First Person Peculiar Read Online Free PDF

important to me any more.
    I’m here to answer your questions, so ask me anything you like.
    Anything at all.
    Please.
    ***

Back in 1996, Kris Rusch, who was editing F&SF, brought back an old custom, that of writing a cover story around a painting. But in this case, the painting was a cartoonish one of a deep-sea diver and a mermaid, and Kris assigned it to three of us
    —horror by Nina Kiriki Hoffman, fantasy by
Esther Friesner, and science fiction by me.

    The Gifilte Fish Girl
    So I walk up to her and say, “Ma, we gotta talk.”
    And she never looks up from the TV, and she says, “Not during Homemakers’ Jamboree , Marvin.”
    And I say, “Ma, I’m Milton. Marvin is your goniff brother who is serving 6 to 10 for passing bogus bills.” (Which he is. He’s a great artist, even the judge admitted that, but he just doesn't do his homework, and printing a bunch of twenties with Andrew Johnson’s picture on them is probably not the brightest move he ever made.)
    Anyway, she says “Marvin, Milton, what’s the difference, and did you know that Liz Taylor is getting married again? What is it for her now—the 34th time?”
    And I say, “You know, Ma, it’s funny you should bring that up.”
    And she says, “Funny? Okay, Mister Big Shot, tell me what’s so funny. Are you the one she’s marrying? Go ahead, make my day.”
    And I say, “Lots of people get married, Ma. Some of them even get married to women who aren’t Liz Taylor, hard as that may be for you to believe.”
    And she says, “Lots of mature people, Melvin.”
    And I say, “Melvin is my cousin who ran off with the gay lion tamer from the circus. I’m Milton, and speaking of mature, I’m 34 years old.”
    And she says, “You’d think someone who’s 34 years old would know to change his socks without being told.” Suddenly she curses and says, “See? You made me miss today’s health tip. Here I sit, waiting to go to the hospital for a nerve transplant from all the tsouris you cause me, and I can’t even watch my television in peace.”
    So I say, “You’re in great shape, Ma. Every artery’s as hard as a rock.”
    “ Feh!” she says. “God has reserved a special place in hell for ungrateful sons.”
    “I know,” I say. “It’s probably right next to where He puts all the henpecked husbands.”
    “Don’t you go making fun of my dear departed Erwin,” she says.
    “I wasn’t,” I say. “And besides, all we know is that he departed in one hell of a hurry. We don’t know for sure that he’s dead.”
    “If he isn’t, he should be, that momser !” she says.
    Well, I can see the thought that he may be alive and God forbid enjoying himself is about to drive her wild, so I try to mollify her.
    “Okay, okay,” I say, hoping the Lord is otherwise occupied and does not hear what I am about to say. “May God Himself strike me dead if he’s not your late husband.”
    “Well, he was late for most things,” she agrees, leaning back in her chair. “Except in the bedroom. There he was always early.”
    I try to change the subject again.
    “We were talking about marriage,” I say.
    “Someday, when you’re old enough, ” she says, “you’ll get married and ruin some poor Jewish girl’s happiness, just the way your dear departed father ruined mine, and the only good thing that will come of it will be a grandson who, knock wood, won’t take after his father and his grandfather but will show me a little respect and compassion.”
    I begin to see that this is going to be even more difficult than I thought, and I try to come up with a subtle way to break the news to her. So I think, and I think, and I think some more, and finally I say, as subtly as I can, “Ma, I’m engaged.”
    And she looks away from the television set and takes her feet off the hassock and plants them on the floor, and stares at me for maybe 30 seconds, and finally she says, “Engaged to do what?”
    “To get married,” I say.
    She digs into her sewing kit,