First Person Peculiar Read Online Free PDF Page B

which is on the floor next to her, and pulls out a scissors.
    “Here,” she says, handing it to me. “Why waste all afternoon rushing me to the hospital’s cardiac unit? Just stab me now and be done with it.”
    “Jugular or varicose?” I ask.
    “ Schmendrick!” she says. “How can the fruit of my looms talk to me like this?”
    “I’m the fruit of your loins, Ma,” I tell her. “Fruit of the Loom is what I’m wearing beneath my pants.”
    “All right,” she says. “Just stand there and watch me breathe my last.”
    “Your last what?” I ask.
    She glares at me and finally says, “Before I die, at least tell me the name of this female person you’re engaged to do whatever with.”
    “Melora of the Purple Mist,” I say.
    “Melora of the Purple Mist?” she repeats. “How can I fit all that on a wedding invitation?”
    “Just use Melora,” I say.
    “And what bowling alley or topless club do you meet Miss What’s-her-name of the Purple Mist at?” she asks.
    “I met her at work, kind of,” I answer.
    “I knew it!" she says, poking a pudgy forefinger into the air. “I knew I should never let you take that job with the sewage company!”
    “It’s a salvage company,” I say.
    “Sewage, salvage, what’s the difference?” she demands. “It’s that Gypsy who walks around half-naked with her deathless beauty sagging down to her pupik , right? I told you she had her sights set on you!”
    “She’s not a Gypsy, and it’s not her. She’s just another diver.”
    “So you’re marrying some other girl who lies around on deck with her tuchus soaking up the sun,” she says. “I should feel better about that?”
    “She doesn’t lie around on deck,” I say uneasily.
    “On deck, below deck, big difference,” she snaps.
    “Bigger than you think,” I say. “The truth of it is, she spends most of her time about 50 feet below deck.”
    “So she’s a diver,” she says.
    “Not exactly,” I answer.
    “What, then?”
    “Try not to get real excited, Ma,” I say.
    “I’m not excited, I have convulsions all the time,” she says. “Just tell me.”
    “She’s a mermaid,” I say.
    “As long as she’s not that Gypsy girl,” she says, fanning herself with the TV Guide . “Or that lady bartender from last summer. Or the bug woman.”
    “The entomologist,” I correct her.
    “Whatever,” she says. “So tell me about this Purple Mist person.”
    “Like I said, she’s a mermaid.”
    “Like what has a tail and spends her whole life in the water?” she asks.
    “That’s right,” I say.
    “Does she wear a bra?” she says suddenly.
    “Ma!” I say, outraged.
    “You heard me—does she wear a bra?”
    “No,” I finally answer.
    “Figures,” she says.
    “What a thing to ask!” I say.
    “What do you want me to ask?” she says. “My son comes home and tells me he’s marrying someone who’s covered with scales and spends all her time swimming in salt water, despite what it must do to her complexion. So can she at least get us a price on fresh fish?”
    “It’s not something I’m real concerned with,” I say.
    “Of course not,” she says. “You’re as impractical as your late father.” She sighs. “All right, so where did this female person go to school?”
    “I don’t think she did,” I say.
    “Ah!” she says with a knowing nod. “Rich family with a private tutor. What temple do they belong to?”
    “Who?”
    “Her family,” she says. “Try to pay attention, Martin.”
    “Martin is your nephew who went broke manufacturing the folding waterbed,” I say. “I’m Milton, remember?”
    “Don’t change the subject,” she says. “What temple do they go to?”
    “They don’t,” I say.
    “They’re Reformed?” she asks.
    I take a deep breath and say, “They’re not Jewish at all,” and then I wait for the explosion.
    It takes about three millionths of a second—a new record.
    “You’re marrying a shiksa ?” she bellows.
    “I’m marrying a