Slippery Slope 2

My girlfriend, Dee, didn't like my Mom, said Mom was too bossy.

That's probably true.

Mom is a take charge lady. She doesn't let decisions hang in the air. She tells others what she wants, and she has a voice—kind of sandy and resonating—that cuts across everyone else's. She is decisive enough that others tend to go along with her.

Dee is one of those girls who, like Mom, knows exactly what she wants, but Dee needs to be polite. She won't come out and demand things like Mom. Dee acquiesces to other people, but she gets bitter about it later. It's annoying.

Mom is a force. She's on the tall side, about five feet eight, but she seems taller. One morning when I was fourteen, Mom told me that I had grown taller than her. I didn't believe it until that night when her boyfriend confirmed it as Mom and I stood back-to-back. Yet, even knowing I was taller, I still felt as if I was always looking up to her. I think a lot of people felt that way. The woman took command. Every one of her boyfriends over the years—all of them that lasted long enough for me to meet them—were pushovers for her.

I remember sitting in the family room with Pete—her longest lasting and current boyfriend—when I was back in high school. Mom was upstairs getting ready. Pete—he wasn't complaining—talked to me about how Mom almost always decided what to do when they went out together.

"I think she asks me so that she can have something to compare her idea with, you know?" Pete said.

"Yeah?"

He nodded. "She needs to confirm her own plans. She needs my idea to make sure hers is the better one, so she can shoot something down."

Hearing him talk about it, I realized right then that Pete was spot on. Countless occasions jumped into my head where Mom asked what I thought, considered it for a moment, and then quickly dismissed the idea. I always had the feeling she already knew what she was going to do.

She didn't plan on me, though. Mom had me when she was twenty years old. I never knew my father. Mom said, "Believe me, you'd be disappointed, honey." My guess is that I am the result of some kind of one-night stand—probably drunken—with someone, in sobriety, she dismissed as a loser.

Right out of high school, Mom told me she was a dancer. I used to ask her about it. She'd always be vague, other than to tell me that she quit dancing because of me. By the time I was fifteen, I quit asking because I thought I figured out her dancing.

She never admitted it—and I never asked—but I had a pretty good idea that she had been a stripper. I didn't have any hard evidence, just speculation. For starters, a female high-school graduate with no professional dance training probably can't get on at the Boise Ballet. Also, I had this memory from when I was six or seven years old.

Mom and I were playing hide and seek in the house. It was my turn to hide, so I ran upstairs to her bedroom. Her closet had two double sliding doors on opposite sides of the back wall. Between the doors sat Mom's dresser. I went into one of the closets, sliding the door closed behind me.

I'd looked in her closet before, but what I'd never known was the space inside spanned all the way through, between the two sets of doors. So, I crawled under the hanging clothes to hide in the middle area, on the other side of the wall opposite Mom's dresser.

At some point, Mom came in. She opened both doors, didn't see me, and left to seek me elsewhere in the house.

When she slid open the door, some light came in. A reflection caught my attention. Once Mom left and the heat was off, I reached up and touched what I'd seen. It felt like beads or crystals. I crawled to the side, slid open the door, and then went back.

There must have been fifteen hangers with really strange clothes. I pulled the most interesting one off the hook, completely forgetting about hide and seek. I laid it across Mom's bed, amazed.

I didn't really know what I was looking at, other than it was clothes—women's clothes. There were two hangers, interconnected, one hanging off the other. The top hanger was a bra, I thought. Maybe a swimsuit, my little kid's mind figured. Either way, it appeared to be made entirely of diamonds or crystals. On the lower part hung the matching bottoms. They seemed impossibly skimpy, even to my inexperienced eyes.

There were other strange outfits in there, and while I was retrieving the diamond outfit, I noticed several colorful wigs on the shelf above. It didn't matter. I was transfixed by the sparkling ensemble before me. I glided my finger across the studded jewels.

Mom walked into the room while I had the bra in my hands, rubbing it against my cheek.

She shrieked, and I jumped backward. She ran over to me, threw the outfit back into the closet, and rolled the closet door shut. I started crying, and whatever anger she'd had all dissolved away.

By the time I'd gotten the courage to go back and see those things—maybe a few months later—they were all gone.

When I was fifteen, something triggered that memory. I can't remember what it was. Doesn't matter. I knew enough to know those clothes weren't sexy outfits a woman wore for her lover in the privacy of the bedroom. They were something else, something to be worn at an event, and I thought I knew what kind.

I blocked it from my mind and never asked.

The disconcerting belief that Mom had been a stripper was also buttressed by the fact that my friends all fucked with me about her body and her looks throughout middle and high school. I couldn't really separate myself from the fact that she was my Mom, so I never saw it the way they did.

From my perspective, she just took care of herself. Her white-blonde hair was thick and rich. She almost always braided it into a bun or a long pony-tail. Her skin tanned well. She worked out. Her sleek legs had feminine lines of muscle that rippled when she walked. Her chest wasn't crazy, but big—she embarrassed the hell out of me when she wore anything with a low neckline.

She was a beautiful woman. I could see how people would think that. Her smile made me want to keep her happy and laughing. Her eyes, dark brown like coffee, expressed warmth and affection. She had a wonderfully long neck that made her seem alert and eager. Her posture was always very proper, almost regal.

That was another thing Dee sometimes complained about—how proper my Mom was. She never swore. She never left the house without being made up and dressed perfectly for whatever the occasion. Dinner at home was rarely informal and almost always in the dining room. I remember eating at a friend's house and being shocked to see the television on. Mom would never allow such a thing.

Manners were another big thing for Mom. We had lessons all the time when I was a kid. When I complained, Mom always said, "You will not find a lot of boys with good manners in prison. Does that tell you anything, honey?"

I always wondered what my Mom must have been like in those times before I was born. How could this formal, perfectly-mannered lady ever have been a stripper?

I hadn't a clue.

All I understood was my Mom knew what she wanted, she didn't hesitate to tell people what it was, and she was forceful and beautiful enough to almost always get it.

It didn't surprise me, then, when after working as an administrative assistant for an attorney, she decided to do night school to get her degree. Then she finished law school. Then, she worked for a judge. Then, she became an arbitrator—which is basically a judge, but for mediations instead of criminal or civil trials.

So, Mom ruled. Literally.

And her profession was proper, like her.

She didn't smoke or get drunk all the time. She didn't really have any vices but one: Fridays.

Mom loved Fridays. The minute she could set her own schedule, she quit working Fridays. As the years passed, Fridays became a kind of ritual for her. When she woke, she drank coffee and read the news. Then, she would go to the gym and work out for hours—and I do mean hours: three, minimum. When she got home, she showered until all the hot water was gone, and then she curled up in bed with HGTV on. She'd watch her favorite shows, read a book, or nap until the evening.

But, there was one strange aspect to her Friday ritual: she didn't eat all day.

It's true. She fasted on Fridays. She'd drink her coffee and water, of course, but she wouldn't eat, not until dinner. And, oh shit, what a dinner she would have.

Friday night was often date night for her, but on those rare occasions when it wasn't, I got to see how she ate.

Fuck.

We're talking porterhouse steaks with loaded baked potatoes. We're talking clam chowder, lobster, and cheesecake for dessert. We're talking a full rack of barbecue ribs with coleslaw and sweet potato fries topped off with pecan pie. She cut loose.

Saturday would arrive, and she slept in. Things returned to normal.

I knew not to screw up Mom's Fridays.

***

During my sophomore year in college, I spent a Friday with her.

It wasn't planned. I didn't really even realize it until it worked out the way it did.

I was commuting at Boise State, living at home with Mom. I had classes on Friday, but when final exams came around, my last one turned out to be on a Thursday.

So, it was mid-December, and I was home with nothing to do on a Friday.

I planned to just chill, but Mom was energized.

"Come to the gym with me," she said, half suggesting, half demanding. She took a sip of coffee, hanging on to the morning paper with her other hand and waiting for me to agree to her plan.

"You want me to?"

"It'll be fun."

"Okay."

Shortly before 9:00am, we left together in her black Four-Runner. I forgot my cell phone.

I was out of my routine. During the school year, I always grabbed the phone from my nightstand on my way downstairs. I'd grab a pop and a granola bar, then head to school.

That morning was different; I took my phone and went downstairs, but I wasn't dressed and ready to go. When I went back upstairs to change into workout gear, I left my phone in the kitchen. I didn't think to grab it on my way out the door.

The air was weirdly calm that morning. Outside, there wasn't even the trace of a breeze.

It was also unseasonably cold. Boise is high desert. It may be pretty far north for America, but the climate is mild. You get two bad months—mid-December to mid-February. During those months, we get this thing called "inversion" because we're in a valley. So, during inversion, you never see the sun and cold air just gets trapped by the mountains. Other than those times, it is clear, sunny, and comfortable. Summers can be downright hot—100's, no problem.

That morning, the chill in the air was deep. It was the first truly frigid day of the season. Between that and the stillness, it felt like the whole city lay frozen, waiting for something to happen.

It had been a dry fall, so there wasn't a trace of ice, and the roads were fine. The drive took us almost twenty minutes because we lived in a new development in the foothills north of town. The only notable thing on our trip was the fact that there seemed to be hardly any cars about. As we walked into the gym, I saw a snowflake on the sleeve of my coat.

Mom's workout was something else. For the first hour, she jogged around the mini-track and then swam laps. I only jogged, not having brought my swimsuit. Out the windows, we watched the snowflakes come down, and it was beautiful. Once Mom left for the pool, I found an elliptical and watched ESPN.

Mom joined me after her swim.

"Look at this snow," she remarked.

I hadn't even glanced away from the television. When I did, I slowed down.

Geez.

Visibility was about 20 yards out those windows. Fat snowflakes obscured the rest of the world.

"No wonder this place is empty," she added.

"You worried? Should we go?" I asked.

"No way. I'm not even close to being finished," she responded. "Let's go lift."

So, we lifted weights, The snow kept falling, if anything, more intensely. When it hit the ground, it wasn't immediately melting anymore; it accumulated.

After close to forty-five minutes of lifting, we drank some water, and Mom invited me to her spinning group, which started at 11:15am.

The class was in a room filled with spinning cycles. There were no windows, just a big flatscreen that showed us, video-game style, our route. By the time it started, there were only five of us spinning, including the instructor. There must have been fifteen empty cycles.

"Is this place usually full?" I asked Mom.

"Yes. I hadn't planned on inviting you until I saw how few people were here this morning. I didn't think you'd be able to get a bike."

The instructor said something about how brave we were for coming out in the blizzard.

"It's a blizzard?" I asked the instructor.

She looked at me strangely, saying, "Well...yes. You didn't know?"

I shook my head.

"We're supposed to get six to ten inches. Crazy, right?"

Shit. Mom and I glanced at each other. She waved it off, and away we went. It was a forty minute ride, and it sucked.

Mom pushed herself, her face set and determined. Every few minutes, she would catch my attention as she wiped her face with a towel or grabbed a drink from her bottle. She worked hard, but it didn't seem too challenging for her.

I, on the other hand, was doing everything in my power to keep the wheel spinning. Huffing, gasping, and feeling like my heart was going to explode, I refused to stop.

When I stepped off the bike, I lurched forward because my legs were so used to churning.

Mom laughed. "Newbie," she said.

Normally, Mom would do a short yoga routine for her cool down, but when she saw the streets out the window, she canceled that plan.

"Let's just go home," she said. "Let me grab my things." She left for the locker area.

I waited for her in the lobby, and my eyes were glued to the windows.

Fuck me. This was downtown Boise on a Friday at noon, and I only saw about five cars. The streets ought to have been humming with lunch traffic. Plus, it was clear that the drivers struggled.

Downtown Boise is flat, but these cars spun and slid like they were on muddy hillsides.

When Mom appeared, I asked her for the keys and told her to wait while to got the car cleared of snow and warmed up. She didn't object. It was only proper for her son to do such a task.

The phrase "witch tits" burst from me when I felt the full brunt of the snow and wind. I slipped a few times running to the car. Mom hadn't packed her ice scraper, so I cleared the drifts on the windows with my arms. Then, I climbed in and started it up.

Freezing my ass off, I decided there was no way I was going to wait until the car warmed up and the windows defrosted. I ran back to the gym.

When Mom saw me, she laughed. "You look like Jack Frost!"

I turned to the mirror in the lobby and saw myself. My face was pink. A thin layer of snow completely covered everything else. I started laughing, too.

As we waited for the car to get warm, the lobby attendant told us how he saw four accidents on the way in just a few minutes ago, and that he only traveled from the apartments at Tenth and Main Street—just eight blocks away.

He called for us to be careful as we walked out the door.

Mom gasped, "Ah!" when the cold hit her. We jogged to the car. She wanted to drive. I opened the door for her and then went around to the passenger side. She put the car in 4-Low, and we left.

The car performed really well until we left the plain-like downtown for the rolling, curving foothills. There, we felt the back-end slide out from us a few times on turns.

We were just four miles or so from our development when Mom went around a left-hand curve on a ridge that threw our back end out from us. I felt Mom gun the engine and throw the wheel the other way to save it, but it only spun us more.

"Shoot!" she cursed.

"Woah!" I hollered, watching the world carousel around us.

As our front-end spun through 180 degrees and beyond, I felt the car drop off the road's narrow shoulder. I figured it would stop us. In the foothills, the terrain is native grasses surrounded by jagged pebbles, rocks, and a few scattered boulders.

We didn't stop. The front end came around, almost to 360 degrees, but we were half on and half off the road, with my side leaning down the slope. The car stopped for a brief moment, and then the front end began to slip down.

"Oh. Oh, shoot," Mom said.

"Reverse?" I suggested. "Mom, reverse."

The hill went down at an obscene angle from my point of view. It must have been a thirty or forty-yard drop at what seemed like at least 45 degrees. It was probably less, but looking at it? Shit.

There were no trees, but several bushes and a few large boulders, one of which lay directly in our path. Mom threw it in reverse, but it was too late.

Down the hill toward the gully we went.

Mom screamed, "I'm sorry!"

"Boulder. Boulder! Boulder!! Hold on!" I yelled.

We were halfway down the hill, picking up speed. The dense grasses, long and crunchy at this time of year, combined with thick pebbles and coarse gravel under the tires did not slow us down.

There would be no avoiding that boulder. Above the snow line, a good foot or so remained exposed. It sloped up to a jagged point like a mini Sawtooth mountain. Mom pushed hard against the steering wheel. I threw my hands out toward the dashboard.

We hit it on my side—the right front tire striking it dead on, rocketing me from my seat and throwing the car into a spin.

Mom screamed.

My head hit the roof. "Ah, shit!" I said.

The car swung halfway around, and we slid backward the rest of the way. We came to a stop when the back end mowed down a thick bush.

Mom's knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"You okay, Mom?"

"I'm okay. I'm fine. You?" She let go of the wheel and turned to me.

"Head's a little sore, but I'm good."

"Do you know how lucky we are?" she asked.

"Uh-huh. We could have flipped."

"That rock should have flipped us."

"I know."

"We could be dead," she said.

I nodded, looking at her.

"I went too fast. Oh, honey, I'm so sorry..."

"Mom. No. It could've happened to anyone. You did great."

"You think?"

I nodded.

"Call the police, honey, will you?"

I reached into my coat pocket. Then the other one. Then the inside pocket. Then the pockets of my sweatpants. I scanned the area between my seat and the door. I checked between my seat and the little storage console between us. Nothing.

"What the matter?" she asked. "Can't find it?"

I shook my head. Then I knew. I saw the phone in my mind's eye. "No. Damn it! I left it in the kitchen."

"There's no need to curse," she said, reaching into her own pocket. Then she checked another. Then another. "Wait a minute," she said, pushing her butt up and checking the seat. She grabbed her purse from the floor in front of the console, digging and searching.

"Oh, no, no, no," she muttered. She frantically dug through her purse. "No! I must have left it back in the gym! Shoot!" She threw her purse back to the floor angrily. After a few calming breaths, Mom turned to me. "It was when we decided to leave. I always check it after spinning, and then leave it when I do yoga."

I sighed, nodding.

We stared at each other for a moment.

"Can you start it?" I asked.

Mom reached for the key and then stopped. "It's already running."

"Oh," I said. I couldn't hear it.

"You're not suggesting that I try to drive up that hill," she said, pointing up the steep snowy bank toward the street.

"No. Radio."

"Ah," she said, reaching for the button. We scanned channels until we found a weather report. It didn't take long.

What we learned was that the blizzard would continue through the night, ending sometime the next morning.