“Hello, mother,” I said to start the conversation.

“Maybe,” she said. “Depends on who this is.”

I sighed. “It’s me, Oswald.”

“My husband? Not likely. He’s been dead since ’81.”

“Not Oswald your husband, Oswald your oldest son. Just calling to wish you a happy Mother’s Day.”

“Well now. Isn’t this a surprise. Not a pleasant one, mind you, just surprising that you remembered to call at all.”

“Of course I remembered! How could I forget after last week’s call?”

“What call? What are you babbling on about now? I think all those drugs you take have finally destroyed your mind.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” I said, trying desperately to avoid any unnecessary unpleasantries. “Anyhow, I trust your day is going well?”

“It was until you called, you ungrateful son of a bitch.”

“Yes, well, I can’t argue with that assessment.”

“What? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus, nothing. Did you get the card and flowers?”

“Yeah, I got them. And what did they set you back, twenty bucks? How on earth are you going to be able to afford your mortgage when you’re throwing around money like that?”

“I’m sure I’ll find some way to survive.”

“Don’t get cheeky with me, you cheap bastard. Your brother Roderick and his wife are sending me on a cruise, and all you can come up with is some dime store card and a clump of ragweed? What the hell is wrong with you? What kind of man treats his mother this way?”

“I truly have no idea. But look, I must be going; until next year?”

“Shove it up your ass, you fat piece of shit!” she screamed, and I ended the call. Oh well. I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from her at this point. After all, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. If you could, perhaps my father wouldn’t have left her for that transsexual Hungarian trapeze artist.

Either way, I don’t like to waste time pondering hypotheticals; I’m more of a here-and-now kind of guy. And right now, it’s time for my weekly enema. So until tomorrow — toot toot.

“Yes?” I said, with no small amount of trepidation. Calls to my direct line rarely bring good news. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Bigshot,” said an ancient, bloodcurdling voice on the other end — one that I knew all too well.

“Jesus,” I said. “What do you want, Mother?”

“What do I want? Maybe a couple of sons who are decent enough to call me on Mother’s Day, but I suppose that’s too much to ask! Here it is, already noon, and I haven’t heard from you or Roderick yet.”

“But–”

“But nothing! At least Roderick has some excuse, what with living in California. He’s probably not even awake at this hour. But you? You should be ashamed.”

“I–”

“‘I am an ungrateful bastard,’ is that what you were about to say?”

“No–”

“‘No son should forget his mother on Mother’s Day?’ I couldn’t agree with you more! And yet here we are, with me having to call you just to hear my oldest son’s voice on this special occasion. Now what do you have to say for yourself?”

“It’s not Mother’s Day, Mother.”

“Don’t give me that, you fat tub of lard! I know what day it is!”

“Jesus Christ, woman! Go look at a goddamn calendar if you don’t believe me! It’s May 2 — Mother’s Day is on May 9. You’re a week early!”

“What? Hold on.”

Blessed silence followed, though for all too brief a period.

“Alright, I guess you’re off the hook,” she said upon her return. “But you better call next weekend. Don’t make me call you again!”

“I won’t, Mother.”

“Fine. And stop debasing our family name with all that whoring and carousing. Your father would be disgusted with the way you live!”

She hung up before I got the chance to point out that my father made me look like an amateur in those departments, but whatever. Here’s hoping your mother is saner than mine, or better still, dead. It’s really the only way to deal with such women, in my experience.

Peace out.

“How’s it hanging, bro?” he said after Cashtushy’s replacement, Mrs. Finklebaum, patched him through to my office line. “Still making the big bucks there at LCF?”

“It’s ‘hanging’ just fine, Roderick,” I said. “And of course I’m still maximizing my earning potential. Can I presume that you’re still wasting yours with that preposterous surf shop?”

“Don’t worry about me, brother man — business is booming at Wave Carvers! I don’t think I’ve ever had as many regulars as I do now; must be from all the unemployment here in Cali. People need something to fill up their days, right?”

“Yes, god forbid they find something productive to do when they could be out surfing,” I said while rolling my eyes. “Speaking of which, was there a reason for your call? Or are you just trying to help me experience the listless existence of your average California beach bum?”

“Ho ho ho, it’s always down to brass tacks with you, bro. No worries, I won’t take up much of your day. Just wondering if you wanna go fifty-fifty on a cruise for Mom this year?”

“A cruise? For that soulless harpy? Why would I want to do that?”

“Well, Mother’s Day is coming up on the 9th, bro. I thought it might be nice if we actually did something for her this year. You know, it’s gotta be a real bummer hanging around that nursing home all day…”

“Golden Oaks isn’t a ‘nursing home.’ It’s a retirement community. And a damn nice one at that. Certainly more than she deserves, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Harsh, bro. Harsh!”

“Jesus. Stop talking to me like I just shorted you on a drug deal, Roderick. You know as well as I do that she made our lives a veritable hell while we were growing up. Not to mention forcing dad into the arms of that transvestite Hungarian trapeze artist…”

“Yeah, that was kind of a bummer, man. Alright, no problem. Like I said, just wanted to see if you were interested. Me and Rach’ll cover the cost, no worries.”

“Oh? Won’t that cut into your marijuana allowance?”

“Nah, we grow our own. It’s practically legal out here, bro! You should come visit some time.”

“I’d sooner volunteer for an al Qaeda beheading video than set foot in that socialist state of yours. In the meantime, I have work to do.”

“Alright. See you at Thanksgiving?”

I sighed morosely. “I suppose so. Please give my regards to Rachel and the kids.”

“You got it, bro! Laters!”

I shook my head sadly as I hung up the phone, reflecting on the numerous ways in which Roderick had squandered his life. Oh well, I suppose every family has to have a black sheep or two to make the others shine all the brighter. Speaking of which, time for me to get out of here — it’s two-for-one night down at Pete’s Poontang Emporium, and I don’t want to be late for the Presentation of the Whores. Peace out.

“Mother? My mother’s dead. And a woman. Look, who is this?”

“It’s your son. Oswald.”

“Who?”

“Oswald. Oswald Carver. Your son.”

“Oh, Oswald. What do you want?”

“It… it’s Mother’s Day, mother. Just wanted to call to wish you a happy one.”

“Well you shouldn’t have bothered, you ungrateful bastard.”

“Hmm. Did you get the flowers?”

“Yes, and I threw them right out! You have your nerve.”

“Mmm-hmm. And how is everything at Golden Oaks, hmm?”

“How do you think it is, you sniveling twit?! Orderlies always rummaging through your personal goods, roughing you up if you complain — it’s a nightmare!”

“Okay, mother.”

“You don’t understand! Poor old Mrs. Lipschitz shat herself last week, and no one cleaned her up for three days!”

“Yes, well, I really must be going. Until next year, hmm?”

“You can go f–,” she said as I ended the call. What a bitch. No wonder father left her for a Hungarian trapeze artist. Even with that handlebar mustache, his new lover was still more feminine than mom. Better looking vagina, too.