed the last crumbs and moisture from his face I said, "Look, I see that you're on to something, Bono, but I'm not buying. I'm not looking to get involved in being a pick up artist. Maybe you don't have the sort of information I was looking for."

"Alright!" He slapped the table. "Fine. You don't want to get involved in my program, but since you won I'll share some basic tips, okay? Use 'em. Ignore 'em. Whatever. If they make some sense and can help you, great. One day, maybe, I'll see you locking lips with the hot momma in the flower dress. That would be cool for both of us."

And he laid out his top five tips.

1. Don't be a fucking liar, but it is not cool to dump all your cards on the table on hour one. Play a little. Give her the pleasure of learning new things about you gradually. Leave some room for mystery.

2. Don't apologize or lie about what you want. The nice guys who never get the girl pretend that they're not into her and apologize if they ever get up the nerve. You wanting her isn't offensive. It doesn't mean she has to feel the same way, but seeing your open interest will improve your chances of her getting into you. And no matter what, it's not something to say you're sorry for. Would you want to hear that someone is sorry that they want you?

3. If she says "No," you can accept it without giving up on your own pursuits and desires. "No" only means "No for now." Keep being someone she'd want and keep the door open, and she'll come to you when the time is right. Don't take that to mean you should be some kind of fucking stalker.

4. When she starts to show that she wants it to happen, pull back a little bit so she knows it's her choice. Pulling back from time to time can be key. The tension can be your friend whether it's short-game or long-game.

5. Use your head enough to know when to follow the rules and when to ignore them. If you don't have a head for that, develop one by going out and sarging with me.

I was never going to have a night out with Bono. By and large I found his pronouncements off putting. I didn't want to learn his tricks. They'd failed him for one thing! But also, the whole bet and conversation had made me realize that I really didn't know much about seducing women. Dating had come to me with ease because I'd always just paid enough attention to understand what the girl wanted.

I didn't really know what my mom wanted in a man let alone how I could persuade her to see me as a man in the first place. That was something I needed to learn! But how?

Hitting on random women with Bono wasn't going to help me with that. In fact, the next time I'd see him I would be in daylight. Avoiding him then would trip me into real turbulence.

Maybe his top five points would come in handy. I mulled them over as I drove home.

When I entered the house it was empty. I expected that my mother would be home sometime around now, give or take an hour. I spent the time looking over the twin bookcases we kept in the living room. It had always been loaded with thick, hard covered books I'd always been too intimidated to read. Philosophy books, some of the great classic English and American writers and a few self-help titles. The dictionary was the only one I'd ever dared to really read out of the bookshelves as a kid. But now I noticed that a lot of the old books were missing. The empty spaces had been filled by paperbacks (that I have to admit looked pretty trashy) Most of them were so-called romance novels; "Hollywood Wives," "Lace," "The Temptress," "Scandal in Spring" and many more. Most of the covers sported bare muscled chests of men and women in flowing dresses. The trashier the title the more dog-eared the book was. When had Mom gotten these? When had she put them in the bookshelf?

I assumed the missing books were with my dad. He had been out of the picture since I was 15. He'd made some halfhearted gestures at visiting and staying in contact the first few years after the divorce. Over time, though, he decided that the court-ordered financial support would be enough. We talked about twice a year; on my birthday if he remembered it and around New Years. It was always cordial. I didn't hate him like a lot of sons of divorced fathers. He'd chosen work over us while married to Mom. This was just more of the same.

Mom said he'd always had some weird issues with money. He hadn't neglected her out of a lack of loyalty or love. He just couldn't break free of the idea that success at work and money would answer all his problems, and the massive settlement of their divorce was just another manifestation of that idea. He was using money to soothe his grief at losing us. She had tried to reach out to him about it many times during their marriage and even once after the divorce, but she had to let him go his own way. "I don't hate him, Don," she'd told me. "Never tell him I said this, but I pity him. I always admired how focused he could be. In fact I hope that one day you will also find a passion and chase it down with the same intense focus your father has always had. But make sure that you are chasing what you love, what will make you happy. He always chases success to cover his unhappiness. But happiness brings success, not the other way around."

A few years later I found a passion for her, but I never gave a hint about it. I was bound to chase it down, but it was so audacious that I knew I had to tread lightly. I'd been treading so lightly for so long by now that it felt more like treading water.

So she had this house, and she had plenty of money; all courtesy of the divorce which was a move to improve her happiness...which it did. She'd opened up and become much happier in her years as a free woman. Some of the married couples she'd known had drifted away. She'd reestablished connection with some of her old friends. She dated a little, but none of the guys ever managed to get invited back to the house. When I joined the high school swim team she agreed to convert the basement into a workout room. Then she surprised me when she'd insisted on a schedule that would allow her to work out down there three days a week. I got the other four, and we both developed leaner and harder bodies over the same period of time, but never together.

With her books on my fingertips I was thinking about changing the workout schedule when she came home. She told me about Bono's approach, and I learned more about what she wants and looks for. I saw hope there, but it was all muddled together.

***

That night, I headed to bed early. I flipped through a book of quotes my father had given me when I was in middle school. He told me to put some of those quotes in my papers at school to bolster my grades. I'd flipped through it from time to time over the years. It was helpful because the publishers had arranged the index by theme. My brain was boiling with the input from Bono and my mother. I knew it added up to something, but I was too close to the trees to see whatever it was.

I looked for quotes about inspiration that might help me break through. I found a good one by Jack London: "You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club." I stuck the book back on the shelf, and plopped onto my bed. I went over the afternoon in my head again and again, trying to add it all up. I wrote down an abbreviated version of Bono's tips and details that had stuck out from my conversation with Mom. I felt an inexplicable certainty that the paper offered some kind of solution to the impossibility of my desires. I imagined it held a road sign or two to guide me along the way. It was in there somewhere. I just knew it had to be! After about an hour of staring at that damned piece of paper my eyes were closing on their own. Even under closed lids I could still remember every detail of the paper.

I ripped the sheet into tiny unremarkable bits, and stuffed them into the waste basket next to my desk.

I went to brush my teeth. Don't apologize or lie about what you want said Bono's pizza stuffed mouth at my ear. Understanding for its own sake, said Mom's wondering voice. Then Bono again: ...not cool to dump all your cards on the table on hour one. And again, Mom: I hope that one day you will also find a passion and chase it down with the same intense focus your father always had.

I spat out the toothpaste and shook my head. How did it all fit together? I stripped down and pulled on some flannel pajamas. I lay down in bed, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I thought and remembered and stirred it all around in my mind. It all became a kind of bizarre conversation between the three of us.

I was beginning to doze, and in the half-dream Bono was telling us of his conquests. At the same time that I was telling how I'd come to desire my mother. Mom, not wanting to be left out was telling bed time stories. The stories were mixing. Our voices and our words were overlapping.

And then my eyes popped open. I had it! Jack London would have been proud!

Chapter 2

Back in high school, Rich and I had a buddy from the swim team named Sonny. In our sophomore year Sonny's dad remarried; a gorgon of a woman. The new step-mom, for reasons I was never told, insisted that Sonny get rid of his porn. This, of course, included any pornographic materials he may have accumulated over the years. Maybe she was religious, or maybe she felt all porn degraded women or maybe she felt threatened by it.

At any rate, I was hanging out with Sonny in his room, and we were looking through his massive (at least to my eyes) comic book collection. Hundreds of comics were individually bagged and stuffed into four long boxes. The new dark queen of the castle strutted into Sonny's room and stared at us like we should already be apologizing for something. She was neither fat nor thin, but kind of lumpy; like someone had put her together in a sloppy and haphazard way. She wore a short dark purple dress that rode high enough on her thigh to show cottage cheese. Again, she wasn't obese. Her body was just neglected. One could imagine someone had flattened her face with a frying pan. The lips were beginning to swell from the impact and the eyes had never stopped bugging out in surprise.

She feigned polite inquisitiveness, catching a glance at each of our titles. Sonny was rereading an X-Men title, and I was trying to get my head around the West Coast Avengers. With nothing in our hands to snarl about, Step-Mommy-Dearest looked into one of the closed long boxes. At first there was only the sound of turning pages and thin plastic bags shifting in their cardboard boxes. Then Sonny's step-mother cried out, "What is this?"

She pulled from the front of the box a copy of Penthouse Letters.

"It's just stories, Franchesca!" Sonny sounded like Oliver Twist with an empty bowl in his hands.

She flipped through the pages. "No, there are pictures in here! You know that this stuff isn't allowed under this roof, Sonny."

"Look, I can block out the pictures with a marker. I just like the stories. Please, Fran..."

"No! It will still be filth, and you will still know what those pictures were. And it doesn't matter anyway, because it is pornography no matter how you slice it."

"Okay," said Sonny. The war had long ago been lost. There was no point in a battle here and now.

"I'm throwing this away right now. Next time I find something like this, we'll have to have a talk with your father."

She click-click-clicked away, and Sonny got off the bed and closed the bedroom door. He reached into the other end of the same box and pulled out a similar looking magazine.

"Here, Don. Take this. Hide it in your backpack, and get it out of here."

I took the proffered magazine, and read the title. Family Affair. It was the first time I had ever seen incest themed porn. "Kinky Moms and their Oversexed Sons" read one of the sub titles.

"Is this...?"

"Fran will flip right the fuck out if she sees that one."

"You want me to stash it somewhere for you?"

"No. It's yours now. Keep it, or throw it away if you're not into it. Just not in our garbage cans, okay?"

That event started a domino effect. It all lead me here, fronting as a know-it-all twenty-something without a care in the world. But behind the front I was struggling. I craved a different life with my mother; something the world would be sure to deny I had any business pursuing. My mother looked at me and could only see the boy. I flashed a cocky grin, but inside needed her to see that I had become a man - one who could be more to her than polite society could imagine. I acted cool, but inside I burned.

But how would I get her to see without demolishing the love and friendship we already shared?

Bono had been a flop, but had led to useful information and a few insights. His attempts had even led to my mother shedding light on the key elements of what she would need to see.

And now last night's inspiration drew a clear picture for me of how to finally chase my most secret dream.

I trotted down the steps into the living room. The mixture of eggs and cheese and toast wafted in from the kitchen. It smelled like heaven.

I walked in and saw my mother's sweet bubble bouncing under her pajama bottomss to an imagined tune. Her back was to me as she prepared our breakfast.

"Peeyoo! What stinks in here!?" I said to her golden locks.

She didn't miss a beat. "Eggs, baby doll, which are breath mints compared to your garbage breath in the morning."

I poked her in the ribs, and got a shout and a giggle. "I'll have you know I brushed my teeth before coming down here."

"Good." She pretended to sniff in my direction. "You may want to brush them again, handsome, unless you think you could stomach eating my foul smelling eggs."

I plopped into my seat at the table where plates, silverware, napkins and glasses were waiting. "I guess I'll try. Maybe the foul eggs will mix well with my garbage breath, and it'll taste good to me."

"Ooookay," she said, as she scraped cheddar scrambled eggs onto the plate. "Enough, okay, bud?"

"Sure."

"I would like to enjoy my breakfast without the disgusting talk." She scraped the rest of the eggs onto her plate, and headed back to the stove to return the pan and get toast from the toaster.

"Okay, Mom. It smells great," I said, picking up my fork, and stabbing at my eggs. "and I've got some news that you may like."

She placed a small plate of toast and the butter dish between our places. "Yeah? Since last night?"

"Yeah, I had an epiphany as I was dozing off."

"What about?

"Okay. You know how you've said that you wished that I would find a passion and chase it down with intensity like Dad?"

My mother held still for a moment, a glob of egg on her fork hovered over her plate. "Yes."

"Well, I know what I'm going to do."

She looked apprehensive, but she put the egg in her mouth and raised her eyebrows at me.

"I am going to write a book."

She chewed, and studied me like a crossword problem. "A book?"

"Yeah! I have an idea for a story and everything. This afternoon is my American Lit class. I'm going to hit up the professor for tips and ideas and useful information after class. He's a published author, and also teaches some of the creative writing courses. At the least he should be able to direct me to some useful books and web sites on the subject."

As I spoke, her posture relaxed. "Sounds like a plan."

"Well it isn't much of a plan yet, but it's a plan on how to build a plan. I'm not messing around about this, Mom. I'm going to do this. I'm going to chase this down like a...one of those dogs that..."

"a bloodhound?"

"Yeah!"

"I'm not an author, but it may be useful for you to download a thesaurus app to your phone."

"Not necessary. There are dozens of sites like that online."

"Wow, Don. I haven't seen you this excited about a project since you were in grade school."

"And focused, Mom. I'm going to make you proud of me. I will get this done, and I will make it a good one. I might even try to make a career out of it."

"I'm already proud of you sweetie, but I'm glad that you seem to have found a passion."

"I have found my passion." But I held the true passion between my teeth. Bono was again in my thoughts, it is not cool to dump all your cards on the table on hour one. "I know that this will be hard, but I'm ready for this marathon."

Mom's eggs were getting cold as she stared at me. I was a whole new animal sitting in front of her. It was an animal she was glad to see, but it wasn't enough for me by half. She didn't know it, but the marathon had already begun.

"Okay, honey! I'm so thrilled for you. That's great! Let me know if there's some way I can help you. What kind of book will it be? What will it be about?"

"It's going to be a romance."

"A wha...You? I mean, Don, are you...are you sure? You want to write a romance novel?"

I shrugged, and looked her dead in the eye. Don't apologize or lie about what you want. "Yeah, why not?"

She seemed taken aback for a second. She looked down at the table, as if gathering her words from her plate. "Uh... I guess, no reason. It's just that, well, sweetheart...you know I love you, but to be honest, I've seen the way you are around your friends. You've never kept a girlfriend longer than a month or two, and there has been no shortage of them. I know you're a well-built young guy, and, well, it seems like you can be sweet and loving. And the girls seem happy for the short time you give them. But romance doesn't seem to be your thing...Yet! I mean you're bound to learn it as you get older."

She didn't want to hurt me, but I knew the image I'd been projecting the last few years. If it hurt, I had no one to blame but myself. "Well, maybe you can help me out with that."