The Weaver Gets His Name.
This here’s the story about Lou the Weaver. Lou the Weaver was perhaps the most ridiculous chapter in my life. Lou the Weaver, or the Weaver as I’ll call him from now on was the first relationship my mother got into after her and my father split up.
The Weaver was a classic piece of work only people like my mother find. I think she set out to find the lowest form of a person. I mean he was just the most lackluster person I think I’ve ever met. He was nondescript in almost every way. He drove a Ford Pinto station wagon with that fake wood panel on the side. His employment was something at the local newspaper. He worked with harness racing horses, but even with that he only fed the horses and took them out for occasional exercise.
The only thing that set him apart was the behavior that earned his moniker. Well that wasn’t the only thing but we’ll get to that later. The Weaver liked to grill. Actually he liked to get drunk and then grill. He’d come home from work, pound like 14 beers in the first hour, really it was normally about 5, and then hit the BBQ.
He’d stand there drinking beer and burning meat. You would think the Weaver had it made right? He’s living every man’s dream. He’s got a woman who will give him some action any time, at any moment. He’s got beer and he’s got his grill. But this is where the fun really starts. The Weaver would not admit he was a drunk. He would just stand there throwing up flames on his BBQ and weave back and forth. He liked boxing so it was like he was bobbing and weaving to avoid the flames but really he was just drunk. He’d stand there, spatula in hand and drunk off his ass and stare down into the hot blackness of his grill. Sometimes he’d drop some meat and swear. Sometimes he’d drop some meat and try to hide it. Every time he’d weave. He did that every night for the entire summer we lived with him. Drink, burn meat, weave, what a tradition. Thus, in my mind, the Weaver was born.
Of course a few problems existed with the Weaver. For instance, before we moved in with him and early on in the relationship, the Weaver actually told my mother that he didn’t like kids. Yep that’s what he said. He said, “Kathy I don’t like kids.” What did my mom do? She slept with him. Then she decided to move in with him. Isn’t that wonderful? That’s like taking your partner to look at a house because you guys are in the market. Well your partner says, “I don’t like this house.” And you put an offer in on it anyway. The offer gets accepted and when your partner isn’t looking you quickly hire movers and put all your stuff in the house YOUR PARTNER DOESN’T LIKE. Doesn’t that make a lot of sense?
The Weaver was also a nag. He liked to say that I looked like a girl if my hair grew past my collar. We used to visit his drunk, smoker pig mother in Windsor, Ontario. That was a treat because the Weaver was also a bigot. Border crossing between Windsor and Detroit was always pretty swell because at US Customs many of the Customs officers were African American. Well apparently getting asked questions by a, and yes I quote, “stupid nigger,” just didn’t sit too well with the Weaver. Every time we’d get close to the border my mom would panic and smoke an extra pack of cigarettes. I would have a spontaneous, smoke induced asthma attack in the back seat and the Weaver would start to bitch about how many blacks there were in Detroit. I was awash in positive role models. Nothing got better when we arrived at Weaver’s mother’s place. She was too pathetic to move. She smoked more cigarettes than anyone I’ve ever seen in my life and these were the Canadian kind. Just like the beer she drank she took a harsh stance against American cigarettes. They are too weak, she’d say. You can’t feel them when you inhale and they taste like nothing. It was about this time I’d whip out my inhaler and run into the next room.
The truly sad thing about these situations is that I was only 12. I didn’t have a lot to say about what happened to me. Whenever I would bring up the ridiculousness of the situations to my, I-have-open-legs-for-anyone-who-pays-attention-to-me, mother she would ignore me. She wouldn’t respond. I can still see her staring of into space when I’d ask these questions. Maybe she was plotting her next drunk. Maybe she was too proud to face the fact that she was truly pathetic. Maybe she just liked being an idiot. All I know is that I grew up this way and I’m not that happy about it.
I guess that’s the point of all I write. I’m not happy about a lot of things. I want to share my stories and I hope in doing so I’ll reach someone and make them think before they do something stupid. Maybe someone will meet their own Lou the Weaver and turn around and run for the hills. Maybe, just maybe, someone will think of their kids before their carnal needs and do what’s best for their children.
The Weaver was a classic piece of work only people like my mother find. I think she set out to find the lowest form of a person. I mean he was just the most lackluster person I think I’ve ever met. He was nondescript in almost every way. He drove a Ford Pinto station wagon with that fake wood panel on the side. His employment was something at the local newspaper. He worked with harness racing horses, but even with that he only fed the horses and took them out for occasional exercise.
The only thing that set him apart was the behavior that earned his moniker. Well that wasn’t the only thing but we’ll get to that later. The Weaver liked to grill. Actually he liked to get drunk and then grill. He’d come home from work, pound like 14 beers in the first hour, really it was normally about 5, and then hit the BBQ.
He’d stand there drinking beer and burning meat. You would think the Weaver had it made right? He’s living every man’s dream. He’s got a woman who will give him some action any time, at any moment. He’s got beer and he’s got his grill. But this is where the fun really starts. The Weaver would not admit he was a drunk. He would just stand there throwing up flames on his BBQ and weave back and forth. He liked boxing so it was like he was bobbing and weaving to avoid the flames but really he was just drunk. He’d stand there, spatula in hand and drunk off his ass and stare down into the hot blackness of his grill. Sometimes he’d drop some meat and swear. Sometimes he’d drop some meat and try to hide it. Every time he’d weave. He did that every night for the entire summer we lived with him. Drink, burn meat, weave, what a tradition. Thus, in my mind, the Weaver was born.
Of course a few problems existed with the Weaver. For instance, before we moved in with him and early on in the relationship, the Weaver actually told my mother that he didn’t like kids. Yep that’s what he said. He said, “Kathy I don’t like kids.” What did my mom do? She slept with him. Then she decided to move in with him. Isn’t that wonderful? That’s like taking your partner to look at a house because you guys are in the market. Well your partner says, “I don’t like this house.” And you put an offer in on it anyway. The offer gets accepted and when your partner isn’t looking you quickly hire movers and put all your stuff in the house YOUR PARTNER DOESN’T LIKE. Doesn’t that make a lot of sense?
The Weaver was also a nag. He liked to say that I looked like a girl if my hair grew past my collar. We used to visit his drunk, smoker pig mother in Windsor, Ontario. That was a treat because the Weaver was also a bigot. Border crossing between Windsor and Detroit was always pretty swell because at US Customs many of the Customs officers were African American. Well apparently getting asked questions by a, and yes I quote, “stupid nigger,” just didn’t sit too well with the Weaver. Every time we’d get close to the border my mom would panic and smoke an extra pack of cigarettes. I would have a spontaneous, smoke induced asthma attack in the back seat and the Weaver would start to bitch about how many blacks there were in Detroit. I was awash in positive role models. Nothing got better when we arrived at Weaver’s mother’s place. She was too pathetic to move. She smoked more cigarettes than anyone I’ve ever seen in my life and these were the Canadian kind. Just like the beer she drank she took a harsh stance against American cigarettes. They are too weak, she’d say. You can’t feel them when you inhale and they taste like nothing. It was about this time I’d whip out my inhaler and run into the next room.
The truly sad thing about these situations is that I was only 12. I didn’t have a lot to say about what happened to me. Whenever I would bring up the ridiculousness of the situations to my, I-have-open-legs-for-anyone-who-pays-attention-to-me, mother she would ignore me. She wouldn’t respond. I can still see her staring of into space when I’d ask these questions. Maybe she was plotting her next drunk. Maybe she was too proud to face the fact that she was truly pathetic. Maybe she just liked being an idiot. All I know is that I grew up this way and I’m not that happy about it.
I guess that’s the point of all I write. I’m not happy about a lot of things. I want to share my stories and I hope in doing so I’ll reach someone and make them think before they do something stupid. Maybe someone will meet their own Lou the Weaver and turn around and run for the hills. Maybe, just maybe, someone will think of their kids before their carnal needs and do what’s best for their children.
posted by morrisson66 at 7:50 AM
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