A sketch from Chapter Five
Old stucco house with wood floors and Mexican Marilyn Monroe next door: Issue 48-57.
The above image is one created for me by punk artist Scott Aicher. I considered his art for the cover of my memoir back in 2007. My ideas went through so many changes as time went on that I progressed to four individual journals and then to a Kindle edition. Moving towards my final rendering is a paperback book. I decided to use my own work and images. I got out of touch with him, yet I can see he is doing alright with other writers and publishers. It is a cool image and I love it.
In Whittier California and at the time we lived in and old stucco house between two apartment buildings. The one on the left I knew no one and the one on the right is where she lived. It was the late 1980s.
She was a couple of pounds over an hourglass figure and about six kids followed her around town. Just like a mother duck and her ducklings; one right after the other.
The story goes that each child had a different father and the truck engines in front of our house revving their engines at 2 AM, night after night, told us her story. She was sexy. She oozed it.
I was jealous of her because she had those kids of hers. At twenty something I was craving a kid. I was not as lucky as she. The wild days of my punk youth were not a good place for kids, but I still was craving a babe in my arms. I often spied on her from my living room widow as she spent time with her kids.
It seemed to me then that she was not very nice or smart. She yelled at her kids, but they were always dressed nicely and well fed. Once I heard her say to one of her kids,
“This time I will break your arm and not take you to the hospital.”
We listened to her as I am sure she listened to us during those times of frustration and loneliness.
For a few years one of her youngest boys would bring me a little cake with a candle to blow out on my birthdays. I never knew how he knew. Hearing a soft knock at the door there he stood. Standing alone and holding up the cake just for me.
We sat on the porch and ate the cake together. I imagined how proud I was of him. How he was my son. He was so smart, sweet, and intelligent. How did such a loud sexy mama as Mexican Marilyn Monroe have such an amazing son?
I realize now she must have had a lot to do with her son coming over and with him bringing me the cake. What she did indirectly was one of the most comforting moments during my overwhelming wild years. She shared her son with me. I thank her now and wish her well!