repressed memories

Legend has it that she
was a regular at the playboy mansion
until she took some bad LSD….”

 

by ed markowski

mother,

despite my degrees & the letters that
are attached to our family name, rest
assured that i basically make a great
wage for socializing with weirdos,
cretins, geeks, pervs, freaks & goblins.

i use these terms not out of malice
or disrespect, but in the spirit of
love & gratitude. after all, if not for
these shattered images of man in
the image of god, where would i be?

at the very least, seventy-five percent
of my client load is composed of people
who fall into one of the above categories,
with the emphasis falling squarely on
“gories.”

last month a client named candy
decided in a perfect storm of
psychosis & rage that i was not
her therapist.

she explained to me in a very tangential
manner that i was in fact, “isaac from
the old testament.”

her roommate madelyn is also psychotic
& religiously preoccupied.

the attendants have found them praying
over each other & proclaiming victory
over death on several occasions.

they prefer to pray in the nude. candy
explained quite articulately that one’s
soul is “that much closer to god when it’s
not covered up with rayon or polyester.”

when one passes their room, it’s not
unusual to hear them chanting in
tongues.

yesterday, candy & madelyn asked if
i would get them some soap. since the
attendants were on break i obliged them.

the three of us walked down to the
closet where the supplies are kept
in a large vending machine called
the omni cell.

candy & madelyn had their bibles.

i asked them to hold the door open.

they closed it.

they opened their good books.

they started praying over me.

some gobbledegook.

madelyn then commanded satan
to “leave issac so he can have his
mind back & remember that he’s
candy’s husband.”

then the gobbledegook started up again.

this went on for a good fifteen minutes.

i gave them each a small bottle of soap,
then candy screamed, “issac you gave
me three babies. take me home. why
have you forsaken me you rotten
son of a bitch?”

at this point mother, i squeezed between
them & opened the door. madelyn, in
her perpetually stoned hippie chick drawl
shouted, “candy loves you motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker, you handsome
motherfucker we should kill you.”

i felt like i’d been on a ride through
the tunnel of love with a couple of
spahn ranch snuff bunnies.

candy? well, she’s just a local girl
from central city who had the
misfortune of drawing a real bad
genetic hand.

madelyn? she used to be a call girl
in hollywood. legend has it that she
was a regular at the playboy mansion
until she took some bad LSD or good
if one considers thirty-five years of
tripping a good thing.

i now call candy & madelyn squeaky
& sandra.

that’s after squeaky fromme & sandra good.

i remember when squeaky tried to
gun down president ford in sacramento.

she was trying to save the redwoods.
somebody had to take a stand.

i remember seeing photographs
of squeaky & sandra strolling through
a cemetery in blood red hooded robes.

i remember seeing a film calld the family.
squeaky & sandra were cuter than
susan atkins & the other girls who crept
through that hot august night.

and mother, i remember how & where we
found him after i came home from the
beach that night.

i remember what we did as though it
happened ten minutes ago.

i assure you that my job here in denver
suits me quite well & my ego has basically
ceased to exist.

despite all those letters attached to
our last name, i consider myself
to be nothing more than a bellhop
who’s doing his penance at
the hotel strange.

your loving son,
charlie

Originally published:
Issue Fifty-Three
November 2008

Ed Markowski lives and writes in Auburn Hills, Michigan. More of Ed’s stories can be found in the Vault of Smoke.

 

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