Up: College Years

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Nice Girls

By Paul Ford

Mom and I on the phone.

During college, I never returned phone calls to my family. I just couldn't stand to talk to any of them. My mom suspected I was gay.

In order to reach me, she learned to call on Sunday, at around eight in the morning. She would say, in the crackle of rural phone lines, "I hope you meet someone nice. Do you know any nice girls? Anyone pleasant?"

"Not really," I replied, my mouth still dirty with Saturday night's malt liquor.

"No?" she asked, crestfallen.

"Nope." What should I have said? "Moms, I'm sleeping with a salty pothead who makes art about Manson sodomizing Jesus. She sure is nice."

Finally, two years into school, I gave in and answered, "yes."

"What's her name?" asked my mother.

"Lisa."

"That's a beautiful name, a perfect name," overstated my mother. Any name that was not "Roger" or "Ed" was beautiful. "What does she do?"

"She's an electrical engineer." And bisexual and a little crazed.

"That's fascinating; she'll be an electrician?"

"More microchips than light switches."

"Is she a nice girl?"

"Sure, she's a real sweety."

"Will you bring her for Thanksgiving?"

"Absolutely not, ever, in any way."

"Well, I can hope. Are you coming for Thanksgiving?"

"Absolutely not, ever, in any way."

"Oh. Do you want to back to sleep?"

"Yes."

"I'll talk to you soon." And I know she tried to say "I miss you," but the phone was already in the cradle.