Here’s a Quarter. Call your mother.

My mother only calls me when somebody is dead. So, now whenever she calls, I panic. Wondering who it is THIS time.

Last week, I was on the phone with Rifka. I hadn’t spoken to her in a while, so we were chatting. All of a sudden, I get another call. It’s Mom. I panic. I told Rifka I’d talk to her later and took Mom’s call.

“Hi Mom. Who died?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“What’s up Mom.”

“Well, Mrs. Greenberg’s (the next door neighbor) son died.”

See? I told ya!

My first apartment, a tiny space, was a converted garage on the side of a house in eastern Long Island. You had to go around the back of the house to get to the apartment. You stepped on loads of dog shit on the way because the people who owned the house didn’t walk their dog. They just let him out in the back yard and shit all over the grass. The dog later got fleas, which I then got as well. It was a nightmare.

But, when I got the apartment, it was my first place. It was the first time out on my own. When I was married, I went from living with Mom and Pop, straight to living with the Satan husband. I didn’t want to get into the habit of having to call Mom everyday. Because then if I didn’t call one day, then she would be worried. I didn’t even want her to call me, because then if I wasn’t home, she would be like the Spanish Inquisition asking me where I was and who I was with. And this was supposed to be my first shot at independence after my divorce.

That was about 15 years ago. Since then, I moved to Manhattan. My parents became a little more worried. If I didn’t answer the phone in time, they would become frantic.

After Pop died, I stayed very closed to home. But after about six months or so, I tried to be a little more on my own. When my Mom and my sister couldn’t get an answer from my cell phone they would freak out. Leaving me messages and frantic texts if I didn’t respond in time. I’d get home, and have ten thousand messages on my answering machine from the both of them. Oh my God, it would really stress me out. I’d call them back and be like what’s going on?? They’d be hysterical and so relieved that I’d called back and that I was alive. It’s a lot of pressure! And all because maybe my cell phone was in my purse and I was in a noisy place so I didn’t hear it or feel it ring or vibrate.

I remember feeling like a five year old that got in trouble at school and the teacher called home. I’d feel guilty, like I was out doing very bad things or something, when I totally wasn’t.

So, after a few of those episodes, I told my Mom not to call me if that’s how she was going to react if I didn’t answer. I mean, sometimes people can’t answer! I didn’t want to be totally stressed out with all the insanely frantic messages. So she stopped calling. Altogether. I have to call her. She will only call me if there is something important. Mostly if somebody dies.

So, now I panic when my Mom calls me, because I wonder who is dead this time.

A few years ago I was at a bridal shower for my cousin. The bride and groom’s female family was there. The groom had escorted my cousin to the party and was about to leave. His mother yells out, “Hey Brad! You got a quarter?”

“No, Ma. Why?”

“Here’s a quarter. Call your mother!”