The Winner: Part Twenty-Six

Two hours later, I’ve gone from the five-star luxury of the Brown Palace to the five crack pipe squalor of the Lazy-U. I see Sergei on the sidewalk just outside the front office, talking to some guys with buzz-cuts and track suits that just scream Russian mob underling a mile away. I don’t think he notices me as I pull into the lot in the minivan. I don’t wave to him or say hi as I open the door to get out, but he has crept up on me.

“Mr. Poopy!” he says. “So glad to see you! Why you come visit us today?” He’s his usual stupid, jovial self, but I can tell he has something else on his mind other than how I’m doing today.

“I’m just here to see my mother,” I say. “Gotta help her change her bandages and stuff.”

“Definitely. I understand. One must take care of the woman from whose loins they’ve emerged.” Sergei looks down and shuffles his feet. “Mr. Poopy, I have something I need to ask you. It concerns your mother.”

I look at him in a state of panic. “She hasn’t been out of her room, has she? Tell me she hasn’t left the room!” I’m worried because my plan to get out of this mess partially depends on that.

“No, no. The maid doesn’t even go to clean her room. She just leaves fresh linens outside her door. I haven’t so much as seen her go to the soda machine.”

“She wouldn’t go to the soda machine,” I say. “She’s on a diet.”

“No. The problem is…well, you know how I run this place for my uncle Igor?”

I nod.

“Well, the credit card you gave me to hold your mother’s room has declined every time we’ve run it these past two weeks.”

“Don’t worry, Serg,” I say, trying to think of something I can string him along with. “I’ve been having some problems with my card lately. I had my identity stolen by some asshole who opened up, like, ten cards in my name and maxed them out in a couple of days. I had the bank cancel all my accounts until I get it cleared up. Apparently this is done by guys who specifically target lottery winners.”

Sergei smiles. “I know your good for the money. It’s just my uncle, he goes over the books and sees I’m letting a room go without payment for a couple of weeks. I try to explain him, ‘this room is for Mr. Poopy’s mother and Mr. Poopy is rich’. But he say, ‘if Mr. Poopy is so rich, then how come he don’t pay for the room?’”

I shrug. “I don’t know Sergei. You know I’ve got the money to cover it, my bank is just dragging their feet. In fact, I’m going right over there after I’m done here to scream at them until they get this shit taken care of.”

Sergei lights up. “So you think you could have some money for me today?”

Fuck, that’s not what I meant, but I try to go along with it. “Yeah. I’m gonna tell them I either want my accounts re-opened or I want someone’s job. I’m not taking shit from these people any more. However, on the off-chance they don’t budge and I have to call my lawyer…”

“You mean Hirsch?” Sergei says, excited. “You talk with him then?”

I gotta stop digging myself into a hole. “Yeah, Hirsch. I finally got a hold of him. You want to know what that prick is doing? He’s overseas, blowing all of the retainer I gave him in Thai whorehouses. After giving him all that money, he actually had the balls to leave me a voicemail telling me not to bother him until he’s back in the states on the twenty-fifth. That guy’s a piece of work. I’d hire someone else if I had enough money for another retainer.”

“Really,” Sergei says. “He’s always been reliable for us. A bit too much of a workaholic actually. We’ve always said the guy needs to take a break sometime.”

Shit. “Well, he’s taking one now. Anyway, if the bank people don’t budge, you think you can hold your uncle off for another week.”

“My uncle can always send some of my little cousins to the bank,” Sergei says. “My cousins might be even a bit more convincing than a lawyer.”

I shake my head. “You can’t be sending thugs to the bank for me. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Yes, but they are preventing you from paying us, so it is our problem as much as it is yours.”

“Come on, Sergei,” I say. “My bill can’t be much more than a grand. Your sneaker collection probably costs more.”

“You cannot put a price on honor,” he says.

“Seriously, Sergei. If they don’t budge, I’ll call you. Otherwise, just let me handle it my way. Now I really have to tend to my mother. She gets a rash if I don’t get fresh bandages on her daily.”

“Very well, Mr. Poopy. You will keep me informed,” Sergei says. I’m a bit distressed that his usual genial suck-up ness has eroded somewhat during the course of the conversation. Still, I’m not too worried. It’s not many people who are in such deep shit that they can say that the Russian mob is the least of their worries.

Once Sergei has turned away and is heading back to his buddies by the office, I reach back into the car and pull out a large suitcase. I purchased it at the mall before I came over to the Lazy U. It’s not fancy, but is very well made and sturdy (and cost me about three hundred dollars which was the lions share of the remainder of my money, so I’ll have to live on ramen and mac and cheese for the next few days). I set it on the ground and lock the minivan, then take it up to my mother’s door and rap on it with my knuckles until I hear the deadbolt slide back.

“Poopy,” my mom says. “I was wondering where…”

I plow through the door, pushing her back into the room and I slam the door behind me. She starts to protest, but I put up my finger to shush her. Then I go to the TV, turn it on and crank the volume up uncomfortably loud.

“Mom, I have to ask you something. Have you left this room for any reason in the last week?”

“No, Poopy,” she says. “You know I’m in no condition to go anywhere.”

“Are you sure? Nobody knows what you look like now? You haven’t talked to anyone?”

“No. But my skin is feeling better now, see…” She peels off the bandages on her face and it’s true. The swelling and inflammation have gone away. The sutures where they cut and tucked away her skin are fading into mere creases that you almost have to squint to see. Whatever those Body Eternal people were up to, their plastic surgery seems to be top notch.

“I saw this thing on the TV about a Christian singles gathering next week, and I was thinking that if I keep making progress, I might go to it. Maybe get you a new daddy. I think the source of a lot of your problems is that you never had a good father figure in your life.”

I could scream at her for an hour about that subject, but I’m too busy searching the room for bugs or hidden cameras to even listen to her. I’ll have to believe her that she hasn’t left the room, and that would make it very hard for anyone to wire up the room. I see a takeout bag with some plastic containers of sprout and kale salad and the idea that someone might have bugged the takeout bag goes through my mind, so I pick it up stick the bag in the shower and turn it on. Hopefully, if the bag was bugged, the water shorted it out.

“Poopy! What on Earth are you doing?”

I take a second to breathe. Okay, this is paranoia. I try to remind myself that Burke has more control over me by giving me the impression that he can be everywhere and anywhere. Unfortunately, much of that paranoia seems to be justified, but I’ll just have to take my chance if I’m gonna get out of this.

“Mom, sit down. I need to talk with you. I need your help. I’m in big trouble.”

“Of course. But you should turn down the TV first, I can barely hear you.”

“No,” I say, sitting on the bed next to her. “I have to take precautions. You’ll know why when I explain this all to you.”

“Poopy…you’re not going to have to go away to jail again, are you?”

“No. It’s much worse than that. I might get killed.”

My mom gasps and looks like she’s about to scream, but I quickly put a hand over her mouth. “Now, when I tell you everything that’s happening, it’s going to sound insane. Don’t say anything until I’m finished. You’ll just have to believe that it’s the truth and if I’m going to get out of it, I’m going to need you to help me and trust me and not make a sound. Do you understand?”

My mom nods, but I can see the terror in her eyes. I slowly take my hand off her mouth, and while her lips are quivering, it looks like she’ll be able to hold in her scream.

I put my hands in my lap and rub my palms together and begin. I run down the basics of my dilemma: that I’m being blackmailed by a conspiracy that wants me to use my newfound wealth to get access to the president so that I can kill him. I tell her Apple (although in the version I tell her, she’s just my girlfriend: I leave out the part about hiring Sergei to kill her boyfriend of course) and I tell her about how they kidnapped her babies and said they would kill them if I didn’t do what I say. I don’t mention to my mother that they plan on killing her too, since that would just freak her out and make her useless. I tell her that things are already set in motion and that I’ll be going to see the President in just a few days and that if I’m gonna get out of this, it’s gotta be now.

All in all, I think my mother took it okay. She gasps from time to time when I go through my horrific story, but she doesn’t go completely apeshit and break down like I thought she would. “Poopy…” she says like she’s gonna hyperventilate. “Why don’t you just go to the police?”

“I tried to tell the FBI. They cut off one of the babies arms and sent it to me in a box for even trying,” I tell her, exasperated. “These people have moles in every agency of the government. Going to the police is not an option, mother!”

“But how are you going to get out of having to kill that wonderful man George Bush?” my mom sobs.

“I told you mom, I have a plan and I need you to help me.”

“But your plan won’t work, Poopy. I know it.” Now she starts crying for real.

“You haven’t even heard it yet, how do you know?”

“Because you’re not smart, Poopy. You’re going to faaaaaiil!”

I jump off the bed and start screaming. “Dammit, mother! Why do you have to do this shit? You don’t know, maybe I’ll pull it off. I know I’ll fail if I don’t do anything! You’ve never had any faith in me!”

“No, Poopy,” she says. “I don’t have any faith in your schemes. I have faith in the good things, you and my lord Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, you have faith in Jesus. Nice…” I say, rolling my eyes. “Well then, oh wise one, what would Jesus do if he was put in this situation? Walk on some fucking water? Burn a fucking bush? You think that will convince these people?”

“I think Jesus would have you try and reason with those men,” she says, quietly. “You said this man, Von Hortzmeister hates you…”

“Hertzwelder, mom. Van Hertzwelder.”

“Did you ever think that maybe all he really wants is an apology?”

I start to laugh in her face. “An apology? Yeah. I just go up to him and say, ‘hey, sorry I killed your son. My bad. Think you can let me off the hook?’ That will work.”

“You didn’t really kill his son…did you?”

“No! Of course not. How can you even ask me that? I guarantee you can look at the death certificate on him and it will say ‘by self inflicted wounds’. I had nothing to do with killing him because he wasn’t killed. He committed suicide.”

“Then that’s perfect,” she says. “Just get the death certificate and show it to him and then he’ll know you didn’t do it and maybe he’ll be more reasonable.”

I shake my head. “No. He knows his son died because of suicide. He thinks he committed suicide because of me. He thinks I raped him while we were cellmates.”

“You didn’t rape him, did you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it rape. He got something out of it too.”

My mother doesn’t respond. I look over at her and see her jaw has dropped. “What?” I sneer.

“P-poopy…you mean you’re a…homo-faggot?”

Why the fuck did I even decide to open my big mouth today? “No. I’m not gay mom. You know that.”

“But you just said ‘he got something out of it too.’ Did you have homo-sex with that boy?”

How the fuck am I gonna explain this one? I sit down next to my mother. “Look, mom. You don’t know what it’s like on the inside. I didn’t see a woman for months. You don’t know what it’s like when you can’t even jerk off in private. I had to do what I had to do while I was in there. It doesn’t make me gay. I assure you, I was on the giving end of that stuff.” I won’t make explaining this harder by telling her about how I was on the receiving end of a lot of it with my next cellmate.

“But if you have sex with a man, that makes you a faggot. That’s what James Dobson says…”

I groan. “That guy is a moron and he’s never been in prison either. When you’re locked up, you have to do what you have to do and the only people you have to do it with are other dudes, so that’s what you do.”

My mother buries her face in her hands and begins sobbing hysterically. It’s different than the crying she did earlier. These are hopeless tears that make me want to die a little inside. I let her do it for awhile before I put my hand on her shoulder. She flinches away from me.

“Come on, mom. Talk to me.”

“My…my son is a diseased homosexual and he’s going to Hell…”

“I told you mom. I’m not gay. It’s not like I have sex with dudes when there’s women available.”

“It doesn’t matter…” my mom protests. “You’re gay and you’re going to Hell. Oh Lord! What did I do wrong?”

I’ve been trying to keep my composure, but I finally just go nuts. “What did you do wrong? What the fuck did you do wrong? You really need god to tell you what you did wrong with me?”

She doesn’t respond. She just keeps crying and I keep ranting.

“Well, I’ll tell you then. Let’s start with how for most of your life you couldn’t be bothered to put down a whiskey bottle long enough to hold down a job. No, wait. You did have a job some of the time. You were able to make some decent money fucking guys for money while I played in the other room. You didn’t try very hard to hide that from me. Hell…you used to make me FUCKING WATCH YOU!”

Through her tears, she struggles to let out an “I’m sorry…” But I ignore it and go on.

“Eventually you had to stop even doing that because you got so fat that guys wouldn’t even pay you half a pack of cigarettes for sex, so you just sat around collecting welfare and drinking even more. Remember when I had an accident in my pants when I was five? Remember how you shoved a broom handle up my ass and made me sit with it there for an entire day because you thought it would keep me plugged up so I wouldn’t do it again? Remember that, because I sure do. In fact, I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO SHIT STRAIGHT AGAIN BECAUSE OF THAT. I’M TWENTY-SIX AND I’M FUCKING INCONTINENT!”

“BUT POOPY!” she says. “I WASN’T SAVED BY THE BLOOD OF CHRIST THEN!”

I start to laugh cruelly at her. “Oh, yeah. Getting ‘saved by the Lord’ fixes fucking everything. All giving you’re life to god ever did for you is get you to watch the 700 Club instead of Ricki Lake while you got drunk and sat on the couch all day. That and give you some misplaced moral righteousness towards everyone around you.”

“STOP IT POOPY! PLEASE STOP IT! I’M SO SORRY!”

But I don’t stop. I couldn’t stop it even if I tried. The stress of everything that’s happening to me, as well as over twenty-years of pent up anger is flowing out of me like a flood.

“Do you think, ‘I’m sorry’ will cut it? Do you think that people should just let shit go just because you tell them you’re sorry? You know, maybe you are right. Maybe that’s the solution to all my problems! Let’s give it a shot…”

I drop to my knees on the brown shag motel carpet, clasp my hands together and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Oh Father who art in Heaven! Please forgive me for all my sins! I am but a lowly sinner and I beg you to let me be born again, just as your Son who died for my sins. I accept Jesus into my heart oh heavenly Father! Take my life and make it yours oh Lord!” I fling my arms up into the air dramatically and wait for the spirit to take me, not that it does. Not that I was expecting it to. I look over at my mother. “Oh. Nothing’s changed. I’m still neck deep in shit with no hope of getting out of it. So I guess your idea for making everything better is completely fucked, mom. Just like you. JUST LIKE YOU.”

Perhaps watching me lose control has helped my mom regain it somewhat. Her tears seem to have dried up into just sniffles. “Poopy,” she says earnestly. “That’s not how it works…”

“How’s it supposed to work then, mom? How is anything in this fucked up world supposed to work? And don’t you dare try and give me an answer since you’re the cause of so much of the fucked-upness of this world. You and ignorant, gluttonous, hate breeding scum just like you!”

My mom doesn’t flinch away from my tirade. Instead, she puts her hand over my head, running her fingers calmly behind my ear. The effect, strangely enough, seems to blunt some of the rage I feel.

“Poopy. I know I haven’t done right by you,” she says. “I know you’re not hearing it, but I really am sorry. I’m sorry about all the things I did to you growing up. I know I wasn’t a perfect mother…”

“No, you were light-years away from being a perfect mother…” I start, but she keeps touching my head and I don’t continue on with my rant.

“You’re right. I was a horrible mother. I’m surprised that you even speak to me, and I thank the Lord that He has blessed me to keep you in my life, no matter how angry you are at me.”

“There’s nobody keeping you in my life,” I growl. “Mom, no God or bullshit in the sky is keeping me around you, and personally, I think I should have my head examined by still talking to you.”

“It doesn’t matter Poopy,” my mom says, soothingly. “However He has put the universe in order, God has played a hand in keeping you with me, and I’m grateful because it gives me a chance for redemption.” She pats the bed next to her. “Sit up here with me.”

I’m still pissed at her, but I get off my knees and sit up on the bed next to her anyway. She puts her arms around me and hugs me tight against her. Despite how disgusting I find her bandages, I don’t back away. In fact I hug her tight too. Goddammit, I’m even starting to cry.

She whispers. “I love you Poopy. Even if you are a faggot.”

I’d protest, but I feel too weak to. Eventually, she lets go of me.

“Now, what do you need me to do to help you get out of the mess you’ve made?”

I breathe for a second. I’d almost forgotten about all of that. I look over to the empty suitcase sitting on the bed and pull it over to me.

“Okay, mom. I know my idea isn’t perfect, but this is what I need you to do…”