Liquid Stupid

Late yesterday evening found me over at George’s house after a long afternoon nap. I had driven over to see what he wanted earlier in the day. George wasn't home, but George’s mom was in the kitchen getting up some supper. I often find her cooking when I drive over.

“He’s over at that damn Pookie’s house,” She told me, frowning. “No doubt, playing poker, drinking, and raisin' hell.”
George will once again come walking over sheepishly today to see if he can borrow some more money to start the process all over again. I am just glad my crazy drinking days are behind me for the most part. Alcohol has to be the most nefarious form of liquid stupid in a bottle.
I wasn’t about to drive to Pookie’s house to find George. Pookie’s house is a known drug house and there are often many nefarious characters hanging out at all times of the day and night. My paranoia gets the best of me the few times I just happened to go over there with George. I already have paranoia about the police and you add crack smoking fiends to the mix and Andrew’s schizophrenia can get the best of him.

“Baby, I wish you could talk George into going to those stop drinking meetings with you,” George’s elderly mom said of my A.A. meetings as she put some boiled potatoes in the big metal bowl of her Kitchen Aid mixer.

“He won’t go because no other black people go to those meetings,” I replied as I stood in the kitchen. “We used to have one black man named Anthony that came all the time, but one day he just disappeared and never showed up again. I always remember him because he had a big old gunshot wound in his stomach that had healed badly and he often showed it off as some kind of badge of courage.”

“That’s a shame,” Mrs. Jones said as she turned on the mixer adding butter, milk, salt, and ground pepper to the mixture of cubed boiled potatoes making mashed potatoes.

George’s mother then walked over to the stove to heat up some vegetable oil and placed four large pieces of cubed steak in the big cast iron skillet. They sizzled and popped loudly as she added the flour coated steak to the hot oil. The smell of that cooking steak made my stomach grumble.

If you don’t know already, I adore George’s mom. When I was a child my mother always had a cook and maid named Rene for most of my formative years. Rene was more of a mother to me than my own mother as my mom worked all the time as a school teacher when I was growing up. George’s mom reminds me of Rene in that you always find her in the kitchen, cooking, and getting up wonderful meals, and she keeps an immaculate house. George’s mom and Rene are akin to those great southern black ladies of the south as if they came from the pages of Gone with the Wind. They are a kind and dying breed in this day of gansta rap, chromed wheels, and the thug culture blacks are so embroiled in.

“Baby, you sure you won’t drive over and get George and bring him home for supper?” Mrs. Jones then asked.

“Ma’am, I am sorry, but I don’t go around Pookie and that crowd that hangs out over there,” I replied, solemnly and seriously.

“Well, let me fix you some steak biscuits to take home with you before you leave.”

I watched as George’s mom pulled a big pan of hot and risen biscuits out of her 500 degree oven. She carefully cut each steaming biscuit in half, adding a dab of butter, and then added a small cut square piece of cubed steak. She then put four steak biscuits in a Ziploc bag which immediately steamed up from the heat of those hot biscuits and pieces of steak.

“Give me a hug, baby, before you go.” She said as she handed me the Ziploc bag.

I gave Mrs. Jones a hug and drove on home wondering if George would ever come home last night. Pookie will probably once again raid his wallet as he is passed out drunk in her bed. George will once again come walking over sheepishly today to see if he can borrow some more money to start the process all over again. I am just glad my crazy drinking days are behind me for the most part. Alcohol has to be the most nefarious form of liquid stupid in a bottle.