Eugene Weiner

“Hey Anna, can you sit down here for a second? I mean, you don’t have to sit next to me, per se, but over there in that chair would work. I have something to, umm, say,” the words tripped on his swollen lips, falling face first on the bulge of a beer belly. I sat down.

“You know…” he swallowed a bead of stray spit. “If you were walking in the middle of a street and a really fast car came towards you, I would push you out of the way and take the blow.” His words were like prison bars trapping my body into Charles Manson’s cell. ‘Who is this man?’ my mind screamed as my gaze immediately transferred to his puke-colored living room carpet.

“Yeah, I really consider that to be the truest test of love for a stepfather,” he sang.

“Oh, okay,” was all I could manage.

The first time I met Eugene Weiner was two years ago at my soccer tournament against the San Rafael Strikers, or so he says. I actually don’t remember him being there at all.

“You were so adorable, Anna, with that cute, little, fourteen-year-old button nose and little, red ribbons in your blonde hair. Your mom and I cheered for you on the sidelines,” he cooed whenever there was an awkward gap in conversation. “When Sammy, I mean your mom, introduced us, I was the most nervous I have ever been in my life. You were, ummm, munching on Cheetos and your fingers were bright orange.”

At least I remember the Cheetos.

Eugene swept my mom off her feet in the first month of their relationship, calling her every evening at 10:00 pm sharp. The constant drone of You hang up,” “No you hang up,” “No, no, I said it first,” gave me cold sweats. Instead of counting sheep, I counted lovesick remarks.

Eugene placed little flower bouquets for my mom and economy sized bags of Cheetos for me on the wooden patio in front of our second story apartment. The simple task of walking up the steps and through the front door grew exponentially difficult.

“He is so romantic,” my mom would say while collecting the day’s offerings.

I desperately tried to warn her, “He’s just trying to impress you with money. You know how lawyers are!” but her misconceived fantasies drowned out all practicality.

“No, no, Anna. Eugene is the sweetest man I have ever met. He would never do something like that; he’s a good lawyer. He even promised to take me to Spain one day! He calls me his little Spanish rose.” Sigh.

“But you’re 100 percent Irish! He’s delusional!” I slammed my foot against the wooden slats beneath me. My mom stood in the doorway, arms full, in all her blue-eyed, pale-skinned beauty.

“And you, young lady, are turning into a smart ass.” She swiftly turned her shoulder, lifted her chin and sauntered into the apartment.

What happened to my mom? Before Eugene staggered into our lives, we were wonderfully independent. Sure, my dad visited once a week to see me and politely squeeze out a hello to my mom (although he secretly hates her for winning ownership of the gold-lined, antique armoire in divorce court), but even those visits were neatly organized into our self-sufficient routine. Our bond was stronger than super glue. We were best friends, mother and daughter, two peas in a pod, xylem and phloem.

Flashback:

“Mom,” I screamed one scalding-hot summer day. “We need to go swimming! The weather is unbearable.”

“I don’t think we can, Anna. You know that we’re out of margarita mix. How can we go to the pool if we don’t have margaritas?” My mother never traveled out of the house without a shot of vodka neatly enclosed in a zip-lock bag and tucked into her jacket pocket. My great-grandmother had taught her this life rule while on her deathbed. Consequentially, I have nursed champagne ever since my baptism. Asking my mother to go to the pool without a mixed drink was unthinkable.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. I completely forgot,” I uttered.

After wringing out the sweat that had saturated my shirt, a sudden stroke of inspiration slapped my face. “Charlene always keeps at least three bottles of margarita mix in her storage. She would probably lend us one if I asked!” Charlene was my mother’s closest friend, besides myself, or course. Without waiting for my mom’s response, I threw on my purple flip-flops, dashed across the street, and took the elevator to Charlene’s apartment on the tenth floor. Luckily, Charlene was home and more than willing to lend us a bottle of drink mix.

My mother and I spent the rest of the day lying in beach chairs. “Thanks for grabbing that margarita mix,” my mom said behind the blue parasol that was shielding her face.

“Of course, mom.” Smile.

“You know, Anna, we make the best pair. I could never ask for anything more.”

Now, that slob of a man Eugene has infiltrated our perfect harmony in all of his drooling glory. After six months of lustful oversight, my mom suggested the unspeakable- move in with Eugene. Rage and exasperation and sadness overcame my body, driving me to desperate measures. I shoved myself into the hall closet and screamed for two days on end.

“You can’t scream forever, Anna,” my mom criticized as she slipped my dinner through the cat door. I paused for a breath, and then continued on that shrill note.

“I know this is going to be hard for you, but you’ll have to learn to like him, at some point. Besides, Kalamazoo hasn’t been able to go to the bathroom lately. I think she feels intimidated when you stand in the litter box.”

I poured five bottles of coolant down the kitchen sink- but it still didn’t repair her broken common sense. The dashing handyman Eugene came over, sporting a brand new tool belt.

“You are such a super hero, Eugene,” my mom said in a daze. I resorted to making loud vomiting sounds behind my bedroom door.

“No Sammy, you’re such a hero,” he slurred. The man had successfully stolen my mom’s soul.

Our first night in Eugene’s home was horrifically excruciating. Even though the move totaled 10 city blocks, I felt like I had fallen into a wormhole, exiting in the eleventh dimension. The entire exterior of Eugene’s house was painted army green with metallic gold trim. A spiked tower extended out of the left side of the roof, complete with stone parapets. Not even Dali could have dreamed this one up.

“Please don’t make me go in there, mom. It looks lie something out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show.” I pulled on her waist, vainly attempting to postpone the entire experience.

“Don’t worry, Anna. Your bedroom is so chic.” As I walked through the front door, a noisome smell sucked the breath out of my body. Something was rotting. The living room walls were dark brown and lined with leather couches. The room’s centerpiece was a mounted deer head with the inscription, “Catch of ‘66” just below the neck. Three mounted salmon swam on the opposite walls. Dead animals surrounded me.

“Hey there, sport,” Eugene said to me as he rushed into the living room. “And hey there, good lookin’.” The chirping sound of a long kiss ensued.

The time had come to be blatantly direct. “Okay, why does this house smell like decaying flesh?” I demanded.

“Oh, I can’t believe Sammy didn’t tell you. In addition to corporate law, I work as a taxidermist, Anna,” he winked his right eye in the direction of my mother, and then his left eye towards me.

“You’re so strong when you stuff that polyuretane.” Swoon.

“Don’t worry, you get used to it after a few minutes,” Eugene added. Weakness grasped my body as my legs gave out from underneath. Complete darkness flooded my new world.

The dreaded proposal came about six months ago. The week after his mouth slobbered the words, “Will you marry me?” he surprised my mom with a full ceremony at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco. As the one and only bridesmaid, I adorned the blackest of dresses with a matching dark lace veil pinned to my pale forehead. Although my mom barely had enough time to put together a vow, Eugene had clearly prepared the equivalent of a novel for his. After an hour and a half of incoherent, heart wrenching promises, he broke down and bawled into the church’s PA system.

“I promise to be the best husband in the world,” he wailed between sobs. The priest had to halt Eugene’s emotional serenade.

“And now, let us be silent with our thoughts,” he said, cutting off the groom mid-sentence. Tears of a different kind steamed down my cheeks.

A week after the wedding, my mom decided that we should sit down for a talk. This would have been fine if Eugene hadn’t invited his bumbling taxidermy friends over to discuss optimal stuffing and skinning strategies.

“Now, I know that you don’t like him very much, Anna. But you do have to admit- he has charm,” my mom screamed above the loud cackles that emanated from Eugene’s workshop.

“What? You call pleather pants and shaved-off sideburns charm? I call it a freak show!”

“Okay, I admit that he’s not the most suave dresser in the world.” The massive amount of steam billowing from my ears could have killed a small rodent.

An unfamiliar voice echoed from the second floor, “I kill bear, cougar, wild boar, caribou, mountain sheep and mountain goats. Yup, mountain goats are so pretty when ya’ nail ‘em on to them there freestandin’ mounts…”

“Eugene is a parasitic creature and I WOULDN’T CARE IF HE DIED!” There. I finally said it.

My mother’s defensive countenance seemed to melt into pure sadness. “Anna, you don’t understand!” she bawled. “He loves me! He treats me like I’m a Spanish princess.” Bewilderment encompassed me as I held her shaking body with my arms. Seconds seemed to inch by as the high-pitched hum of Eugene’s electric rotary cutters pervaded the house. “Can you just try to like him? Please, Anna. For me?”

I thought about her request for a long and hard thirty seconds. “I’ll try. But I’m not making any promises.”

Present day:

Nika, the family therapist, insists we dedicate one day a week to ‘family time.’ Consequently, Sunday has plummeted to the lowly position of my least favorite day.

“Where do you want to go today, Sport?” Eugene asks, while tucking his Hawaiian flowered shirt into his pleather pants.

“Movies.” Lately, I have been trying to limit my responses to one word with Eugene. Movies are always a good choice for family day, minimizing social interaction and maximizing normality.

“Well, alright. Do you know which one you, umm, want to see?” he asks.

“Alfie. 12:20. Smith Ranch Theater,” I mumble.

“Holy crocodile! That’s in a half an hour!” he says, stumbling up the stairs toward his bedroom. “Sammy, we need to be out the door in ten minutes!”

“Alright, shnookums,” she screams from the taxidermy studio upstairs. A state of frenzy overtakes the house as Eugene and my mother hurriedly try to organize their chaotic lives.

After jumping into our newly purchased family van, I immediately climb to the back room of seats and settle. Just as a peaceful façade begins to veil our family’s dysfunction, my mother lets out a blood-curdling shriek.

“What is it, Sammy?” Eugene asks as my mother’s screams escalate.

“Mom! Are you okay?” I ask. No response. Eugene pulls the van onto the side of the road as my mother violently opens the car door to gasp for air.

“Mom, talk to me!” I command.

“I just,” sniffle, “Forgot to bring my zip-lock bag with vodka.”

A look of pure sympathy engulfs Eugene’s face as he pulls my mother’s head into his chest. “Aww. There, there, there,” he purrs between her muffled cries. “Look here, honey.” Reaching into his shirt pocket, Eugene pulls out a filled shot glass, sealed by a layer of crumpled Saran Wrap.

“Here you go, Sammy,” he gently kisses my mother on the nose.

Even though Eugene’s disgusting face makes me want to throw up, maybe I’ll stop throwing stiletto heels at his head.