Running With Scissors_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [32]
“I’m not feeling all that well today,” she’d told me earlier. “I’m in the middle of a new poem and it’s extremely draining.”
The parade marched down Perry Street, across Hawley and up Main Street, right through the center of town.
To attract attention, the doctor played songs from Man of La Mancha on his red kazoo.
Children shrieked with delight at the sight of him and the doctor always stopped for them saying, “Ho, ho, ho,” and handing their parents a mimeographed newsletter that read, “How Emotionally Immature Fathers Are Failing Their Children and Society in General, by B. S. Finch, M.D.”
The parents would smile politely, looking slightly worried, and then when we walked by, they would throw the fliers into the trash. I saw more than one mother inspect her child’s hand, to make sure nothing had been slipped into their fingers.
To me, the entire parade thing was so far beyond humiliating that it was okay. I suppose I was just comfortable with the concept of excess.
“Help my father educate the fathers of America,” Hope cried earnestly to people as we walked by. “Join The World Fathers’ Organization and together we can mend society.”
Occasionally we would pass a gaggle of five or six Smith freshmen who would back against a building, whispering and giggling as we walked by.
“You young girls, you innocent maidens, how many of you have strong, mature, potent fathers? Which one of you would like to explore my testicles?” the doctor asked, playfully.
Their smiles would instantly vanish and I could see true fear in their eyes. Obviously, they had been warned of many things in life. But not this.
The doctor would then walk on, whistling.
Once or twice, we were stopped by police. But when Dr. Finch presented them with his driver’s license showing he was an M.D., we were allowed to continue. It was amazing to me what you could get away with just by being in the medical community.
My mother lagged behind, pausing to browse in bookstore windows, stopping once to run into a shoe store and try on a pair of sandals.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked her.
“I’m having a difficult time with Fern,” she said. “I love her very much, but her sanctimonious crap just really gets on my nerves. Fern is a very controlling woman.”
“I’m sorry she’s turned out to be such a bitch,” I said.
“Well,” my mother said heavily, “it’s her husband, Ed, too. He’s not at all supportive of Fern’s relationship with me. And that just creates additional stress. Fern refuses to leave her family. Even though they’re all old enough to take care of themselves. I mean, her youngest daughter is almost your age.”
“Well, Deirdre, I hope you work it out.” My mother had told me not to call her Mom, to call her by her first name instead. She liked to think of us more as friends than as mother and son. It was healthier and more mature, she claimed.
“Thank you,” she said. “I hope so too.” Then she brightened. “Did I tell you that I had a poem accepted by Yankee Magazine?”
Life with the Finches wasn’t all parades.
I’d been in the spare bedroom listening to Donna Summer and indulging my obsession with my hair by conditioning it with KMS Repair when I’d first become aware of the argument. The shouting was muffled and distant, coming from the other side of the house, but I could clearly make out certain words rising above “Faster and Faster to Nowhere.”
“Cunt!” This came from Natalie.
Then, “Fucking cunt!” from Hope.
At once, I picked the needle up off the record and headed out of my room. I would need to sneak down the hallway and then lurk. If I’d heard this fight over Donna Summer—it was not to be missed.
Fights were the