Wanderlush

by David Robert

Overview

When David, a self-proclaimed anxiety-ridden introvert, convinces himself he?s dying of cancer, he invites his delightfully unpredictable, Xanax-popping, chardonnay-swilling mother on a series of international good-bye vacations. By doing so, he unwittingly opens a Pandora?s Box of hilarious and humiliating events that will test just how far they are willing to go to get a laugh.

David knows the trips will be anything but boring because he and his mom have been causing a scene for as long as he can remember. He describes her as a cross between Bea Arthur and Karen Walker from Will and Grace, and she is notorious for bending the rules.

But nothing can prepare him for escapades that include digging his mom out of a rain gutter in Costa Rica and being dragged across the Arabian Desert by a psychotic camel named Forrest Hump. As the vacations unfold, David discovers that although he and his mom are having the time of their life, she is ready to share a secret that will change everything.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781458217417
Publisher:	Abbott Press
Publication date:	08/15/2014
Pages:	176
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.41(d)

Read an Excerpt

Wanderlush

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By David Robert

Abbott Press

Copyright © 2014 David Robert
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-1741-7

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CHAPTER 1

Newton's Law of Motion

"David?"

The shrill of the nurse's voice woke me from a daydream. I had worn myself out after an hour of nervously waiting to see my gastroenterologist, whom I fully expected would confirm my suspicion that I'd be dead from ass cancer before the end of the month. I had no legitimate reason to suspect I was dying of cancer, other than the fact that I suffered from severe hypochondria and I had previously failed on separate occasions to convince my family and friends that I was dying of lupus, mad cow disease, Radon poisoning, and Ebola. Besides, my health insurance covered colonoscopies in full after age thirty, so what did I have to lose? Thirty seconds after walking into my doctor's office, I received my diagnosis: irritable bowel syndrome. I am convinced irritable bowel syndrome is the catch-all diagnosis that gastroenterologists dish out to patients who confess to having a nutty mother.

"Damn it!" I shouted.

"I thought you'd be relieved," my doctor said.

I was relieved to learn I wasn't dying, even though I knew the odds of it happening were infinitesimally small. I just wish I had known before I called my mother and offered to take her on a series of "good-bye" vacations before my being sent off to hospice, where a small group of dedicated volunteers would keep vigil at my bedside and read excerpts from Chicken Soup for the Terminally Ill. It's shocking what you'll do and say when you think you're dying of ass cancer. After my mother reassured me that it was more plausible I would die at the hands of Pete, my partner of ten years, once he's finally had enough of my histrionics, she accepted my invitation. What the hell was I thinking?

I describe my mother as a cross between Bea Arthur and Karen Walker from Will and Grace. She is notorious for bending the rules but more so for nursing a hefty glass of chardonnay all day. If my mother were a product, her tagline would be Proudly raising hell since 1945. She's also the person my family turns to for honest feedback. Coincidentally, the feedback becomes more honest as the wine in her glass diminishes.

I often wondered how the universe brought the two of us together. The answer, surprisingly, is Newton's Law of Motion. Anyone who has taken a basic physics class is familiar with the theory, which in part explains that for every action there is an equal but opposite reaction. I tend to think of the theory as the science behind why people like me are born to mothers like mine. On the morning of June 21, 1970, when my mother sauntered into the local hospital, hurled her pregnant body onto the first available gurney, lit a Virginia Slims 100, and yelled, "Let's get this over with. I have a pinochle tournament tonight" (the action), she sealed her fate by giving the universe permission to deliver someone like me into the world (the reaction).

Several years passed before my mother got a taste of the "equal reaction" part of the theory. Some children are fortunate enough to inherit large sums of money from their mother, while others acquire an uncanny ability to spell words like phenobarbital before age six or master the clarinet before they are fully potty trained. I got anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder. While my childhood friends played whiffle ball and tag in the field down the street from my house, I hid under my bed, waiting for the Cold War to end. No wonder I was the target of bullies from shortly after birth through my late thirties.

Don't get me wrong; my mother is the absolute sweetest woman you will ever meet. She'd give someone the shirt off her back, and she often has done so at dinner parties and other functions where this would be considered, at the very least, inappropriate. That's why I love her. And she is fiercely protective. On the rare occasions when I allowed the bullying to affect me, my mother would attempt to comfort me by saying, "Remember, dear, you are the sperm that beat the others in the race. So the next time those kids bully you, turn around and run like hell."

I give my mother a lot of credit for having four children. The concept of raising a child was foreign to Pete and me. We weren't opposed to the idea of having a child; we simply couldn't find anyone with an adequate answer to our question, "Who the hell is going to feed and clothe it for the first eighteen years?" We liked the idea of having children; we just didn't want any of the responsibility and drama. Pete and I continue to leave open the opportunity that the proverbial stork might swoop in late on a Thursday night after American Idol and drop off at our doorstep a healthy, self-sufficient, and neutered eighteen-year-old who planned to leave for university, on a full scholarship, the following Tuesday.

I'll admit that although I was the third child, it took some time for my mom to warm up to me. I don't think she was fully prepared for a child who could go toe to toe with her so early. At age ten I learned an important lesson regarding the depth of my mother's humor and just how far she was willing to go to pay me back for the continuous stress I placed her under.

One weekend day I caught a few minutes of the Jerry Lewis telethon, which was a wildly popular annual televised fundraiser that comedian Jerry Lewis hosted. In that telethon Jerry interviewed children who were battling illness, showed clips of their story, and periodically appealed to the viewing audience to give to "Jerry's kids." This signature phrase became part of America's lexicon. So given that my own father's name was Jerry, I devised a plan to canvas my neighborhood collecting money for none other than Jerry's kids. I just neglected to tell my neighbors that it wasn't Jerry Lewis's kids I was collecting money for but rather my father's kids, and more precisely me.

Well, I thought I had hit the jackpot until my mother found a large stash of candy in my bedroom and questioned how I had gotten it. I had no choice but to confess. My mother was not pleased, and she felt I owed each neighbor a face-to-face apology. I was embarrassed, to say the least, to be forced to retrace my steps to return the money I had collected. My mother walked me to each house and made me knock on the front door and apologize. The first visit didn't go so well, because my apology fell well short of my mother's expectations.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Johnson. Even though I still feel strongly that I technically didn't lie, the collection tin should have clearly been labeled with Jerry Robert's kids. I apologize for the confusion, and to set things right I'm returning your donation."

My mother leaned on my shoulder and pushed me against Mrs. Johnson. I was immediately overpowered by the scent of patchouli and secondhand smoke. "Is that all, David?" I should have shut my mouth then, but I couldn't help myself. Before my mother could whip me off Mrs. Johnson's front steps, I was off and running.

"Oh, yes, thank you, Mother," I added as I looked up at Mrs. Johnson. "I'd like to take this opportunity to ask if you would be interested in rolling your donation into a fund to help the homeless. This is a fund that is dear to my heart as I have a strong suspicion I'll be homeless by the end of the day."

Anger radiated from my mother's face, but to her credit I thought she closed the conversation with a brilliant display of control. She stepped in front of me and added, "It's becoming clearer to us that a serious mistake was made at the hospital, and with your permission I'd like to use your donation to help set up a fund to get my real son back." She used that line at nearly every house, and we walked away with over seventy percent of the original donations. I wasn't sure if I should be offended or impressed, but either way I felt it was time well spent together. Little did I know that my mother planned to use that fund to send me to Saturday Catholic school. My mother always gets even.

Not long after my walk of shame through the neighborhood, each student in my Catholic school class (yes, she actually followed through on her threat) was asked to design a product that would make Jesus more relevant to young people. Having recently come off the Jerry Lewis stunt, I felt my innovative juices rising to an all-time high. I nearly jumped out of my khakis on the way home from class. I saw this assignment as a clear opportunity to shine.

I quickly designed a few product prototypes, most notably bubblegum-flavored communion wafers and Father May I, the board game. Even I thought the latter was a bit tasteless, so I eventually landed on Rice Christies. The tagline was Put a little snap, crackle, and Pope into your morning. I thought the product was genius and that it had a solid chance to eventually go to market. For the week leading up to my presentation I had vivid daydreams of every child in America waking up to a big bowl of Jesus.

Unfortunately, the nun who taught the class didn't share my enthusiasm. I didn't know this at the time, but apparently Catholic school is not the ideal place for children with an overactive imagination. I don't recall exactly what the nun, who my friends and I referred to as The Sister of Darkness, told my mother, but it was something along the lines of, "I would strongly suggest your son divert some of his sinful energy into prayer, because he's going to need it." Again, I should have kept my mouth shut, but I had to add my two cents.

"This was my mother's idea," I cried as my teacher looked at me with disapproving eyes.

My mother's jaw dropped. "David? Don't lie near a church!" She used the word near because technically we weren't in a church but rather in a classroom on the opposite side of the church parking lot. That's likely the reason why I didn't burst into flames when I dropped the F-bomb after my fellow students laughed at my product idea. The person responsible for designing the church property knew what he was doing.

I wiped the manufactured tears from my cheeks and purposely made my chin quiver as I looked up at my teacher. "I'm ten years old," I said. "Do you think someone my age could design a product so disrespectful to the church and to our savior?"

The nun gave my mother the look of death. My mother waited a moment, stared at me intensely as if to suggest You really shouldn't have gone there, and then began to plot her revenge. "I think it would be in everyone's best interest if you directed me to the person here who is responsible for exorcisms," my mother said as she placed herself between my teacher and me.

The nun took my mother's hands and smiled gently. "Right this way, Mrs. Robert."

The exorcism never happened, but I have to admit I spent the better part of that year on my best behavior, because I truly believed at any moment someone would knock at my door, and I'd be greeted by a gangly, elderly man with cold hands who would carry me away in a creepy hearse with lace curtains in the back windows. And I knew all too well that my mother always gets even.

Eventually, I didn't need to be near my mother to cause trouble. My driver's license test is a perfect example. I had just turned sixteen when I completed my driver's education course and was eligible for the driving test. In the car with me for the assessment were an overweight state police officer and my driver's education coach, Mr. Winters. Mr. Winters was a frail, anxious man, and the fact that he had survived forty hours with me during the training course was a shock to everyone, including him. On the ride to the test site, he had a few words of advice for me.

"Do what you are asked, don't say anything unless prompted, and please don't screw this up. I've never had a student fail the driver's test." I don't know if he got a bonus for each student who passed, but it seemed like a desperate plea to me.

The test went quite well until the last ten minutes. The police officer had me stop on a steep hill and asked me to perform a three-point turn. Is this guy out of his mind? I thought. I stopped the car for a moment to contemplate his request and then sped up the hill. "Why the hell would I do a three-point turn on this hill when I can pull into someone's driveway to turn around?" I said. And that is exactly what I did. I felt Mr. Winters sink into his seat.

When I pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the police station, the officer pointed to a parking space on the side of the lot and asked me to parallel park the car. I noticed a spot up ahead that didn't require parallel parking, so I quickly diverted the car into that space. As I pulled into it, I looked at the police officer and said, "I don't really like to parallel park, and so I'm content to continue driving around the lot looking for a space like this one." I poked the officer's bulging belly. "And look, I got you a couple of feet closer to the front door!" Mr. Winters sighed. The officer took out his pen, made a few notes on his notepad, and then had these words for me:

"I've been conducting driver's tests for twenty years, and I have to say I've never met someone quite like you before."

"I get that a lot," I replied.

The officer pulled his sunglasses down and stared at me. "You didn't complete any of the required elements, and you're language was colorful, to say the least. But you're innovative, and good drivers are able to think quickly. I'm passing you. Good luck." And with that, the officer opened the passenger door and stepped out.

"You're giving him a license?" cried Mr. Winters. "God help us."

I was thrilled. I made eye contact with Mr. Winters in the rearview mirror. "At least your record isn't blemished."

And so it went. I sped my way out of adolescence and into early adulthood. In case you are curious, I didn't parallel park a car until I was thirty-one, and even then it was under great pressure and duress. My mother directed me from the sidewalk. This, by the way, is the same woman who nearly failed her own driver's test for "palming" the wheel with one hand while holding a lit cigarette in the other during the parallel parking requirement.

When I wasn't torturing my mother or giving her reasons to disown me, I dreamed of traveling. I have an insatiable fascination with geography and maps. It was no surprise, though, that my desire to travel was stymied by the very quality that bonded my mother and me—anxiety. My mom and I will forever be connected by an irrational fear of flying. Well, okay, the fear is not related to flying as much as it is to crashing. The thought of hitting the ground at five hundred miles per hour and having my torso end up on someone's front porch and my toes scattered across someone else's backyard three states away is rather unsettling. Maybe that's just me.

A more plausible source of my wanderlust is the fear of missing out on something. To me, the risk of missing out on an experience far outweighs the risks associated with exploration. The risk was a selfish motivator, but it was good enough to persuade me to repeatedly get on an airplane with the ball of nerves I affectionately refer to as my mom.

CHAPTER 2

Hard Candy

"Oh, my God," I said as we boarded the plane in Boston.

"I see two bolts missing from the door."

"Who cares, you freak," replied my sister, Lisa, as she pushed her way past me. "There's like a hundred more on there."

I was disappointed by my sister's response, and quite frankly I began to regret inviting her along with my mom and me. She and I were close in age. I was twenty months older, but we were polar opposites when it came to our personality. She is a pragmatic, no-bullshit kind of person. I am driven by emotion and found pleasure in overreacting. I liken Lisa to a honey badger. She's afraid of nothing and, although she looks sweet and innocent, she wouldn't hesitate to chew both of your legs off if you rubbed her the wrong way.

I preferred traveling with people like my mom, people who chewed Xanax like Tic Tacs and relentlessly sweated the small stuff. I wasn't even remotely ready at that early point in the vacation to hear a voice of reason.

Pete was our original choice of travel companion, but shortly after I booked the trip, he received deployment orders from his military unit, so I swapped him out for the only other person I knew who was crazy enough to travel with my mom and me. Pete was being sent overseas for at least several months, and the exact whereabouts of his eventual destination were to remain classified. I should have felt depressed or sad that I'd be away from Pete for so long, but instead I was pissed that he wouldn't tell me the location of his deployment. The secrecy within the military is precisely the reason I never tried out for a position. I hated being kept out of a secret.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Wanderlush by David Robert. Copyright © 2014 David Robert. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Chapter 1 Newton's Law of Motion, 1,
Portugal (2002),
Chapter 2 Hard Candy, 13,
Chapter 3 Pair of Teeth by the Dashboard Lights, 22,
Chapter 4 Smoldering Credit Card Plastic, 26,
Chapter 5 Not So Silent Hill, 33,
Chapter 6 Twelve Inch a Slave, 40,
Chapter 7 The Lavender Yeti, 46,
Chapter 8 Badass Sea Bass, 51,
Costa Rica (2004),
Chapter 9 Three Powdered Doughnuts, 57,
Chapter 10 Xena: Warrior Princess, 64,
Chapter 11 Crouching Grandma, Hidden Dragon, 72,
Chapter 12 Knock, Knock! Hoo-Hoo's There?, 76,
Chapter 13 To All the Girls I've Loved Before, 88,
Chapter 14 Awergic Weaction, 93,
France (2006),
Chapter 15 Penis de Milo, 99,
Chapter 16 Davide Antoinette, 103,
United Arab Emirates (2010),
Chapter 17 Just the Tip, 109,
Chapter 18 Prison Bitch, 117,
Chapter 19 Run, Forrest, Run!, 120,
Chapter 20 Screaming Children, 127,
Chapter 21 Give Me an I. Give Me a B. Give Me an S., 132,
Chapter 22 There's No L in Chardonnay, 145,
Chapter 23 All the Single Ladies, 151,
Chapter 24 The Silver Lining, 158,
Afterward, 167,