Cinderella Story --Tancid Everlost, © 1987 PART I JAG: THOUGHTS AND RECOLLECTIONS I still think about it from time to time. It's hard not to. Sometimes it takes her a little longer than usual to tuck the kids' covers late at night. Her face seems softer when she comes back to the living room, and her eyes are sort of misty. She tries to manage a smile as she tells me, "David kicked his blankets off again." Sometimes a tear will spill over, and then I hold her tight, knowing that she's thinking of his father again. It doesn't bother me anymore. I realize now that she's capable of loving me without forgetting him. I guess that means I'm finally growing up. I do think about it now and then, though. I turn it all over in my mind, wondering what I could have done to change what happened. Or maybe it's what I shouldn't have done. That's a little closer to the truth. She would be his right now if I hadn't been so selfish and stupid. Sometimes I'm glad he's gone. Then I hate myself for having such rotten thoughts, because I remember how painful it was for her when she lost him. It hurt me, too. He was my friend. That sounds kind of ridiculous, I know, but it's true. The eternal triangle, right? Except for one thing. He never really stood a chance. And the worst part of it was, he knew it. Would I have done anything differently if I'd seen how it would all turn out? Maybe. But probably not. That's really cold, but in all honesty I have to admit that I wasn't totally blind. I had a pretty good idea of where it would end. It's just that getting there was a lot rougher than I'd expected. Too many people got hurt in the process. And yes, I was one of them. But then, some of us are stronger than others. Some of us can pick up the pieces and put them back together again, even if it's only with bubblegum. Others can't even find the pieces through their tears. Was I aware of how fragile he was? Yes, I think so. Did it stop me from taking her anyway -- not once, but twice? Not a chance. Should it have, when it was me she wanted? I can't answer that. In all fairness, he never fought for her. He gave her to me freely and with love. If it sounds like I'm trying to shift the blame, I probably am. After all, I don't exactly have an objective viewpoint on all this. It might be best if I just start at the beginning and let the story speak for itself. * My name is Michael Townsend, by the way. Most of my friends called me Jag, in reference to my pill-popping days in high school. I quit doing that when it became clear that my mom was going to beat the crap out of me every time I came home wasted, but the label stuck. I lived with my mom and my little brother Timmy in a run-down old house that some clown -- who is now minus the use of several fingers -- was foolish enough to spray paint with the comment, "Townsend sucks." We lived on the east side, which obviously was not the better section of town. I used to have a dad, but he died when I was three years old and Mom was pregnant with Timmy. He worked construction, and he got his neck broken falling off a scaffold or something like that. So I kind of took it upon myself to become a substitute father to Timmy when I got a little bit older, which is something I'm not terribly proud of, considering all the trouble he had as a kid. He turned out okay, though -- he works in a bank now, believe it or not. I hope I had something to do with that, but I doubt it. I'm not as conceited as I used to be. Mom did her best for us. Between working, cleaning, and cooking she didn't have a whole lot of time left over to hassle us. Consequently, we pretty much did as we pleased - - within reason, of course. We knew how much she loved us, so we tried not to get too far out of line. I say tried, remember -- that doesn't mean we always succeeded. Mom could never stay mad for long, though. Not when her eldest son was such a superb bullshit artist. It was an art that served me well with all other members of the opposite sex, actually. All except Corinne, at any rate. I guess that's why she blew me away so completely the night I met her. * I should have known it was going to be one of those days. I woke up to my brother's screams -- Mom was kicking his ass all over the house. Seems he'd used her bus money to buy himself some beer the night before. That pissed her off pretty bad, especially since Timmy wasn't even old enough to drink. Of course, he didn't really see her point because he was sixteen and knew it all. At nineteen, I still kind of thought that way myself, but I volunteered to go cash in some pop bottles anyway because I didn't like to see my mom mad. That pacified her a little bit, but she was still upset when she got home from work with her paycheck short the half-day she got docked for being an hour and a half late. After dinner, she told Timmy to go fetch himself a bucket and scrub brush. Then she handed me a couple dollars and told me to get lost. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and headed for the door before she had a chance to change her mind. She smiled wearily and sighed, "Michael, make my life meaningful. Get a haircut." "When I'm thirty, Ma," I promised. "Your father would die of shame." "He's already dead and you adore me," I reminded her. "Maybe so, but before long you'll sit down on all that hair and yank your fool head right off of your neck. Then what'll I have left to adore?" I opened the door and replied, "I can sit on it now and it doesn't hurt a bit. Love you, Ma. I'll be late." Stepping outside, I heard her call, "So love me enough to see a barber!" I grinned, thinking what a neat lady my mom was. I had friends who had been bodily dragged to barber shops by their dads, or had their hair butchered in their sleep by their moms. After countless battles, most of them won the right to wear it to their shoulders. The rest moved out. I was lucky enough to have a mom who ceased to give serious thought to my hairstyle once I had reached the age where I could comb it myself. Therefore, my hair now fell to my ass in tousled, white-blond layers. She liked to tease me about it, true, but she also loved offering to loan me a shoehorn to get into my jeans or a pearl necklace to accent the gold hoop in my ear. I never took it in a bad way because she never meant it like that -- there was always something in her eyes that added, "I think you're kind of freaky, but you're my kid and I love you." Like I said, she was a neat lady. Alice -- my current toy -- could have learned a lot from her. The girl was a colossal pain in the ass, her only redeeming quality being that she was pretty good in bed. Oh, she was cute enough, but she was also rather tedious company. I always felt like she was trying to slip a noose around my neck. That probably accounts for my lack of shock at what happened when I got to her house. No one answered my knock, so I just let myself in. Her dad had skipped town many moons ago and her mom was usually out searching for a sugar daddy, which meant Alice was left home alone a good deal of the time, and I figured she was probably in the shower. I was close. She was kneeling on the floor beside another fixture in that general area, paying a very un-ladylike tribute to her mother's cooking. I leaned against the doorjamb and fished in my pocket for my cigarettes. "A little late in the day for a hangover, ain't it, sweets?" I smiled, lighting a Marlboro. Looking hurt, she replied, "That's not funny, Jag," and went to the sink to splash some water on her face. "Pardon me. You looked like you could use a laugh," I remarked. She groped for a towel, mumbling, "I don't feel much like laughing today." I wasn't about to ask her why, so I just stood there taking a drag off my cigarette. I noticed that although her skin was dry, her eyes were still wet. I was wishing that I had gone straight to the woods instead of stopping to pick her up. Now I was going to have to listen to her cry and tell me she had the flu and felt so dreadful and wouldn't I please stay home with her tonight and feed her crackers and warm ginger ale.