The scenery behind him looked vaguely familiar. Behind him a stone wall partially concealed by deep green branches, whitish pink flowers growing sideways and clinging to any open space. It could have been a spot along the banks of the Hudson River, way north of the clusters of skyscrapers in midtown Manhattan on the far more scenic upper west side across from the New Jersey Palisades, except for the bright white pagoda style turret rising above the wall, cartoonishly immaculate and stark against the clear blue sky. That reminded me he was still in Japan, as if I need reminding.
I asked him where it was, exactly. "By the castle in Himeji," he responded, asking me why I was awake at such an ungodly hour. (He's much better than I am at doing the math across the International Date Line.) Not wanting to remind him that I just don't sleep, I pursued the Himeji castle component of the conversation. I recalled standing along the banks of a tiny river and looking up to see an almost identical view this summer. I told my son I knew exactly where he was standing, thinking he would be impressed. By the river, across from all those cute, medieval looking houses.
"Different stone wall," he replied. "It happens." Of all the castles and pagodas and stone walls I'd seen in Japan last summer, I thought I knew this one at least. Especially since I had spent the better part of my ten day visit right there in Himeji, where there was not much to do other than wander through the grounds of its storybook castle.
"Asshole," I responded, right there for all to see on Facebook. I felt kind of bad about it, particularly since he didn't bother to respond. Not even in Japanese.
Only a few hours later I doused myself with gasoline. To say that I did this because I was upset about the Facebook exchange with my son would be a gross exaggeration. I did it because, as he and his sisters well know, I am an idiot. Not only can I not distinguish among the various stone walls of a castle I practically moved into for a few days last summer, but I also cannot distinguish between the sound of somebody else's gas pump shutting off and the quite distinct noise of my own gas pump still whirring with the sound of fuel racing through it into my tank.
Note to self: always check that the pump has shut off before you pull it out, even if you think you heard it shut off. Otherwise, you end up standing there with a hand held geyser that is spewing flammable liquid at an astonishing and turbulent rate, and, if you are truly an idiot, you turn the thing in all directions trying to figure out how to stop the madness and end up coating yourself and everything you're wearing with a thick coat of gasoline. Which would not be all that tragic if you were not on your way to work and could throw your clothes in the wash and take a shower, but naturally, I was on my way to work. And when you work in a clothing store, particularly one that pipes in its own signature aroma just so its merchandise will smell good and remind customers of the store when they bring it home, it is not a good thing to overwhelm that signature aroma with the stench of gasoline. Or to stand too close to the candles that promise to fill people's homes with that wonderful scent when it finally dissipates from their clothing. One strike of a match and I was toast.
I have long abandoned hope of convincing my children that I am anything more than a bungling moron who has, by some miracle, made it through life this far. And, to tell you the truth, I feel kind of warm and fuzzy that my son, despite the thousands of miles and many months that have separated us, has not changed his view. That he is still able to mock me, to be an asshole, as if he had never flown so far from the nest.
He's coming home in a few weeks, at least for a while. I cannot wait to tell him the gasoline story in person, just to see him roll his eyes at me and hear him remind me, as only he can, how moronic I can be. Different stone wall, mom. Wrong gas pump, mom. It happens. Asshole! I am counting the days.
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