My Face as Emoticon

I worked at St. Fatty's Fair the other night. Six and a half hours next to five gallons of boiling hot oil in an industrial size deep fryer.

There were a couple of other people at the pizza stand with me. (Yes, the pizza dough was fried, then sprinkled with sugar or laden with sauce and Parmesan.) There was Dave, a retired UPS guy who seemed more interested in schmoozing than actually doing real work. And there was Dee, a nurse practitioner at a local medical group.

I was assigned / volunteered to take the money, then finish off said pizza with choice of topping. This I did for about two and a half hours. When a customer ordered, over the din, in my best "Yes, chef!" voice, I would shout "I need one with sauce, please!"

I made a point of smiling. Maybe it looked phony, I don't know. But I was pleased with myself. It had to be 100 degrees in the tent, in the 90 degree day, with 80% humidity, and I didn't melt, nor did I melt down.

And I was having fun. I know it's weird, but I was. I liked the carnival atmosphere, I loved seeing the families out for an evening. I was truly enjoying myself.

Three hours into it, after Dee had her dinner break, I went on mine. I had pierogies and realized with some sadness that I will never have pierogies as good as Annushka's. It's been a year since the big break and neither side has contacted the other. That's pretty final to me.

When I came back, there was a lull for about ten minutes, so I sat down and Dave sat opposite me.

He grinned. "I can see you as a school teacher."

I was horrified. "Me? A teacher? I don't even like most children."

"Naw, naw. I mean - " he made a gesture, a flick of the wrist. "I mean cracking that whip. Keeping 'em in line, you know."

I was still horrified. It was delivered without a lot of subtlety, but the translation I got was that I was being wildly overbearing in the worst possible Gordon Ramsay way.

With that arrow hitting the mark, Dave walked away. I sat, stunned, and Dee began taking orders and handling the money. I moved over to put sauce on the pizzas and generously sprinkle them with Parmesan.

"What's the matter," Dee asked. "You want to come back and count the money? You look so sad and disappointed."

Disappointed? Over not counting money? I didn't think so, although I have to admit, I liked the feeling (obviously bogus) of flow that had been with me earlier.

When closing time came, I left. I'm not working the Fair again and I'm just as glad.

Last night, I had a dream that I, full grown, was standing behind my mother where she worked. She looked like she did in the early 1970s. She was typing away - she could type 120 words per minute with her little hands. Her back was toward me.

"Mom," I said. "Mom? Why didn't you teach me how to be normal?"

She didn't look back but I could tell she heard me.

"At least let me learn how to blend in? To do what people expect of me? Why didn't you teach me that?"

Again, she would not turn around although in my dream, I know she heard me. What would have been the beginning of a brawl in real life was given the cold shoulder in my dreams. Maybe it's better that way.

She couldn't be bothered.

And while waking, I know that once you hit, say, 21, the statute of limitations on what our parents do to us should run out, I think it's too late to correct this damage. I've tried a number of times and it comes off as fake or phony. My face outs me, as Graphics Gary told me, too. The face that never lies. The face that shows scorn, sarcasm, disbelief, irony and for far too many years, no love.