Poker For Breakfast

When I was ten years old I woke up on a school day to the smell of stale cigarette smoke and the familiar sound of slurred and muffled voices coming from the kitchen. I showered, dressed, and tiptoed down the stairs to have my breakfast and see who spent the night drinking with my mom. Go-Go was in the habit of picking up guys to play cards with her after the bars closed. At our kitchen table, the place I would normally eat my breakfast, was my mom and three of her pals, playing cards, drinking cans of Schlitz, and smoking cigarettes. They were by then grossly drunk.

Go-Go Mom was not normally free with compliments but when she was drunk she would introduce me by pouring it on. She would gush about what an amazing child I was and how lucky she was to have me. “Guys, meet my daughter Diane, isn’t she beautiful, look at her legs, aren’t they gorgeous?”

My Mom's syrupy behavior was intolerable. I took my cereal into the family room, my urge to escape as strong as my wish to eavesdrop. I was as repulsed by her as I was fascinated by the people she brought home for her late night parties. Often, they were people she excluded from her usual circle of friends, like the African American neighbor. Even at the age of ten this struck me as hypocritical.

I left for the school bus early that day, without packing my lunch. She was so gross and flirty when she drank. I didn’t talk to anyone about her or the parties. I had intense loyalty to the family.