SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

“Rodney, smile for the camera”, his mother instructed as she crouched to snap a picture with her worn-out instamatic. From the other side of the lens, he watched her move around the bed; crouching like the tigers he’d seen in the stack of National Geographics.
Rodney hated posing for pictures even more than his new bed. Ordinarily, along with pictures came the excessive geling and combing of hair, the selecting and subsequent straightening of a particular outfit, and the enforced brushing of teeth. But to his mother, pictures were events. Sometimes, big events were the reason for the picture taking: like unwrapping presents on Christmas morning. And sometimes not. Sometimes the events were just stupid: like posing for a picture in his new bed under his new quilt. But picture taking made his mother happy. Especially on her different days.
He hadn’t slept one night in the new bed, but already he missed the safety of his crib. The slated walls made him feel secure, protected, like nothing could hurt him. Not even the monsters.
The green, splotchy animals on his new quilt reminded him of the monsters. As he sat frozen, posing with his picture-face, he thought about how they tried to bully him at night. Now that he’d be sleeping in his new big-boy bed, now that the walled crib was being taken away, he wondered if they’d finally be able to get him. Like the new quilt and the new bed, this scared him as much as his mother’s different days. But he could never tell her. All he could do was pose and pretend he liked the quilt. She’d made it especially for his “big boy bed”.
“Especially for my little man”, she said, as she smoothed the green and white monster quilt over him and around the bed.
He smiled up at her as she smoothed the bed and wondered if he’d become different after he slept in his new bed; different like her.
Whenever his mother was different, she would stay in her bed all day and roam the house all night making things. After one of those nights, the different nights, her manic spurts would reveal themselves in newly wallpapered rooms or dozens and dozens of cookies or handmade quilts for the alter at church. This time it was the blotchy green monster quilt for his new bed.

“Now smile honey” she coaxed again.

With each click of the camera, a flash of light bleached the dirty crème walls with a fresh coat color---forcing the little box to pop, then rotate atop the camera like the revolving doors at the department store. He tried to please her, to relax and smile, but he couldn’t. He could already tell she’d be gone again soon, and it made him sad. He wondered if she’d take the pictures with her---to remember him while she was away.
Leaning his tiny frame against the padded headboard, he felt a covered button push into his back. Still he tried to smile, to please her. But even the padding on the headboard reminded Rodney of her vacation stories.
“They have this room with big quilts on the wall and if you don’t behave, they make you sit in there until you’re good”, his mother advised in warning after one of her trips---the one after she painted the leather couch and tore down the garage.
“Did you do something bad on vacation mommy? Did you have to sit in the quilted room?” he asked, perching at the foot of her bed.
“No honey. Mommy was just feeling sad and needed to sleep and make paintings. Now be a good boy. Be a big boy for mommy. Let her sleep. Ok.”

Under the blanket, out of her sight, as his mother prowled around the bed snapping pictures, he fingered the earring he’d stolen from her velvet jewelry box. He’d kept it hidden in his pocket all morning fondling it for comfort. He knew she wouldn’t miss it. He knew she’d be gone again soon. He knew she couldn’t wear her good jewelry on her vacations---only the white plastic bracelet with her name on it.

He tried to smile, to be a big boy, happy in his big boy bed under his new splotchy green quilt. He tried not to think about the monsters, but he knew they were coming. Every time his mother had a different day, they always came.


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The cold bars of the steel cage felt comfortable. Rodney could be little again. No big boy bed. No pretending. Nothing hurt inside the cage. Not the hot wax or the restraints, the handcuffs or the gag. Not even the horsewhip when it left welted marks across his exposed buttocks. The cold metal bars were better than any spongy headboard. Better than any soft quilt.
“You like that don’t you?!?” demanded Rodney’s leather-clad cellmate, while twisting his nipple.
He glanced down at his hairy pierced nipple. A ring of welting scarlet flesh surrounded the pearl earring, his mother’s earring.
“Yes sir! I like it, Sir!”
And he did. He was deluged with a comfort that perfectly matched the throbbing welts throughout his body. He no longer had to pose. He no longer had to pretend to be a big boy.
Inside the barred enclosure, the monsters stayed away.