Meeting Your Makers: Queen of Hearts

It’s too late.

I shoulda just kept my big fat mouth shut. But now Anne-Marie is sitting next to me on the corner of Walnut, smug as a cat that’s just knocked over its third lamp. Sipping sweet tea in one hand, nibbling at a square slice with another, and idly swinging her legs around under the table, she accidentally snags me with the tip of her hard-toed boot.

“Would you stop that,” I hiss.

But she kicks again, this time hitting me square in the shin.

“Oh come on.” My voice cracks as I beg for mercy. “That one was on purpose!”

Anne-Marie shrugs innocently and takes a sip.

I sigh, and return to bouncing both of my knees impatiently. It’s almost two o’ clock, on the dot, and yet she still hasn’t come. Maybe this’ll be just like that one time two years ago where I got to just grab a cannoli and go home. But when I hear the ravenous howls of car horns in the distance, I brace for impact. For three whole seconds, we’re submerged in profanity and the peal of tires. And, like a prolapsing banshee, the commotion comes booming vengefully towards the corner of Walnut Street.

A white blur crosses our field of vision, sending street trash whirling into the air in its wake. It then slows with a sharp screech and executes a u-turn, accompanied by the reversal of the garbage-laden breeze and the graceful landing of a browned newspaper sports section squarely atop Anne-Marie’s slice. It was all a glimmer. And now before us sits a gleaming white luxury coupe, replete with the finest LED’s and rumbling bass speakers known to German engineering. From aft to stern, this graceful great-granddaughter of nazi science is riddled with spiderwebbed scratches that would almost blend into its native paint job—that is, if it weren’t for their contrast against the bright orange license plates emblazoned with a physician’s caduceus and a neat “MD” before the serial numbers.

Anne-Marie stares in disbelief. I merely take a deep breath.

The driver-side gull-wing door swings upwards, followed by the audible clatter of cans falling out onto the road on the side of the car hidden from view. An elongated shadow falls upon the pizzeria on the corner of Walnut Street. It moves gracefully, tastefully, and more than a little drunkenly as it comes around the luxury vehicle. The blonde woman that appears from the car looks to be no more than thirty, with a countenance that indicates she must have given up a life of runway modeling for her professional pursuits. To emphasize the point, she flaunts a white business blazer, black pencil skirt, and a pillow-sized handbag bearing three gold-glinting logo brand buckles.

We watch her clack her way in through the awninged entrance of the pizzeria without locking her car (or even closing the door) and slap a bill on the counter. She points a single finger at the menu without looking.

The pimpled teen cashier cranes his neck at the money, and mumbles, “Sorry ma’am, we don’t take hundreds.”

With a piercing softness, and as if she hadn’t even registered his presence, the woman replies, “Keep da change-”

And promptly turns back to the monstrous tablet of a phone in her free hand.

Before the cashier can even signal over to his manager by the ovens in the back, the woman has already strolled away and planted herself right at the table beside ours. Given the sheer length of her limbs, she doesn’t cross her legs at the table so much as she throws them wholesale over the red-checkered cloth.

Anne-Marie shoots her a dirty look and leans in to whisper, “Jeez, what is with that chick?”

I do not reply. But I don’t let go of my breath either.

We can hear distant bickering as the cashier’s frail windpipes try and fail to stand up to the owner’s gruff, Sicilian-slanted chewing-out. Both parties pace around, a mingling echo of blocky kitchen shoes in two tones. The blonde woman seems unconcerned, merely uttering an, “ugh” every other minute or so until the cashier—now a sweating, nervous wreck— lands a piping hot pizza pie box directly onto her table.

Only then does she remove her legs, and simultaneously looks like she remembered why she actually came here.

“Pass da parmeezian,” she announces, to no one in particular.

Anne-Marie quirks an eyebrow.

I reach over and toss an aluminum canister of the powdered cheese in her direction. She catches it the way someone would karate-chop a fly out of thin air. Instantly, and with a fluidity expert enough to indicate practiced mastery. Something comes glinting back at me, and my hands shoot up on their own. With a sigh, I lower the other table’s salt and pepper shakers respectively onto the surface of ours.

“You looked like you could use da salt,” the woman exclaims.

“No kidding,” I reply.

Anne-Marie sits there, processing the entire incident with pupils like she’s tracking an invisible flying object. And then she snaps-to.

“Wait a minute- that’s your mom?!”

“And who’s dis little numbah?” asks the woman, as if still addressing no one person specifically.

“I didn’t pay for her company,” I say, “If that’s what you’re implying.”

“Oh, I’d never imply.”

I squirm squatly in my chair, as if suffering from Jupiter’s twenty-fourfold gravity. Given the density and thickness of my mom’s head, though, it’s not a stretch to say that’s about how it feels. And, given Anne-Marie’s exquisite mix of terror and confusion, it’s pretty reassuring that I’m not the only one that feels that way.

“That’s a pretty color on you,” my mom says, without lifting her eyes from her pizza pie. “Is it formula fifty-five?”

Somehow, Anne-Marie determines that she was the one being addressed with a shake of the head. Must be that feminine telepathy.

“N-no. It’s natural.”

My mom pops her lips. “A natural blonde, huh? You know, I used to be a blonde. Until I was about fifteen or so. And den I spent a whole summer outside chasing this one lifeguard hunk I was crushing on, and my hair done tanned.”

I watch Anne-Marie’s facial features click into place one after the other. Jittering, stilted, like a broken fairground animatronic. But the snappy, know-it-all remark that was halfway up her throat gets swallowed back down, and she nods politely. I’m a bit envious, really. Because I’m roughly half as tactful.

“Didn’t you say you were a redhead?” I ask.

Mom scoffs. “No, dat’s when I met Antonijo- or was it Toni? What does dat pudgy hunk go by nowadays?”

“Dad just goes by Toni. You know that.”

She shrugs. “Don’t make a difference to me. Not like I’m Mrs. Bogdan anymore.”

I can hear Anne-Marie’s neck creak like a door hinge as it cranes 45 degrees in my direction.

She mumbles under her breath, “Your name is Ogdan Bogdan…”

I suppose she never really did pay attention during first-period roll-call. With a scowl, I let her know that we’ll discuss the miraculous revelation of my full name at a later date. And then I say:

“Yeah, well, there’s no need to act like children about things.”

“Is he still single?”

“None of my business.”

She nods. “You still single?”

I sigh. “No, unfortunately.”

Anne-Marie knees me in the shin. “What he’s saying is, Ms-?”

“Barbara. But if you call me anything otha ‘den Barbs I’m going to walk out of here faster than you can say, Bah-bah-rah.”

My girlfriend nods. “I’m Anne-Marie.”

“Boy, whadda mouthful. So you’re AM, as in morning? I’m just gonna call you Mornin’, how’s about dat?”

Anne-Marie does a double take.

It’s funny how shocked she is at the fact that my mom snapped to the same low-hanging fruit nickname that took me two weeks to come up with. Clearly, Mornin’ hasn’t quite grasped where my naming ingenuity comes from. But, as my girlfriend descends back to earth with a series of shivering eye-flutters, I can see her finally comprehend the inheritable brilliance of someone who insists on naming their child, ‘Ogden Bogdan’.

“Mornin’s fine with me,” Anne-Marie says, “And that’s a lovely accent by the way, are you from down south?”

“Yeah,” My mom replies, finally glancing in our direction. “I’m from Chi-town, howd’ya know?”

“Oh, you know. Just your whole sorta joie de vivre.”

“You French?” The way my mom asks it carries a non-ignorable seed of offense.

“Nnnooo…?” Anne-Marie replies. “I’m pretty sure I’m Polish- I think.”

“Good. Never met a Polak I couldn’t trust. Except for Piotr. Bozo always used to gyp me on da salami sassage in my soxer sammich.”

My girlfriend nods along. “Right.”

“Dem slavs are alright in my book. Even da southern ones. I wouldn’t slit a Croat’s throat if he asked, though.”

The divorce settlement with dad says otherwise.

“Right, right,” replies Anne-Marie.

“At da very least,” my mom continues, with a satisfied smirk, ” You’re not French.”

“Rrright..?”

“Yeah, I used to roll with dis one Quebecois fella dat had a good thing going with used cars. Dis was back in the roaring 90’s of course, so I think he was one-a-dem south-side hoodlums. But boy, was he handsome. Of course, he stabbed me in da back over some bronze-skinned harpy from So-Cal, so I slashed his tires da night before he planned-ta skip town. Worked out for da best, doe. Heard ‘im and da harpy have two kids and a third on da way down by his fifth dealership in Evanstown. Nice guy. Wouldn’t ya know it, he’s actually da one dat gave me dat beemer out front.”

Anne-Marie’s lips sorta just hang there like a curtain, nonplussed, as she stares at the white luxury car out front.

“Wait,” I say, “If he just gave you that car, then what happened to dad’s retirement fund?”

“Oh. Dat?” Mom says, with the weight of forgetting to load the hand towels into the dryer. “Down payment on a condo in Da’ Loop. Helluva view. Shame I don’t get-ta go down dere more often, doe.”

For an agonizing, scrote-stretching ten minutes, I’ve been looking for a one-way ticket out of this madwoman’s lecture. And suddenly, I’d found the most productive off-ramp:

“So what you’re saying is… You have an empty apartment in the middle of downtown Chicago? Just sitting there?”

Mom nods, then tubes her tongue like a mosquito’s and sucks out all the cheese and sauce from a rolled-up pizza slice. The entirely untouched dough and crust get tossed right back in the box. I alone bear the grim honor of recognizing the technique from the times dad tried giving me “the talk”. Anne-Marie shakes off the horror show and jumps onto my train of thought:

“Would you happen to be using it this upcoming week?”

“What’s this week?”

“Spring break,” I say. “At least, for us up here.”

Mom nods, “Ooh, spring break. No wonder he was so keen on taking that trip to St. Louis this Friday.”

My eyebrows smack together. “He who?”

“Ya wouldn’t know ‘im,” Mom replies, waving a hand at me. “He’s dat harpy’s younger brother from So-Cal. I’m gonna tell him it’s Maui or bust, doe.”

“Great,” Anne-Marie pipes in, with her most convincing smile. “So you’ll be outta town then, Barbs?”

“S’pose so, yeah.”

“Yeah,” I say, “Me and Mornin’ were thinking about-”

“Isn’t it ‘Mornin’ and I’?”

“Mornin’ and I, whatever. We were thinking about taking a little roadtrip together down to ‘Ol Windy, matter of fact.”

Mom shrugs. “And how’re you gonna get dere? Cuz dis Barbs is sure-as-hell not givin’ you da beemer.”

“Don’t worry ma, we’ll be taking little red riding hood.”

“Dat hunk-a-junk’s still around?” Mom’s perfectly unwrinkled face twists up like she just pounded back unsweetened lemonade. “Just don’t die on da road. I’m pretty sure my fourth boyfriend passed away in a rustbucket just like dat. He had such a well-sculpted ass, God rest his soul.”

Anne-Marie bursts out laughing.

“See,” Mom says, giving me the stink eye, “She gets me. And God-forbid, kid, if you’re anything like me, you’ll have a nice one for dis little numbah, too.”

I grimace. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, ma.”

“Queens don’t need to vote,” she replies, grabbing the side of her hips. “I know I’d have a moneymaker even if I didn’t go through med school.”

“You’re something else, Barbs,” Anne-Marie says, between dry-heaves. “You know that?”

“Oh I know,” Mom replies. “I’m just glad someone else here has da sense to know it.”

“You’re totally like, goals,” Anne-Marie replies, nodding. “Very strong Samantha Jones energy.”

Mom cackles. “Could you believe dat I used to be a Charlotte?”

“No wayyy!”
“Yes way. Now dat I thinks about it, ya gimme real strong Charlotte energy. Except without da uptightness.”

“So like- a Miranda?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask.

Anne-Marie puts a finger to my mouth and carries on.

“Speaking of sex and cities, though,” she says, “Would you mind if we crashed at your place down south for da week?”

My mom snickers, and nods to herself. “Yeah, I like dis one. Worth whateva’ price ya paid for her.”

My dignity. My manhood. My sense of s-

Something glints through the air, and I leap halfway over the pizza box on the table to catch a ring of keys. Mom keeps going as if I’m not currently two elbows deep into a deep-dish:

“Grey’s for da garage, gold’s for room 1702, and bronze is for Jerry’s suite on the first floor.”

I give her a glib look. “Jerry.”

“Yeah,” Mom replies, rolling her eyes. “Da super. And look, if he asks where Barbs is, just say she’s outta town for da week- it’s a half-truth, afta-all.”

“The best kind of truth,” Anne-Marie pipes in.

Mom nods approvingly. Then winks and adds, “And watch for his hands. He’s a grabby one, dat guy.”

“Duly noted,” I reply, through grit teeth that’re about to snap like matchsticks.

“Anywho,” Mom says, shooting up to her full height like a grove of bamboo. “Gotta blast. Dem So-Cal boys are patient, but not dat patient.

“Seeya around, Barbs,” says Anne-Marie. “Bag ‘em and tag ‘em out there.”

Mom snorts. "You rocker chicks haven't changed a bit in 30 years." Then, donning a pair of aviator sunglasses, she says, "Keep breaking hearts and taking names, you hear me? And neva’ let punk die."

Anne-Marie salutes. “Yes ma’am.”

Halfway to her car, Mom calls out, “Take care of da doofus for me, will-ya?”

Anne-Marie nods. I mumble:

“See you next month, mom.”

Somehow, she hears me, and fires back. “Whaddya mean, I’m seeing Toni in court on Tuesday.”

“What-”

Before I can even process what Mom meant, her gull-wing car doors have already come down like thunder and that ridiculous turbo engine of hers has been set ablaze. She promptly floors it through a red light, only to get stopped by a cop parked outside a donut shop right across the street.

Anne-Marie and I stare with morbid fascination as her furiously-gesturing, self-important silhouette argues the cop into submission with repeated angry intimations towards her license plates. And, after being thoroughly convinced that her patient’s got to have their tumor removed in two hours “or else”, the cop pulls out into traffic to block the perpendicular lane for her. With one last trick up her sleeve, Mom reveals that the roof of her car comes down convertible-style as she vaults into the cabin and floors it into the distance down an entire half-mile of reds.

I glance at Anne-Marie, expecting some kind of lecture—or at the very least, to be poked fun of. Instead, she practically looks star-struck.

“So-” I start.

“No way,” She mumbles, “No way someone like you came out of someone like her.”

“So,” I continue, “That kinda puts a wrench in our plans.”

“Huh?”

“I forgot she’s still suing Dad over her half of the house.”

Anne-Marie raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that our problem?”

“It’s state court,” I say.

Her face droops. “But that’s all the way up in Madison.”

“Whatever.” I lay a hand on her shoulder. "There’s still plenty of time left in the day, and we’ve got at least two-thirds of a plan left to wing.”

Anne-Marie shakes her head free of tweeting cartoon birds and orbiting sparkles before replying:

“I guess we’d have to talk to your dad next.”

“Do we have to?” I groan.

“I mean, If you want this trip to happen, then yeah. Unless you want to take a Megabus.”

“How romantic,” I shoot back, miming a gagging motion. “Let me lead the way, hot stuff.”