Mrs. Amastoy

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I followed the summer breeze that cut the thick Pennsylvania air. I wasn’t used to the humidity, so the brief interludes of moving air provided relief and comfort. I stopped the car, closed my eyes and sucked in the hot and wet air. I forgot what I was like to be home. I parked the car and got out.

I began my fourth mission unknowingly last weekend. I felt the urge to go back, not just home as an adult, but to retreat even further. Dropping off my car was nothing more than an excuse for a visit. I wanted to spend my 30th birthday with my parents, even if it was for a day or two.

Sunday morning my parents went to church. Their religion is a bit scattered, my mom is Methodist and my dad is Catholic. My dad always likes to say he goes to Mass to save his soul and church with my mom to save his ass. It’s probably one of the funniest things he ever says, even if I have heard it a million times. It has a much better shelf-life for me than phrases like, “Yea, baby.”

Generally, I’m not one to go to church. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God, or anything. It’s just that my fucking wacked out thinking extends to religion. I find the institution to be divisive. It is counter-intuitive to what it was meant to do, bring people together in fellowship. I’ll pray every now and then, but don’t think I need a church to do it. Many people would disagree, but I am only expressing my own beliefs. And I never try to project them on others, especially with something as personal and fundamental as religion.

I just wish others in the world would do the same.

I went the Sunday I was home. It was a 10:45 service. The time is still resolute in my being. Growing up, going to church was the most unanticipated event in my life. I would arrive with my mom, brother and sister, and sometimes my dad promptly at 10:30, and sit for 15 minutes in extreme boredom. I would wish the minutes away, scribbling on bulletins, doing anything to pass the time. The people around us were the people in our lives. Our friends, classmates, co-workers, teachers surrounded us, filling pews with hushed laughter, handshakes and polite nods until 10:45. Then a silence took over the crowd, and only one voice was heard. The service lasted an hour, filled with songs, stories and lessons. Then there was the dreaded, “children time,” when the minister promped the kids to come up to the altar for a elementary-grade bible lesson. I always hated that part of the service. And as they called “children time,” this August morning, 2005, I looked around at the squirming kids in their pews. I guess I was not the only one who dreaded the altar.

I looked at my mom. She seemed happy and proud to have her "son from California" there, which I have become affectionately known. It was that same look she would give Derek and me when we walked back to our seats from children time. It was followed by a kiss on the head and smile. A proud and happy smile. Pleasing my mom was the reason I came today, but there were other reasons as well. Her name was Mrs. Amastoy.

Mrs.“A” was my first-grade teacher. We called her that because it was hard to say her full name. By mid-year, we could say and spell it with ease, but still preferred the nickname. Mrs. A ushered in my independence by treating me with more respect and maturity than I sometimes get today. She initiated my love of reading that has unfortunately deteriorated to Maxim and Giant lately. But regardless of my recent departure from books, she was instrumental in making me love the written word.

I thought about that as I looked at her, six pews ahead, to the right. After the service, I walked over to her. She looked confused, but I could tell that there was some recollection. It had been almost a quarter century since I was her student, and at least five years since I went to church here. But, I could see her eyes come alive with remembrance. She smiled.

“Robbie?”

“Mrs. A,” I said, bending down in the pew to kiss her wrinkled cheek. She smelled the same, that rose smell.

“You look wonderful,” she said.

“You do, too.”

I looked over at her daughter, seated to her left. Her daughter was about 40 and was a splitting image of Mrs. A from her teaching years. I smiled and nodded.

“Hi, Rob,” she said.

Shit, I thought. I have no idea of her name, so I faked it.

“It is so nice to see you, to see you both today.”

“Are you still at UCLA?”

“No, no. I graduated a while back. I just turned 30.”

“Rob Lowe at 30. My, that dates me. I remember when you would come to class and try to do all those magic tricks. And those purple pants, they were your signature.”

A wave of color and memory hit me. I had suppressed my feelings of magic ever since first grade. Ever since the “trick gone wrong.”

My parents had taken me to a high school play when I was in first grade. I remember being bored, until the magic happened. The frizzy-haired guy on stage had mystical powers. He would point to a picture, and it would fall from the wall. He would point to a chair, and it would slide across the room. I was entranced. I asked my dad how he did it.

“With fishing line,” he said, more focused on the information rather than keeping the mystique alive for a 6-year-old. After a car ride of prodding, he showed me how it was done.

The next day, I asked my teacher if I could do a trick. She followed my instructions and asked the kids to stand up and cover their eyes. I surreptitiously began tying rope to chair, but instead of merely doing one, I did ten or so. I wanted the trick to be big.

When they opened their eyes, I pulled the string, but nothing happened. The imagination of a first grader is much more advanced than his understanding of physical science. It remains as one of the most embarrassing moments in my life. I never performed again, less an occasional card trick as an adult.

But Mrs. A pulled me aside. She could sense my sadness and disillusion, and she comforted me. I thought that was pretty cool.

“Miss A, I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I imagine most people forget about their teachers, and even if they do remember, you probably don’t hear about it. I just wanted to let you know you had a big impact on me. Remember that story I wrote about the class going to outer space?”

She looked at me and smiled. Of course she didn’t. It wasn’t fair for me to ask, but I remembered.

“Do you still have that Robbie?” she asked.

"My mom might somewhere."

"Do you enjoy writing?"

"Yea, it's fun," I said, retreating to my first-grade vocabulary.

"I would love to read something you wrote."

I smiled.

“Actually, right now, I just kinda keep a diary, that's all.”

“Sure,” she said, “I kept a journal for years.”

My mom and dad walked over, signaling the countdown to our departure. They all exchanged greetings and we were on our way.

“Goodbye Mrs. A,” I said, looking at her daughter and nodding. It was obvious, I forgot her name.

“Goodbye,” said her daughter.

“Rob, do not make yourself a stranger. Your brother Derek still comes by and shovels my walk. He’s a good boy.”

Derek, a good boy. That’s a new one.

We went home and I walked upstairs to go through some stuff. After about 20 minutes, I got in my old car and drove to the next town over. I picked up a few things and went to Mrs. A’s house. I knocked on her door and waited. I could hear her inside, making her way to the door.

“Rob,” she said opening it.

I handed her a giant bouquet and faded construction paper with a spacebus drawn on the cover. It was my outer space story. In it, she drove a bus to the moon, navigating the stars and the planets with ease.

“Thanks,” I said. "You were a good bus driver and got me where I needed to go."

Her eyes welled up, with a satisfaction that she didn’t think she even needed. I was a product of her caring and devotion, returning to pay my respects. Returning to get on her bus. Together, we went on one last trip to the moon.

I hope she never finds out about the hookers.