Give Green Foam a Chance...

Today promised to be a good day.

The winter chill in the air hung gelatinous-like that morning as the mist caused fat drops of dew to burden innocent blades of grass. When you think you'll almost overdose from so much freshness. I had left my bedroom window open to let the cool air balance the warmth enveloping me from my heavy blanket.

Was that right? I squinted my eyes, but my poor vision still couldn't make out the blurry red digits on the clock. I finally rationalized that I had to sit up, so I did to grab the clock to place it about six inches from my nose to finally make out the time-- 5:27 A.M. Damn...hate it when I forget where I put my glasses....and double-damn, why is it so damn early?

But I could hear the sounds of my mother and father in the living room already preparing for the day.

---The whirring of the blender as my mother made us fresh juice. Not sweet tropical concoctions you'd like to see in a pineapple shaped glass with a cheesy mini Hawaiian umbrella sticking out of it. No, she liked to create these thick green cocktails of bitter vegetables and fruits that my mother was certain would extend our life spans for at least another 38.45 years. She meant well and it made us all feel like we were healthier, and to say the least...we were all 'regular' as can be.

---The crackle of the morning paper as my father skimmed the sports pages. His occasional clearing of the throat even though it wasn't necessary at all. And the shuffling of his house shoes against the worn down shag carpet to see if the neighbor was letting its dog poop on our lawn. "I'll catch that son of a bitch, one of these days, goddamit." This was his morning prayer.

---And the low hum of the Buddhist monks tape playing in the background...the somber bells chiming....the incense slowly wafting into my room beckoning me to wake up...

I heard my mother's small feet coming closer and closer to my room. Maybe if I tried real hard, I could fall back to sleep and she would give me another hour or so to dream. Or I could fake it...but she would know. I closed my eyes and I held on tight to my sleep for just a second longer before I finally had to let go of its soft, comforting hand.

"Indie...Indie wake up. Here's your juice." I opened my eyes half way and saw my Fosse mug brimming with green foam. A clear straw sticking out like the broken stern of a ghost ship slipping beneath the unwelcoming murkiness of a swamp.

"Thanks..mom...just..." I yawned for added effect,"...put it over on the table and I'll drink it when I wake up."

"Indie, you're waking up now. We have to get the day started. Lots to do. And drink your juice before it starts to change color...you won't want to drink it when it's brown." She put the cup on my table and walked out the room.

Hmm...I thought to myself. My tolerance level wouldn't really change if I was drinking green foam or brown foam....it's pretty much the same to me. I shrugged and decided it best to just get up and shower.

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My mother and father owned a little convenience store/deli. They also served Chinese fast food there and so that morning we had to stop by Mr. Hawkins Wholesale Butchery to pick up some things. I sat in the crowded mini-van we three shuttled around in. My father with his Hollywood Casino baseball cap made out of jean prominently displayed on his head. His favorite story was of him winning five hundred dollars at the slots. "I sat on that damn stool for four hours! I swear my butt cheeks were ingrained in that son of a bitch!" He was also wearing the sweater grandma had knit him for Christmas two years ago--the one with the hunter in khaki shorts shooting the duck in the sky...a sad creature with a broken neck suspended in red yarn.
My mother seemed to always wear the same thing when in fact she just bought the same outfits in mass quantities. My favorite was her blue and green tropical two piece (it came in both pants and skirts). She would use this as the base and then layer accordingly as the weather deemed fit. Today, since it was a chilly morning, she had on two sweaters and her large itchy red jacket.

A normal child would be abhorred at the fashion indescretions my parents were prominently displaying in public. But I had gotten to the point where I thought it was adorable. Embarassment was obsolete now. I loved my parents and I was happy for them, who cares if they wouldn't be showing up on anyone's Best Dressed List. Those are for pretentious yuppies anyhow. Its good when you get to the point where that war-craved teenager fascade of "you" against "them" melts away and you can finally appreciate your parents for just being human.

"Indie, you stay in the car. Let the engine keep running to keep it warm." Dad pulled into the delivery driveway of Hawkin's and I always was worried Dad would back up into one of those dividing poles, but he never did. I always admired him for that.

My parents climbed out of the vehicle and walked into the warehouse and I sat there in silence and wondered how many sad unknowing pigs were being slaughtered in that vestibule right now. All that squealing...crunching...bashing. But I saw a couple of men in white frocks, hair nets, and goggles walk by and wondered how sanitary could it really be with all that blood and gore. Would Upton Sinclaire be rolling in his grave or resting peacefully?

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Mom and Dad started getting hungry so we decided to go eat at this Vietnamese Pho restaurant my father's friend had just opened up. The building had been previously owned by five different other owners, none of them lasting for more than six months. This one had been opened for about a month now and everyone in the neighborhood was counting down. We walked into the building. A not-so friendly petite woman directed us toward a table near the window. We sat there and my mom and dad spoke in Chinese.

"Where's Frank? Do you think he's cooking? Maybe he's not even here in the mornings...maybe he comes in the evenings..."

"You should ask...ask that lady. But she might not even know...she's just a waitress..I don't like the looks of her."

The lady sauntered over and took our order.

Before she left my dad asked her in Vietnamese if the owner, Frank, was there. She said he was in the back and would go get him.

My father nodded in triumph. Dad told mom to get him some Vietnamese newspapers to read while they waited which he thought were on a table next to the cash register. Mom walked over there but came back with the 5-pound telephone book instead.

"There's no newspapers over there. Here, read the phone book."

My dad didn't even bat an eyelash. He merely placed the yellow bible in front of him, raised his glasses, and flipped to the coupons. "Look 10 bucks off an oil change. Tell me when the waitress isn't looking and I'll rip it out."

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