Until twenty three, my mother could beat me in arm wrestling, her bicep the size of a hamster, so puny, no more than a clump of hamburger meat sagging down the middle of her bone. Cackle and squeal she would upon each petty victory, cig smoke train-chuffing from her mouth and nose and ears. “Pussy,” she’d say. “Pussy,” and mean it.
All those years, I’d lift weights and drink protein shakes. I’d baby-bawl, I would, and say prayers, but nothing worked, not until I put that mirror in my mouth, glass the size of a doll’s compact. Palm-to-palm, our arms lanced like a mating eels, we followed a similar trajectory until I parted my jaws with the mirror on my tongue, played Mom a movie, a biography, of her beating me—head hand face arm chest leg groin–her fists blazing, nails ripping, working out her own black victory.
Damn, Len, you do it time and time again. Razzle dazzle us all with your magical wit and talent. Way to go!