WordWhore

Mama, Me, and the Farm-born Atrocities
…the beginning of my story and why I’m in jail. by Rene’ Goodenough

    My Uncle Virgil lost his Rolex watch in a poker game. My mother has decided we have to steal it back from Bobby Earl, the man who won it. Since gambling is a sin to Mama, then retrieving something lost during that type of activity is not, therefore, a sin. She can justify the croak out of a swamp frog. I agree to go with her to Bobby Earl’s house, to try to find the watch.

We decide to walk the three blocks to his house. The weather is incredible. The spring sun slams down and it’s the first true day of warmth. Sullie, my two year old son, provides the entertainment during the walk. I can’t find anyone to babysit but he’s had a nap, some Spiderman Spaghettios, and is wearing his favorite overalls. He sings to Mama about Fucky Tied Chicken and some kind of mixed up jingle about real men and beer. I decide then and there to turn off the television until he’s eighteen.

Mama ignores the Fucky Tied thing and remarks that she’s known Bobby Earl’s family all her life, but not one of them ever invited her to their home. She thinks it’s a shame that it had to be this kind of thing to force a visit. I keep my mouth shut about that one.

    “Just how do you plan to steal the watch, Mama?”   

    “Right out from under his nose. It’ll be like shop-lifting.”

    I ask her when she’s ever shop-lifted.

    “Never! It can’t be that difficult, though, even little children do it. I’ve watched enough TV to know you just slip things into your pocket when no one’s looking. You’ll just distract Bobby Earl when we locate the watch and I’ll get it.”

    “What if he’s wearing it?”

    “You goose, I’ll just ask to see it, then you’ll get to talking and he’ll forget I have it. I swear, Reba, trust me. I’ll get it.”

We ring the door bell about fifteen times. Bobby Earl is not home but his front door is unlocked. Mama takes this as a sign to enter and she just walks right in. You can’t see the front door from the street, it’s hidden by bushes and used appliances. I hang back, holding Sullie on my hip and saying a silent prayer about the absence of biting dogs and burglar alarms.

I hear Mama gasp as she enters the house.