Ignore That Man Behind the Curtain

This is against my better judgment, but I am doing it for Mother. She says a boy should get credit for his work. I keep telling her it is not work. It is a labor of love. The Fiction. I have spent a lot of time getting it just right. The Name. The Quirks. The Locale. The Wife . . . the wife . . .

But Mother says the world should know how "talented" her boy is. That he is The Writer. She doesn't understand that nobody wants to read a blog about an overweight, 47 year old man who works at K-Mart and lives with his mother. There's nothing interesting about that. I know I'm not clever enough to write a Novel. But I have found a way to hide behind a Character and pretend my life is cool. It's like when Billy Batson becomes Captain Marvel. He can say and do things I never could.

And Mother agrees -- up to a point. There have been many Famous Writers with Pseudonyms. Ed McBain was really Evan Hunter. But he was also famous as Evan Hunter, too. Lester Dent wrote the Doc Savage novels as Kenneth Robeson. Kenneth Millar wrote all his Philip Marlowe books as Ross McDonald. So why can't I have an alter-ego?

I really thought the John Bonus persona was cool. He was everything I wasn't. Everything I wanted to be. He retired at 51 and lived at a year 'round resort with his beautiful (sexy) wife. He spent his days writing and tinkering at "guy stuff" and his nights entertaining beautiful people from the resort. His weekends were spent by the pool, talking to friends, having crazy conversations, drinking rum drinks and martinis. He had an amazing Tiki themed deck where he would throw big parties for all of his friends; the girls would be barefoot and dressed in grass skirts. His hot tub was legendary. And he was a Nudist.

I think that is what Mother objects to the most. "Why does that horrible little man have to be a nudist?" she keeps asking.

"Because it is something I could never do!" I'd shout back.

Our battles are endless. I'm amazed I get any time to write at all. Nothing I ever do is good enough for her. When I was made Assistant Manager at the store she had to point out that George Harbert is only 36 and he is the Manager. BIG DEAL! He had two years of community college, too! I had to work my way up.

I wish I could leave her. But Mother needs me. What with her bad back and the headaches. I can't just turn my back on her. Who would cook? And take care of the cats? And I do love her. She just makes me so mad sometimes. Why can't she see what writing as John Bonus means to me?

He has the courage to be funny. I can't even make a joke in the lunchroom. He has opinions that people listen to. I sit at another table and listen to everyone else talk. Especially the girls. I like listening to the girls. I can't always follow everything they are saying and they laugh a lot. Sometimes I think they are laughing at me. But as John Bonus I can imagine sitting at the Tiki bar, surrounded by friends, fixing cold drinks in a blender and Entertaining everyone with Tales of the Narcoleptic Swinger. They listen to him. Even if he is a fantasy.

But Mother INSISTED that I burst the bubble. "People will respect you more." she keeps saying. "You need to get the credit for all your hard work."

What she doesn't realize is that when I am John Bonus it isn't hard work. Things happen to him and I just talk about it. And I don't care about getting credit. I just want to get out of this basement for a couple of hours each day. Away from her voice and the thumping upstairs when she needs something.

I promised her I would do this -- and I have. Now you know. As for me, I'm going to pretend I never wrote this. I need to keep my fantasy in place. It's the only thing that keeps me halfway sane and I'm afraid of the other fantasies and what I might do if Mother REALLY makes me angry.

Don't worry, John Bonus is alive and well -- for now.

. . . I hear Mother at the top of the stairs. She is gloating like the time she made me burn all of my comic books. Now she is shouting down in that raspy, cigarette damaged voice. She wants to know if I remembered to tell you my name . . .