Chapter 14: Operation Keep PT Down: Birthday Dinner with My Mother

I got back in the car and started the engine for Ichiban on the 210 northwest.

“What’s taking so long?” my mother asked irritably. I didn’t blame her. Steve was classic late. So was I.

“Sorry, Mom,” I tried to appease her, “Steve’s son’s friend who was living with them is moving out. His father just found an apartment today.” Steve’s son flew home to Kentucky today as well. Steve was finally alone. How did this happen so quickly, on the same day no less, when Macy’s father had said it was near impossible to find a place because he was only working an occasional job here and there?

Steve followed us to the Ichiban, and when my mother and I got out, I was glad that Steve looked neater. It did not impress my mother, who later commented that at least Steve could have worn pants that were not ripped. I don’t think he had any.

I whispered to Steve “no smoking” not even outside and he said “Oh, okay!” as if it had not occurred to him.

“How did you get rid of that Axe perfume that you slathered on?” I started cracking up again. Steve had doused himself with Axe perfume when he never wears cologne. You know, that cologne where gorgeous female angels fall from the sky when a guy walks by who is wearing Axe cologne and the captioning says “Angels will fall,” and then the angels ooh and ah over the stud because he smells so good. Well, those angels must have had stuffed sinuses because I started gagging before Steve got even ten feet away. Thank god he was able to get that stuff off.

“I aired myself off,” he answered. That made no sense.

We both knew not to say anything about his penchant for speed on a bike. Inside, we sat in a booth, my mother ordered the seafood plate and Steve and I probably ordered the usual that we did when we were there.

They talked about a motorized bike that Steve thought would be a hit. Not in America, people were too “fat” as Jay Leno would say. My mom thought it would be a hit in Vietnam. She had a point. My mother and Steve commiserated about the Chinese invasion. They had a lot in common. I concentrated on my food, switching between trying not to laugh at what Steve said and trying not to groan and then laugh at what Steve said. Overall, I knew it could have gone sooo much worse, I said an extra prayer of thanks and thanked my guardian angel.

Outside, I saw Steve reach in his pocket and over my mom’s head, I signaled with my hand cutting my throat and hissed “No smokes, doofus! No smokes!”

“Oh, oh yeah!” Steve remembered just in time, whispering loudly back. I rolled my eyes and scooted my mom into the car before Steve exposed himself. There were so many ways.

I had no idea how to get to the freeway but I didn’t want to stop and ask Steve so I jammed it out of there and ended going north on the 210 when I wanted south back to OC. On the ride home, my mom asked, how long have you known each other? Couldn’t have been for more than a few months when you returned from Texas.

“Yeah, not long, I was vague. What was I supposed to say, one month? What my mom was trying to say was that it seemed as if Steve and I had known each other a long time. And it did seem to us. One month after we met, I asked Steve, does it seem as if we’ve only known each other one month? He said it’s like we’ve known each other years. At least.

That’s the way it was. Two month anniversary, we felt we had known each other more than a couple of years, three months, several years. At four months, it felt like a lifetime. Five months, we felt we had known each other forever. Six months, we were an old couple. It was a sudden and unlikely attachment, according to some people. Not me, because I don’t look at clothing or station in life and definitely not a person’ pocketbook.

“What is he?” my mom asked. She meant, was he…Mexican? Cuz that’s what Steve looked like the most. Mexican. His son, Alan, looked Mexican, and Alan’s mother was Filipino Italian. But my mother did not say so.

“he’s Japanese-German,” I answered.

“Ooh,” my mom said. “That’s not good.”

I cracked up, “He knows that, mom, he knows that.” I mean, two out of the three countries in the Axis? Then he looks Mexican growing up in rural Kentucky?

“What did you think he was?” I asked lightly.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell. I know he was mixed,” my Mom said.

She thought he was Mexican.

The next day on my way to my depo at a law firm, I checked the GPS on my phone. I was on the 405 south and had to reorient myself. My phone said I was on the 605 near the 105. That was weird. I exited on Beach Boulevard to check my position, drove a couple of blocks to check the cross streets. I checked my phone’s Google Maps. It said I was on the 605 near the 60 freeway, about 25 miles north. I shook it (I don’t know why). Now it said I was near the El Cajon pass? I noticed my phone was hot in my hand and saw the power running out. Odd, I always charge my phone overnight to ensure that I have a full battery for work. I plugged it into my car charger and pulled out the paper maps. Nothing beat a paper map. The print didn’t change on you.