One of the most show stopping things my son ever said to me was this: “You do know I win all the childhood-stories-in-bars contests, right?”
I was equally delighted and horrified by this statement. As a writer, I was impressed with what a punch he could pack into so few words. As his mother, I felt understandably defensive.
It took years for me to come up with the perfect response. Which, before I share it, let me tell you about one of my favorite expressions. It’s French so I can’t even pronounce it, but I still love it. Esprit de l’escalier. Essentially that translates to “your moment on the stairs” or “staircase wit.” It describes the feeling you have when you come up with a clever comeback to something too late to deliver it. Like someone says something stupid and/or outrageous at a party but you only think of a sublime riposte as you are descending the stairs post-party, heading out into the night.
How I wish the original conversation had gone like this.
Son: You do know I win all the childhood-stories-in-bars contests, right?
Spike: Yeah, well that’s just because you never went out drinking with me, son.
It’s all moot now as we’ve both been sober for ages. But in the fantasy version of that bar competition, I’d beat the kid by more than a few nose lengths. And while I’m sorry for the shit that rained down in his life thanks to some very poor choices on my part, I take some comfort in knowing that some of the wild stories to which he refers are of the good variety.
His was not a typical childhood. For all the hardship there was, there were also many moments that were crazy good. Like the time someone gifted us a pair of tickets to Japan where we stayed with friends who treated us like visiting royalty. Or all the times my gig as a journalist landed us in amazing situations—like a five-star tour of Pacific Coast Highway for National Geographic Traveler Magazine. Like more backstage passes than we could count. Like all the awesome musicians who took Henry under their wings when he was a fledgling guitarist and got him in the studio with some very well-known professionals who got a kick out of mentoring him.
To be clear, I’m not suggesting all the good stories magically cancel out all the bad times. But I am glad there were a lot of good times, too.
Recently I was, yet again, reflecting on my own completely out of control childhood. Specifically, I was thinking about The Limousine. It is a story I have told a million times. It never doesn’t elicit gasps of disbelief. It is a top notch bar story to be certain.
My “father” was an avid collector of old beater cars. The kind where you could see through floorboard holes to the asphalt whizzing by. The kind that employed old rags in lieu of gas caps—sort of a Molotov cocktail on balding tires. He once bought an old convertible from a neighbor. Promptly he cut off the ragtop, built it a new roof out of aluminum siding, and painted the whole thing with teal green flat house paint. I think the neighbor, who had to see this every day, never forgave himself for selling the car or my “father” for “improving” it.
There were other odd vehicles, but hands down the standout of all time was The Limousine. This was not a fancy people’s limo. It was utilitarian, originally used to transport people to and fro the airport long before Uber. The thing had eight passenger doors—four rows of seats—and a big luggage compartment in the back. Kind of like a double length station wagon.
My “father” paid a family friend to “enhance” its appearance by adding some artistic flourishes. Along the sides were painted the names of us kids. Because there were “only” nine of us, to even things out there were five names on one side and four on the other with a “?” suggesting there would soon enough be a tenth child. (That did not come to pass.) On the front doors—driver and shotgun—it said Pop and Mom respectively. Painted across the front above the windshield were the words: Proud Mary.
Surely these details alone were enough to win a bar story competition BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE! For along the tailgate, in huge letters done in fluorescent paint and in a font often used for gang member tattoos—sort of faux Olde English— was this proclamation: ABORTION IS KILLING YOUR OWN CHILD.
We kids had no idea what abortion was or what this message meant. We did know better than to ask. I would not understand until I broke free of that insanity that we had been forced to partake in a sort of anti-choice rolling performance art display. As a child I had always thought when people honked and waved at us that they were responding to the absurdity of the car itself.
Memories of the anti-abortion-mobile visit me most often when there is yet another high profile headline about the bullshit tactics all these fucking women-hating, Trump-fellating sick fucks are deploying to exert increasing control over women. This week I’m referring, of course, to Satan incarnate Ken Paxton, that lying, cheating, bribe-taking douchebag of the century and how he single-handedly kept Kate Cox from getting the safe and legal abortion she needed because the fetus she was carrying was not viable. Paxton decided it was his right to prevent this, and to force her to go to term.
I treat my livestock better than these fuckers treat women. And I am so tired of them. So incredibly exhausted from their sadistic bullshit.
No man has ever died from childbirth. No man has ever come close to dying from childbirth. No man has ever screamed in labor for hours and even days on end delivering a baby. And thus—so ridiculous this needs to be spelled out: No man has any right to control women’s bodies, our autonomy.
And yet here we are, hurtling toward 2024, and it just keeps getting worse for women.
When the Texas Supreme Court ruled with such merciless cruelty against Ms. Cox I felt more exhausted still. Will these sick fucks stop at nothing? Apparently not.
It does give me hope that lately the GOP is getting the message at the polls that they have truly gone way too far. Abortion rights—or more broadly AUTONOMY rights—are getting voters to the polls and not to further restrict women. I like how their brutal inhumanity is catching up with them, if not fast enough for my tastes. I love how the very people they thought would be a shoo-in to vote for their draconian women-torturing laws are demonstrating with wide margins that this is not the case.
I vote every election day. Often when I go to the polls it is with a sense of pre-defeat, a strong feeling my vote doesn’t count. Still, I vote. I refuse to be complacent.
Because as a child I had no vote. I was imprisoned in an anti-choice clown car and paraded around to prove some point by a woman-hating “father” of eight daughters who also decided what we would wear, who cut our hair whenever and however he saw fit, and made all of the other choices for us, too. Which, yes, means they weren’t choices at all.
As we move into a potentially terrifying presidential election year, I am asking all of y’all—please be sure you’re registered to vote. And then, please vote. And please encourage everyone else you know to vote, too. Paxton, Abbott, Cruz, Trump and all the other fuckers need to go and if we do not actively work to make this happen then we are voluntarily getting into the clown car of misogyny and letting them steer us off the cliff.
NOTES:
This week’s question: What story would you tell to win the childhood-stories-in-bars contest?
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Thanks for reading, y’all. I appreciate you.
I love bar stories, especially when they're true. I'm sorry you were forced to travel in an anti-choice clown car. My daughter, too, regularly wins the 'whose childhood was most dysfunctional' party game. I tell her how lucky she is to have had an interesting upbringing with lots of stories to tell. I also tell her that I'm sorry.
All I can say in regard to living 'under his eye' is that it’s about control, and all things must come to an end, including the reign of misogyny. VOTE! VOTE! VOTE!
My despair regarding 2024 is created a depression like none I’ve ever experienced. I will keep fighting but it seems more & more apparent these effers are going to “win” again. The thought that Drump is going to be on the ballot without even trying and all the while tied up in courts & crimes that would send Any other candidate into the Pit of Despair. I’m gonna try to register more democrats & drive them to vote if they need it. I’ve got all my candles lit & have my Prayer Flags flying high. Thank you for letting me vent my rage. I appreciate you so much, Spike. It helps so much to know I’m not alone out here. Take care of yourself & all your loves.