By Jane Jones
Written December 17, 2021 to January 24, 2022
Beginning her writing career at age nine, Jane presented her mother with some Haiku-ish type of assignment containing intentional literary form and meter, upon returning from school one afternoon.
LIFE
WhAT IS LIFE?
LIFE IS TO STUDY,
TO WORK, TO PLAY,
LIFE IS TO BE
YELLED AT, AND HATED
BY OTHERS.
LIFE IS toRture.
BY JANE JONES
Jane’s mother read the poem aloud over and over, with various inflections while seeming to hold her breath, while letting out periodic gasps and grunting noises and wiping sweat from her forehead and unkempt oily hair.
Her mother then took a pencil, erased the word “TORCHURE,” and re-wrote the word in her own hand, with the proper spelling of “toRture.”
She then dated the piece, March 12, 1973.
__________
Three years later, Jane got a letter of applaud from another teacher for her part in a middle school “Become an Author” elective for helping write and illustrate a story about Dusty, a horse. Jane’s mother opened the letter addressed to Jane, and went on to make detailed notes on the envelope such as the date the letter was written (January 16, 1975), the date of its receipt (about 1/22/75) and then, her mother made notations of titles of future books Jane might go on to write.
These bestsellers included:
“Ideas Born” (January 26, 1975)
“Please, God, No Invasion of my ‘First’ home” by Jane
“In the beginning August ____, 1962”
“My First Home” (inside Mother) By “Jane”
“What It Was Like in My ‘First’ Home”
“My First Nine Months” by ‘Jane’
and the very best bestseller…
May 15, 1963 – “Nobody there except Mother and ‘Jane’”
__________
Stepping into the old 1969 Toyota Corona, Jane reminded herself that whatever she did that night, she should not mention her mother to Harold.
This was a lesson learned the previous year of college after her one-and-only awkward date with Richard.
Her friend Mary had told her that Richard thought she was pretty and was thinking of asking her to the formal dance between the men and women’s dorms that winter.
Jane was shy, as was Richard, and she felt hopeful when he eventually asked her to attend with him.
Jane remembered getting dressed up that evening and checking herself over a number of times in the mirror to make sure she had on just the right amount of makeup.
Not too much – and not too little – and to make sure she used enough static guard on her long, rayon dress so that it would not cling to her in unseemly ways.
After the dance that night, Richard asked her if she wanted to go back to his dorm room and make smalltalk.
Nervously shy and not knowing what to expect, she accepted the invitation.
They entered the dimly lit room and Richard took off his tux jacket and seated himself in the middle of the lower dorm bunk bed, leaning back against the wall and looking at her.
Jane had pulled over the desk chair and seated herself several feet away.
Jane was an art major and faces fascinated her. She scrutinized Richard’s features quite closely from that distance and wondered to herself how this conversation might proceed.
She reminded herself, “Whatever you do, Jane, do not mention your mother. Because that would be awkward.”
Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered her high school boyfriend, Thomas, helping her along a bit with the art of conversation.
He was just that kind of guy – caring, sensitive, observant, helpful.
Thomas had asked her once if she was okay because his family noticed she seemed to often look sad. As they discussed this look, she realized when she was serious and listening to other people make smalltalk, the corners of her mouth naturally turned downward, giving her the appearance of sadness when she was simply thinking and concentrating.
That, along with her shyness in the art of conversational smalltalk, led Thomas to give her examples of how to talk smalltalk with strangers. He suggested that when she was in social situations listening, she might train the corners of her mouth muscles slightly by intentionally turning them upward just a bit, achieving a resting expression of neutrality rather than the look of sadness.
So there Jane was, sitting before Richard in his dorm room that night, concentrating on his features. He had wildly curled black hair, an arched Italian nose, olive skin, very straight teeth and his voice was soft-spoken. As she stared at him, nervously, she forced the muscles on the edges of her lips ever so slightly upward, in order to maintain a look of pleasant neutrality.
As Jane gazed at Richard’s face, she hoped for a deep conversation, because quite honestly, Jane hated smalltalk.
But she remembered the importance of smalltalk.
Clutching tensely the edge of the desk chair, she repositioned herself, switching the cross of her legs under the long, formal gown so her foot wouldn’t fall asleep.
Clearing her throat, she thought it was silent enough that she might be the first to speak.
“Where are you from?” she asked Richard.
Good, Jane. You did it. Keep going, and whatever you do, do not talk about your mother.
There was a brief moment of silence that followed Jane’s question as Richard smiled and also shifted position as though preparing to speak. Her mind was racing with thoughts of how awkward she was.
She was so awkward that the night before her first grade school photo, her mother coached her for seemingly hours how she should smile. She would need to keep her lips closed since she had some bad teeth, and not give some cheesy grin, her mother told her. And she would need to hold that look long enough for a photo to be taken. Jane practiced over and over – perhaps her mother even pulled out the stopwatch to make sure she could hold the smile just right for long enough. The next day Jane was quite successful in flashing a pleasantly pained look long enough for the school photographer to capture her image.
Jane’s mother had thoroughly admonished and instructed her when she was in sixth grade of the importance that Jane work on her singing and speaking skills. Jane paid close attention to this advice.
She remembered that day when she had come home from school and her mother commanded her to sit in front of the microphone at the kitchen table.
Jane complied because she knew the consequences of not cooperating with her mother’s recorded interrogations about school and her personal life.
Jane remembered her alternating perplexity and exasperation at her mother’s relentless questions.
She kept demanding to know whether the Sunday school teacher who wanted to take the class to visit and sing for a paralyzed teenager in a nursing home was a “new” Sunday school teacher or a “special” Sunday school teacher.
“Tell me, TELL me Jane. Speak into that microphone there. I want a record of this.”
Jane remembered the sound of her own, cooperating voice alternating with her own puzzled and angry voice as she explained to her raving mother that she was in a church group called the Missionaries and the new teacher was a young woman named Susie Cuesie. It was difficult to convince her mother concerning the innocuous activities of this church group. They drew posters and planned outings was all Jane knew.
Jane remembered the sharp, piercing sound of her mother’s commanding voice referring to a news article and demanding to know whether this was the same person that had severed her spine and whether the first name of her old Sunday School teacher was the same as the name sometimes asked for by a person misdialing their number by one digit.
It was the seventies, and rotary dialing was not yet an exact science.
Jane had quite the reservoir of bizarre experiences with her mother – written into her mind over and over at that young, tender age. She recalled her mother’s stern admonitions that “what goes on at 666 Dreary Drive should stay secret at 666 Dreary Drive” and that Jane shouldn’t go telling every “Tom, Dick and Harry” her mother’s personal business.
In this reservoir of bizarre experiences her mother also told her she needed to take the Dale Carnegie Course – so she might better perform and learn how to win friends and influence people in the fifth grade.
By sixth grade, her mother handed her a book called “I’m OK, You’re OK” in response to Jane’s perplexity and insinuations that her mother was NOT OK.
Jane’s millisecond of ruminations were interrupted when she heard Richard’s easy-going voice say, “I’m from New York, from a large Italian family.”
Jane then said, “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
Good Jane, she thought. So far, so good. That seems like a good response.
Richard said, “I have three brothers and I have two sisters.”
Jane said, “That is nice.”
Richard said, “Where are you from?”
For a split-second, Jane pondered the response, “I am from 666 Dreary Drive…” but instead, said, “I am from this town.”
Richard said, “That is nice.”
He continued, “How many are in your family?”
Jane said, “I am an only child.”
Jane was beginning to sweat a little and she hoped her deodorant was working.
Whatever you do, Jane, she told herself…don’t try to quick-whiff to make sure your deodorant is working and don’t mention your mother.
Richard continued, “That must be nice.”
Jane said, “Yes, that is nice.”
Richard said, “You must see your parents a lot.”
Jane said, “My father is dead.”
Richard said, “That is terrible. How did he die?”
Jane said, “It was a heart attack.”
Richard said, “That is terrible. How old were you?”
Jane said, “I was sixteen.”
Richard said, “That is terrible. You must be very close to your mom now.”
Jane felt the blood drain from her face and she froze, icy cold.. she stared at Richard like a deer in the headlights, frozen.
She told herself, whatever you do, Jane, do not talk about your m..o…th…e……and suddenly she giggled, blurting out, “My mother is crazy.”
There. Now they had made it past smalltalk and were finally having a deep conversation.
Indeed, that seemed to pique Richard’s interest and he said, “Oh yeah? What do you mean ‘she is crazy’?”
She continued…seeming to never take a breath while she blurted out story upon story from the deep well of her memory bank…stories she had gone over at least once in her young mind but likely closer to a thousand times.
She told them with choice words in comedic fashion.
Richard stared at her every single minute, possibly without blinking.
When Jane finished, Richard was unsure how to respond, whether to laugh or to form intelligent words.
He chose the route of smalltalk and said, “That is HORRIBLE.”
They continued their awkward conversation, which was followed by one or two more invitations to breakfast in the dining hall and a game of racquetball, and then eventually Richard and Jane would pass each other on campus, nodding and saying, “Hi, how are you?” followed by, “I am fine, how are you?” followed by, “Fine, just fine…super busy!” followed by, “Yes, me too!” and “See you later!”
So as Jane sat on the front seat of Harold’s old car that night, the rain started to fall like the night of the previous year’s dorm formal and she remembered Richard’s words to her on that awkward date, “That is terrible.”
She reminded herself yet a second time, whatever you do tonight, do not mention your mother. Because that would be a terrible thing to do.
Harold started up the car and as they headed off on a two-hour drive to his sister’s wedding they encountered a torrential downpour.
Harold was a fun friend she and others hung out with on campus and they made smalltalk here and there. Jane was secretly a bit interested in Harold and was happily surprised when he invited her to attend his sister’s wedding that night.
Harold was also shy and said he would feel less awkward around his family if he could bring a date, even though it was clear they were just going as friends.
Jane thought again to herself, whatever you do tonight, do not mention your mother.
Harold was tense and leaned forward, straining to see the highway amidst sideways rain and lightening cracks. The old car’s defogger didn’t work and Jane kept pulling tissues from her purse to wipe the sweltering windshield so Harold could see.
After two hours of smalltalk and awkward driving, they arrived a little late and the reception had already begun. Having no umbrella, they ran through the parking lot arriving in the lobby half-drenched.
Jane felt a little important that Harold’s family took interest in her and she glanced at her friend occasionally, being forewarned of the family members he felt awkward around. It was kind of fun, like a little secret between them.
This was the first sit-down wedding reception she had ever attended and they took their places at the round table with six other guests. Jane glanced them over and internally braced herself somewhat – like one who is advancing to the next level of Let’s-Play-Dialogue and scoping out the potential contestants of this dreadful game.
The word “smalltalk” entered her mind, followed by the question, “How do you win friends and influence people?
As she visually studied the faces of those seated at the table, it was like someone hit an invisible bell signaling “let the banter begin…”
She began to feel the welling, awkward pressure to make smalltalk and remembered to let the muscles of the corners of her mouth raise up just a bit to form a pleasantly neutral look, like her high school friend Thomas had encouraged her to do. Jane did not want to appear sad or mean while listening to the conversation.
Harold was sitting at her right hand and his brother, Frank, to her left. Frank introduced himself to her and they began to make smalltalk.
Jane asked him, “What do you do?”
Frank said, “I am a policeman.”
Jane said, “That is interesting.”
Frank said, “Yes, it is.”
Jane said, “What do you do all day, as a policeman?”
Frank said, “I patrol neighborhoods.”
Jane said, “That is interesting.”
Frank said, “Yes, it is.”
Jane continued, “What neighborhoods do you patrol?”
Frank said, “I patrol Merry Meadows, Timberline Treetops and Harmony Hills.”
Jane paused and then suddenly found conversational flow.
Jane said, “I grew up in Harmony Hills.”
Frank said, “That is interesting. Do you know a crazy old lady named Mrs. Jones?”
Jane Jones felt the blood drain from her face and she froze, icy cold.. she stared at Frank like a deer in the headlights, frozen.
But she remembered the importance of smalltalk.
Switching the cross of her legs under the casual skirt she had selected for the wedding, and clutching the edge of the reception chair, she cleared her throat and replied, “Yes, I know her. That is my mother.”
Frank flushed brightly red like a cardinal in the center of cross hairs, and said, “That is terrible. I am so sorry…I didn’t mean to…”
Jane glanced to her right and met eyes with Harold, who was awkwardly thinking what to say next. Excusing herself, she went to the ladies room and splashed cold water on her face.
Looking in the mirror she said, “You did good. You did not mention your mother tonight.”
Returning to the table, Jane made successful small talk with each other guest.
One woman said, “The petite-foires are to-die for!”
Her mind was now racing and thinking about kids throwing eggs and tomatoes at her mother’s house and her mother contacting the police and taking photos and notes to forward to the FBI.
Jane replied, “Yes, but I prefer the eggs. I mean, the tomatoes.”
She mindlessly reached across Frank’s plate for a large tomato.
It was so…awkward.
A man across from them said, “I like the fried chicken.”
Jane said, “Yes, it is quite horrible.”
Harold glanced at her, and Jane said to him, under her breath, “I tell you, every Tom, Dick and Harry knows my mother!”
He passed her the butter and she gobbed it onto the mashed potatoes, as Frank looked on past her, as though wanting to watch an alien lifeform eat.
Jane said, “These mashed potatoes are good,” with garbled speech from slurping up a large mouthful.
Filling one’s mouth with mashed potatoes is a good plan b when one fails at plan a – which of course is smalltalk.
The lady next to Frank said, “I think they are terrible.”
Jane said, “How was the wedding?”
Frank said, “It was horrible.”
The waiter came and asked, “Does anyone need anything?”
Jane spoke up. “Water. I need water.”
And so the night progressed with the guests forming short questions to one another which were followed in turn by tersely succinct and vapid replies such as, “This sure is a nice place.”
It was all so…awkward…
__________
Jane Jones eventually met another college man, George, who was relieved to know she had no father for which he would need to contend with and only a mother. This man was some type of writer, and she found his poetry and much more to be quite spell bounding.
Jane married George even though her mother observed his idiosyncrasies and warned her that something wasn’t quite right with him, while George’s mother suggested they live together first. They did not, since Jane was a good Christian girl, and furthermore, some type of college missionary?
Living a pretty plain and typical normal dysfunctional life and bearing two children, she divorced George around the 20-year mark when most couples with moderately significant problems divorce, thus adding further confirmation to the typical statistics.
She later married again, this time to John, and the marriage turned into the typical divorce disaster that many second marriages end in, as statistics typically show, with each having brought their typical baggages that the divorced bring into these routine situations.
On her first date with John, Jane dared to bypass smalltalk and told this person about her mother. She then inquired whether she was boring him, to which he quipped, “No…psychosis is never boring.”
John remembered Jane from grade school and was quickly determined to marry her so she wouldn’t end up a crazy old cat lady. John could not imagine his childhood acquaintance becoming this way, and the more she revealed to him the more confident he became that they were a match made in heaven. Finding herself spellbound by this man in this seemingly fairy-tale story, she hoped for a happily-ever-after.
When it took a turn for terrible, Jane told a friend, “If this ends, I will never talk to a man again.”
Her friend astutely replied, “You cannot trust your man-picker.”
__________
Having long ago realized that Jane’s own thoughts and self are too much even for her or her own good, she abandoned all hopes of ever having another chance to inflict torment on some conscious male being by loving them. Instead, she chooses to wander alone in creative solitude with four cats and 13 chickens in Timbuktu, USA.
On any ordinary and typical day she can be found making awkward smalltalk with these creatures and writing boring and blasé short-and-not-so-short stories that no one wants to read, save the occasional unsuspecting soul forced to listen to some excruciatingly torturous read.
As she edits and re-edits, she ponders whether it is the content or her clear command of the English language that make these stories oh so…awkward…
In January 2022 I submitted this fictionalized creative short story to The New Yorker…
Here is the backstory on how this piece was created!
Creative Solitude, Processes and Writing Challenges
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