MY MOTHER DOESN'T TALK TO ME

My mother doesn't talk to me. Claudia doesn't talk to me. Michael doesn't talk to me. Should I erase them from my life and move forward? My father doesn't talk to me because he is dead, but it doesn't bother me much not hearing his voice. My first two wives don't talk to me and I don't miss them at all. My two older boys occasionally message me, but they have their own lives and keeping in touch with the old man isn't a pressing concern. Therefore, I shouldn't fret not hearing from my mother, Claudia and Michael.

I have to live an unattached life similar to the one I'm living in Mexico City. Not all days are the same, but they are similar. I've been sleeping later. I rise at eight and go eat breakfast generally at Bisquits Obregon where I have almost convinced two separate waitresses to trust me. They make 700 pesos ($35) a week and work long hours six days a week. They spend between buses and the subway three hours in total coming and going to work. I have told them I will take care of them with a 1000 pesos if they take care of me. They aren't that easy. They are eyeing that shiny red apple, but a morality I suppose keeps them from taking a bite. Before I arrive at the restaurant, I walk another three blocks, drink a glass of freshly squeeze orange juice, buy a paper and return to the restaurant.

I return to the house, surf the net and write. About one I head to the gym. By the time I return from my workout. I check the net again to scan the news, both locally and nationally, and then I take care of my hygiene. I shave every two days. I will also take the scissors and clip those worthless hairs sprouting from my ears and dangling from my nose. The shower is luke warm, but I've dived into plenty of mountain streams and lakes, so I'm not bothered bathing without the luxury of hot water. I have a special soap for the toe nails as they slowly grow and recover from the fungus infection. I believe the procedure was a success, but time will tell and it's not akin to battling with cancer. By the time I return downstairs to open the internet again, it can be as late as four.

There are a number of restaurants I patronize. I've added a coffee shop to my itinerary where I sip on a cup of manzanilla tea and observe the pedestrians. I usually stop here after my meal. By the time I arrive home it's six. I'm back at the computer and that's where my comadre and her son find me when they return from work. She is always hungry and after a kiss and salutations, she inquires about my meals. She is hoping that I will take her to dine, which I did frequently at the beginning of my stay, but I have grown tired of her company. She is 64, her dyed hair is thinning, her beauty has disappeared into the hollows of her face and her teeth are yellow. She has retained her physical form disguised in clothes, but she hasn't availed herself to me. Even though she is my comadre and I would feel bad for my compadre, she informed me that they hadn't had sex in five years because he had insulted her and she hadn't forgiven him. I asked her if she had ever cheated on him and she answered no. I asked if she still had sexual desires and she answered yes, but my subtle attempts to find the key to unlocking the door have been unsuccessful, so I have distanced myself from her.

Sometimes I'm not at her home when she arrives because I have gone to the ballpark. I didn't plan on attending so many Diablos Rojos during this vacation, but the crowds are electric and these forays allow me to escape her clutches. If I don't leave, I work at the computer and later retire to my room to read. Near midnight I'll pop a milligram of Xanax and a Melotonin and drift off to sleep. That is my day. Why shouldn't I live the rest of my days following a mellow routine that allows me to eat, work, exercise and sleep well. I have confidence that overtime I would find a few females to relieve me of my stress.

Do I escape my mother, Claudia and Michael during these days that flow toward eternity like a calm river? No. I scratch my head amazed that my mother could forsake me so easily, but I don't miss her. When her parents died, she didn't attend either of their funerals, which precipitated a rift with her siblings that never healed. She argued that she would rather spend the money visiting me in Texas than traveling to Massachusettes for their burials. Raising eight kids in an unending economic struggle made her practical. She won't know it and as a result won't appreciate the irony, but I'll will skip her funeral also. Unless my sister were to confess to my other siblings that I didn't rape her, there is no way I am going to endure those reproving looks. Thinking that my nephews and nieces and their children know I had an incestuous relationship with their aunt would be a sufficient reason for skipping the ceremony. I'm not concerned about anyone attending my funeral since there won't be one. I will be quickly cremated and thus to dust I shall return.