A Tale of Two Mothers
Seeing as it's mother's day I thought I'd relate a tale from the early eighties concerning two influential mothers from my childhood.
The first mother is my own:
My mothers, sometime around
this story's occurrence.
Quite a looker, eh?
The second: H.R. Giger's Alien:
The image that haunts me to this day.
My mother had been divorced for a few years at that point, and had been dating a guy for a couple of months.
The other mother's mating habits have been explored at great length, so I'll not comment further on them.
My mother's paramour - Bill? Chuck? Who can remember these things? - decided to take her to see at movie at one of those second run movie theaters that once upon a time could afford to exist in Brooklyn.
The movie he'd chosen was Alien.
Mom - my mom, not the Alien - couldn't find a babysitter.
It's worth noting here that the Alien's children would have needed no babysitter, pouncing as they did into the world fully equipped to take care of themselves.
Myself, lacking claws, fangs or acid blood, was less equipped for self-protection from whatever sort of dangers might have awaited a young boy, so Rob or Charlie or whoever convinced my mother that bringing me along would be a reasonable show of good parenting.
I was eleven.
It was an evening show on a school night, and I think the ticket seller looked askance at my mother and her date as they brought me into what was considered among the most frightening movies made to date. But the eighties were a more permissive time, and would get more permissive still.
My mother and her date settled in the back of the theater. Bob or Eddie or whoever gave me a few dollars for popcorn and soda, encouraging me to sit as far away from the grownups as possible. Perhaps there was a wink involved. This is not the part of the evening that sticks out in my memory.
Neither, ironically, do the next 98 minutes. It was just a surreal nightmare of blood and terror as the crew of the Nostromo were stalked and killed by the titular Alien, described by the Nostromo's android shipmate as "the perfect organism".
Actually, this line was said by the android's severed head, through a pool of its own semen-like goo after being reanimated by jumper cables.
Also, there was a computer called "Mother" in there somewhere. "Mother" the computer was about as much use to the crew of the Nostromo as my own mother was to me at that point in the film, being fondled by Archie or Jughead or whatever his name was twenty rows back.
They were younger then than I am now. Who can blame them?
When the movie ended, I had to be pried from my seat. I think the imprints made by my fingers clutching the armrests tightly for 117 minutes were there until the theater itself was gentrified along with the rest of Brooklyn.
I remember the drive home, not to my own home (which would have been a small comfort), but to the Brooklyn home of Jones or Brett or whoever. He'd managed to convince my mother to spend the night, and thought that my sleeping on the lower bunk in his daughter's bedroom was a reasonable idea.
I spent the entire night with my eyes open, staring at the underside of the upper bunk, listening to a stranger's breathing mingling with unmentionable sounds from the rest of the house.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
~~~
Like my writing? Dig exotic Places? Buy my Ebook, How Not To Avoid Jet Lag & other tales of travel madness, 19 illustrated stories, observations, and exotic hallucinations from the increasingly demented mind of Travel Writer Joshua Samuel Brown, with illustrations by David Lee Ingersoll.
Buy it now!
The first mother is my own:
My mothers, sometime aroundthis story's occurrence.
Quite a looker, eh?
The second: H.R. Giger's Alien:
The image that haunts me to this day.My mother had been divorced for a few years at that point, and had been dating a guy for a couple of months.
The other mother's mating habits have been explored at great length, so I'll not comment further on them.
My mother's paramour - Bill? Chuck? Who can remember these things? - decided to take her to see at movie at one of those second run movie theaters that once upon a time could afford to exist in Brooklyn.
The movie he'd chosen was Alien.
Mom - my mom, not the Alien - couldn't find a babysitter.
It's worth noting here that the Alien's children would have needed no babysitter, pouncing as they did into the world fully equipped to take care of themselves.
Myself, lacking claws, fangs or acid blood, was less equipped for self-protection from whatever sort of dangers might have awaited a young boy, so Rob or Charlie or whoever convinced my mother that bringing me along would be a reasonable show of good parenting.
I was eleven.
It was an evening show on a school night, and I think the ticket seller looked askance at my mother and her date as they brought me into what was considered among the most frightening movies made to date. But the eighties were a more permissive time, and would get more permissive still.
My mother and her date settled in the back of the theater. Bob or Eddie or whoever gave me a few dollars for popcorn and soda, encouraging me to sit as far away from the grownups as possible. Perhaps there was a wink involved. This is not the part of the evening that sticks out in my memory.
Neither, ironically, do the next 98 minutes. It was just a surreal nightmare of blood and terror as the crew of the Nostromo were stalked and killed by the titular Alien, described by the Nostromo's android shipmate as "the perfect organism".
Actually, this line was said by the android's severed head, through a pool of its own semen-like goo after being reanimated by jumper cables.
Also, there was a computer called "Mother" in there somewhere. "Mother" the computer was about as much use to the crew of the Nostromo as my own mother was to me at that point in the film, being fondled by Archie or Jughead or whatever his name was twenty rows back.
They were younger then than I am now. Who can blame them?
When the movie ended, I had to be pried from my seat. I think the imprints made by my fingers clutching the armrests tightly for 117 minutes were there until the theater itself was gentrified along with the rest of Brooklyn.
I remember the drive home, not to my own home (which would have been a small comfort), but to the Brooklyn home of Jones or Brett or whoever. He'd managed to convince my mother to spend the night, and thought that my sleeping on the lower bunk in his daughter's bedroom was a reasonable idea.
I spent the entire night with my eyes open, staring at the underside of the upper bunk, listening to a stranger's breathing mingling with unmentionable sounds from the rest of the house.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
~~~
Like my writing? Dig exotic Places? Buy my Ebook, How Not To Avoid Jet Lag & other tales of travel madness, 19 illustrated stories, observations, and exotic hallucinations from the increasingly demented mind of Travel Writer Joshua Samuel Brown, with illustrations by David Lee Ingersoll.
Buy it now!
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