The Queen


Sasha was 25 when she finally confronted her mother. Mom, mom – just tell me, was I adopted? Who is my father!

You weren’t adopted. Sasha’s mother goes to the bathroom. When she comes back she sits back down at the table. In front of her sits Eggs Benedict, whole wheat toast and a glass of scotch. Sit down, it’s time you heard the whole story. She takes a long drink, finishing her glass. Sasha moves across the room and grabs the bottle, pausing to look out the open door of their 21st floor apartment terrace overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge, there is a refreshing fall breeze pouring into the smoke filled room. She refreshes her mother’s drink.

It was the early nineties, before Cobain killed himself and cocaine was still okay. Partying was second nature and my hood was the Meatpacking District, specifically Gansevoort and Hudson. At first, it was just a scene, something to do. Get all dressed up and go out. Then the drugs came. I know you’ve seen my sober chips, it’s been many years. Sasha’s mother takes another drink. The chips aren’t for this, for something much worse. You see, before I was your mother… She finishes her drink and reaches for the bottle, filling her glass half-way… I was a queen. This is where I met your mother and we hooked up one night. A few weeks later she found me and told me she was pregnant. She never wanted a baby, but I did so we had an arrangement and after you were born you were mine. She pauses. I’m not your mom, I’m your father. A few years after I had the operation and became who I am today. I don’t know how all this happened. Your mom… Your birth mom was really into cookies and pills and unfortunately it was the pills that eventually took her. She always said there were ways of killing yourself without killing yourself. She wasn’t totally wrong. She was a good person, made of marshmallows and sensitivity.

Sasha stands up and throws her arms into the air. You are just telling me this now and you are so calm, what the fuck?

Her mother stands with glass in hand. She drains her glass and then grabs her breakfast. You want drama kid? She runs out to the terrace and throws the Eggs Benedict off the terrace. There, now what? Now what am I supposed to eat? Go to the deli and get an egg and cheese on a roll like a savage? What did you want to hear? That’s the truth.

How did you know I was yours? Sasha is tapping her foot on the floor as her mom comes back inside. Her mother sits back down at the table, Sasha sits. You don’t want to hear about what I did to get by; you don’t want to hear about the million blow jobs, do you? Sorry Sasha I’ve always been a person that needed excitement. The eighties bored me, too John Hughes for me, plus, I was a leash baby. I wanted to be bad. The yogurt craze wasn’t enough. I just knew. I knew you were mine.

Sasha walks over to a cabinet above the sink and grabs a glass, comes back and pours herself a drink. She says nothing, draining her drink in two gulps. After, she looks at her mom and then walks onto the terrace, slowly walking to the edge and leans over the railing, looking down on the traffic. She laughs and looks back at her mom. She yells, what was your name? Her mother yells back, Christopher. Sasha smiles and then walks back inside, kisses her mom on the cheek and sits down.

They both pour another drink. It was going to be okay. Right now they need to figure out what they are going to have for breakfast.


About Pulp Scribbler

The Writing of David S. Grant View all posts by Pulp Scribbler

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