back from the neighbor’s, my mother almost fainted when she saw Annie. And she had absolutely no idea what to talk with her about until my father got home from work, and he didn’t know what to talk with her about either.
But it wasn’t a problem – Annie talked enough for all three of them. Having poured herself practically half a glass of whisky and smoking her beautiful cigarettes, she cheerfully told them about how she lived in New York, that she was married for the second time (“his name is Rodriguez, a gangster for sure, and a jealous bastard, but, boy, is he loaded!!)
In just one evening this eleven year-old heard a hundred times more swear words than I had in my entire life up to that point. Finally my mother, white as a sheet, came to her senses and quietly gasped with difficulty, “Stevie, sweetheart, go to your room…”
“Come on, really, what’s the big deal Marsha?” protested Annie, “It’s the weekend tomorrow! Let the kid hang out with us for a while, he might learn something!…”
Of course I listened to my mother, got up, wished everyone good-night, and went to my room. But I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. I just tossed and turned. I was afraid that my father would throw his “indecent” sister out of the house, and tomorrow when I woke up, that fantastic otherworldly automobile would no longer be sparkling in front of our house.
But I was wrong. At the end of the day, my father was as afraid of Annie as I was. In a different way, of course, but not any less.
I know that Annie was sent to me from heaven. In order for me to become who I was meant to be. So that I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life working as a shift mechanic at the electric substation of Benningville – the town of white picket fences and eight television stations.
I only called her “aunt” two times – the first was at the table on the evening of the day she arrived.
When I called her “Aunt Annie” the next day, she sauntered over to me, sunk her taloned claw into my shoulder and said:
“You know what Stephen Wright? If you ever call me “Aunt” again I’m going to tear your skinny little ass off and feed it to the crows! You’re making me feel like an old granny, you got it, you little shit?”
I swallowed, frightened, but nevertheless I didn’t hold my tongue:
“You can’t be an old granny. You’re so young…”
Annie smiled crookedly, “Well, that’s already a little bit better. You’re improving before my eyes…”
And that’s how Annie appeared in my life. She stayed for two weeks, then she came back again after a couple of months. Then again… And she did it only for my sake. I knew it, I felt it. And she didn’t hide it.
I told Annie everything. She had the answer to any question and advice for any situation. With a generous sprinkling of strong language, she happily, and in an unassuming way, did what neither my mother or father could, nor could my school teachers or friends – she told me what this wonderful and boundless life was really about – about Good and about Evil, about money and sex, about success and failure… In a word – about Everything!
She taught me how to drive her car – a blood-red Mercedes convertible. Before I met Ann I knew, of course, that there were other cars besides just American and Japanese. However, the villains with their manly red faces and the saviors of the world who defeated them mercilessly crashed their Aston Martins and Maserattis in a different cinematic dimension, which disappeared, as expected, erased by the credits crawling across the screen, and the real world, to which I was sentenced, moved around in Fords and Toyotas, as simple, reliable and faceless as their owners.
“Remember Stevie, real men only drive cars with a stick shift!” Annie succinctly explained as always, “because only driving a stick makes you feel like you are in control of your whole life! Automatics are for losers and back-seat drivers who are afraid to take the wheel themselves. Look here! You push on the clutch… First, second, third, fourth, fifth… Got it?”
I didn’t understand it at all. I had never even sat in a car with a “stick shift.” But in a week I was flying over the surrounding roads, screaming through intersections and leaving black tire marks on the asphalt.
“You’re doing great!” encouraged Annie. “You are going to be a big success in life… I’m sure of it…”
On my thirteenth birthday my father reluctantly allowed me to go visit Annie in New York (which was good, because I wasn’t taking “No” for an answer). By this time she had already managed to divorce the mysterious Rodriguez, and get married and divorced again.
The city just amazed me. It was so much better than my wildest dreams. It was the City of Cities, the Center of the World.
So many different cars from all over the world crawled and raced through its streets.
Its televisions had over one hundred channels, and every one showed sin with abandon, Good and Evil locked in their eternal conflict…
On my birthday Annie got me a call girl. She was expensive, very young, delicate and skilful.
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