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from Lab Rats, The Quantum Colapse of Mother Dwarf

Dead Cat, Dead Pap,

Dead Dwarf, Dismissed Sis,

Dead Baby . . .

And I

As Mother Dwarf Lay Dead and Dying

Good Rat Mom Prey Has No Name

by Steven B. Smith

My brother Cat killed himself in 1987.

30 years old, doing too much speed, coke and alcohol, and irresponsible with his money,
he drove his new unpaid pickup to his wife's parking lot, where - to teach her a lesson -
he got in back and blew his brains all over the truck bed.  She'd left him for a musician.

Cat also felt trapped by Pappy.  The two worked for years as masons.  At the end, they
were building natural looking stone waterfalls for rich Mormons with monkeys in vast
underground bomb shelters under the desert surrounding Las Vegas.

Pappy Smith had polio as a child.  Multiple operations.  His left leg was withered, and he
walked with a side to side swinging grace.  The years of scaffolding brick, block, stone
and concrete destroyed his polio knee, so Cat was carrying part of Pappy's load, and
many of his own.

Cat said he envied me 3 things: I was older, had a beard, and had been to college.
With Pappy deteriorating, he envied me a fourth - I'd left family home on own for own.

Dead Cat killed Pappy.  He died 18 months later from loneliness.

Mom Dwarf got $400 a month social security - which means food OR shelter.  I couldn't
keep two households going, so regretfully asked her to move in with me in 1990.

First year was hell.  A 44 year old male living alone does not want his mother moving in
with him.  A 64 year old mother does not want to live with her heavily drinking coke
shooting son.  The LSD, mushrooms and pills didn't bother her quite as much as demon
alcohol - but the only one she vaguely approved was marijuana.  Seems my second hand smoke saved her sight, said eye doc.

April 20, 1991, while watching the movie Mortal Thoughts downtown with mom, I started to swallow liquid - which was odd, since I wasn't drinking any.  An alcohol induced ulcer at the base of my esophagus was hemorrhaging.  Came home scared. Didn't tell mom.  For 14 hours I vomited blood in a bucket by my bed.  Each time I started losing consciousness from blood loss, I'd think - is this it?  But each time, I'd start to worry about mom who still needed my help and company, and each time I came back.

And each time back, I wondered what art piece to make with my bucket of blood.

Quit drinking in intensive care next day the third time they shoved the tube up my
nose and down my throat.  First two times, I gagged it out.  Decided if I lived - and
there were many maybes - I would NEVER have a tube shoved up my nose again,
would allow alcohol no say so whatsoever.  And haven't.

Back home, saw ma had dumped my blood bucket because the rot smelled bad.
Bloody art critic.

Docs dripped 6 units of blood into me.  One asked the other where it was going.
Friend inquired later if I knew what type.  Said no, but that the next time I'd
gone downtown, I bought a five hour boxed set of James Brown music.

Mother Popcorn.  Papa's Got A Brand New Bag.  Get On The Good Foot.

That was our first year.

The sober 14 since, mom and I've been friends, partners, artists in residence,
collaborators, each other's mutual audience and lab rat.

May you be so lucky.