| Lifers, Like My Mother By Alan Tessaro University of Nebraska MFA in Writing |
Alan Tessaro teaches English at Spartanburg Community College in Spartanburg, SC. He began college after
retiring from the USAF and received his BA in English from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville and an MA in
English from the University of Nebraska-Omaha. Alan is currently enrolled in the University of Nebraska MFA in
Writing program and will graduate December 2008.
retiring from the USAF and received his BA in English from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville and an MA in
English from the University of Nebraska-Omaha. Alan is currently enrolled in the University of Nebraska MFA in
Writing program and will graduate December 2008.
My mother is the one that told me to Get back in there and wash my hands again and she told me
how girls don’t like boys with dirty fingernails and never understood why I spent so much time under
the hood of that old Rambler American, but that old Rambler American had Nash seats and it didn’t
matter if most girls didn’t like my grease tattooed hands because Sally Mayfield loved a boy with
Nash seats and a pint—my mother was the one who yelled at me for stabbing the pork chop on my
plate and gnawing it right off the fork and she told me how girls don’t like boys with poor table
manners, but she didn’t know how much Sally Mayfield loved a boy who was naughty with Nash
seats and a pint—my mother was the one who harped at me for cutting school and she told me how
girls don’t like boys who won’t grow up to amount to something, but she didn’t know how Sally
Mayfield could love a boy who would rip her away from school in a car with Nash seats and a pint in
the glovebox.
Lifers tell stories that begin When I was in…and being trapped in one of their stories is being a kid
again with my eyelids stapled open while visiting Uncle George and Aunt Mary who showed home
movies about their trip to the Grand Canyon to Niagara Falls to the Great Smoky Mountains to Wall
Drug Store about my cousin’s last fourteen birthdays about Christmas every year since God was
born about every waking moment of their lives and I promise God I’ll stop lusting after A1C Kathy
“Sweet Ass” Gentry if he’ll just rupture my eardrums so I’ll never have to listen to another Lifer
story. Lifers tell the mechanics, the physics, the hydrodynamics, and the karma needed to walk on
water and swear that they are my God so I realize there is no reason to stop trying to get into A1C
Kathy “Sweet Ass” Gentry’s panties and that I must suffer stories because the all-knowing will not
cease their ramblings until I become a numb servant making my life finally justifiable through their
imparted wisdom—just like my mother knew I needed to be reminded every time I left the house to
wear clean underwear because she never trusted that old Rambler American and needed to be assured
I wouldn’t embarrass her by wearing grubby underwear because that would show she wasn’t a good
mother if I was in an accident and needed to be rushed to the hospital.
Lifers get on my ass because I can’t slice bread with my creases because I have Susan B. Anthony in
my pocket which is what I figured pockets were for but apparently I’m wrong, because they can’t
bounce a quarter on my bed and I wonder just how pitiful does one’s life have to be to go around
bouncing quarters on beds, because I can’t read what day of the week it is when I slide my foot
under some girl’s skirt, because I have a hangover three or four days a week, because I have my
hands in my pockets which Lifers can’t do because they’ve sewn their pockets shut so they always
look sharp but having their pockets sewn shut they have forgotten the joys of pocket pool—when I
was a kid my mother got on my ass for playing too much pocket pool but mothers just don’t want to
understand that girls like Sally Mayfield make a guy itch and my mother would cry and tell me to have
restraint so I could receive my rewards in heaven just like the preacher preached but I don’t see how
heaven can be any sweeter than Sally Mayfield in that old Rambler American chugging a pint and
knocking back the Nash seats.
how girls don’t like boys with dirty fingernails and never understood why I spent so much time under
the hood of that old Rambler American, but that old Rambler American had Nash seats and it didn’t
matter if most girls didn’t like my grease tattooed hands because Sally Mayfield loved a boy with
Nash seats and a pint—my mother was the one who yelled at me for stabbing the pork chop on my
plate and gnawing it right off the fork and she told me how girls don’t like boys with poor table
manners, but she didn’t know how much Sally Mayfield loved a boy who was naughty with Nash
seats and a pint—my mother was the one who harped at me for cutting school and she told me how
girls don’t like boys who won’t grow up to amount to something, but she didn’t know how Sally
Mayfield could love a boy who would rip her away from school in a car with Nash seats and a pint in
the glovebox.
Lifers tell stories that begin When I was in…and being trapped in one of their stories is being a kid
again with my eyelids stapled open while visiting Uncle George and Aunt Mary who showed home
movies about their trip to the Grand Canyon to Niagara Falls to the Great Smoky Mountains to Wall
Drug Store about my cousin’s last fourteen birthdays about Christmas every year since God was
born about every waking moment of their lives and I promise God I’ll stop lusting after A1C Kathy
“Sweet Ass” Gentry if he’ll just rupture my eardrums so I’ll never have to listen to another Lifer
story. Lifers tell the mechanics, the physics, the hydrodynamics, and the karma needed to walk on
water and swear that they are my God so I realize there is no reason to stop trying to get into A1C
Kathy “Sweet Ass” Gentry’s panties and that I must suffer stories because the all-knowing will not
cease their ramblings until I become a numb servant making my life finally justifiable through their
imparted wisdom—just like my mother knew I needed to be reminded every time I left the house to
wear clean underwear because she never trusted that old Rambler American and needed to be assured
I wouldn’t embarrass her by wearing grubby underwear because that would show she wasn’t a good
mother if I was in an accident and needed to be rushed to the hospital.
Lifers get on my ass because I can’t slice bread with my creases because I have Susan B. Anthony in
my pocket which is what I figured pockets were for but apparently I’m wrong, because they can’t
bounce a quarter on my bed and I wonder just how pitiful does one’s life have to be to go around
bouncing quarters on beds, because I can’t read what day of the week it is when I slide my foot
under some girl’s skirt, because I have a hangover three or four days a week, because I have my
hands in my pockets which Lifers can’t do because they’ve sewn their pockets shut so they always
look sharp but having their pockets sewn shut they have forgotten the joys of pocket pool—when I
was a kid my mother got on my ass for playing too much pocket pool but mothers just don’t want to
understand that girls like Sally Mayfield make a guy itch and my mother would cry and tell me to have
restraint so I could receive my rewards in heaven just like the preacher preached but I don’t see how
heaven can be any sweeter than Sally Mayfield in that old Rambler American chugging a pint and
knocking back the Nash seats.
| Graduate Student Spotlight Bio |
| The Honey Land Review Fall 2008 Volume 1, Issue 1 GRADUATE STUDENT SPOTLIGHT |
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