Role Models by John Waters

Author:John Waters [Waters, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

But can I go too far in being inspired by someone else’s good “bad mother”? Can other moms’ militant lunacy ever be funny, even if their ideals are based in raw naked pathology? It’s a question I wrestle with daily. The mother of a friend of mine is a case in point. Jake used to be my FedEx man. Even though he was straight, he had a great sense of humor and sometimes left me Polaroid shots of his penis. I didn’t mind. Just another reason to love FedEx. I originally met Jake at a hetero bar and he drove a souped-up, repainted, secondhand police car. Once we went on a “date.” He strapped a video camera to the hood of his car and we drove around while he filmed us smashing through piles of old dead Christmas trees that residents had left in the alleys and he would set on fire. I could never get Jake to “put out,” but it still was a really romantic night for me, so I stayed in touch. He hinted that his mother was quite a bizarre character and asked me if I’d like to go have dinner at her house. Always up for meeting people with their parents, I eagerly accepted. She lived in a normal suburban garden apartment by herself and looked like anybody’s mother. I did wonder why there was no visible food being prepared as we joined her at the kitchen table. Suddenly she announced, “I decided not to make dinner because I didn’t feel like it.” Oh. Well, okay, I thought as my stomach growled with hunger. Suddenly, with a look of insane glee, she said to her son, “Go on, Jake, tell John what we used to do as a family every Easter.” Jake suddenly paled and tried to change the subject, but she was unstoppable. “We’d ride around in our convertible,” she blurted out, “and laugh at niggers!” Stunned, I sat in my chair, trying to believe my ears. Jake laughed nervously but didn’t deny it. I tried to picture this awful script in my head, wondering, If I turned the races around, could it be a funny scene in a movie? A black family riding around in a convertible laughing at white people? Maybe. If handled properly, with the joke really well set up, and directed by a young, cutting-edge black auteur. But my insane hostess wasn’t finished yet. “I hate women, too!” she cried out for no apparent reason with a bone-chilling happiness. “Go on, Jake,” she continued, much like the insane female storytellers in Salò, “tell John about the time we left a note for our landlord that said”—and here she sang out the words—“WE SAW YOUR PENIS!” By now I was mumbling excuses, gathering my things, and making a run for the car with Jake right behind me, but she wasn’t fazed. “Here!” she yelled to both of us as she chased us to the car, thrusting out two cans of cold beer.

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