It’s after midnight as I write this.
I should be sleeping.
Instead, I’m lying in bed thinking about my mother, which is dangerous because once that starts, sleep doesn’t stand a chance.
My mother is gone now, but she left behind enough stories to keep several generations entertained. She lived the kind of life that sounds completely made up until you remember she wasn’t creative enough to invent half the things that happened to her.
She simply wandered into absurd situations and somehow became the main character.
One of my favorite stories comes from a chapter of her life when she worked as a high-end escort.
Not “free drink at Applebee’s” high-end.
I’m talking wealthy-men-with-odd-hobbies high-end.
One evening she was hired to attend a private party hosted by the Masons.
Yes.
Those Masons.
The mysterious organization that has inspired roughly twelve million conspiracy theories and at least three million Facebook posts written entirely in capital letters.
Mom had no idea what she was walking into.
As it turns out, she wasn’t expected to walk into it at all.
They had her lie on a giant silver serving platter while four men carried her into the party.
Imagine accepting a work assignment and discovering your official mode of transportation is “decorative centerpiece.”
Most people would have been horrified.
My mother’s response was essentially:
“Huh. Well that’s different.”
I’ve often thought that’s what made her special.
Life would throw something completely ridiculous at her, and instead of panicking she’d shrug and decide to see how it played out.
According to her, most of the men were actually friendly and surprisingly normal, which somehow makes the story even stranger.
Then things got weird.
Weirder.
She was escorted to a private room where the men entered one at a time.
Her assignment was simple:
Inspect each contestant and announce a winner.
A winner of what?
Excellent question.
No one ever specified.
There were no rules.
No judging criteria.
No official scoring system.
Just a room full of wealthy Masons apparently trusting my mother to oversee what may have been the least organized competition in human history.
The first finalist immediately stood out.
His entire penis was covered in tattoos.
Not one tattoo.
Not several tattoos.
An entire illustrated masterpiece.
Mom was admiring the artwork when he interrupted her and said:
“You really need to see it hard.”
To which she responded with the level of sarcasm she reserved for special occasions.
“Is that a fact?”
The man assured her she didn’t need to do anything.
Just watch.
About a minute later, according to Mom, an entire jungle scene came to life.
Trees.
Birds.
Animals.
Flowers.
The Discovery Channel had apparently found a new broadcasting platform.
To this day, I have questions.
Mostly about the tattoo artist.
How exactly does one schedule those appointments?
Do you leave a tip?
Are there breaks?
Was there concept art?
I need answers.
The second finalist was memorable for entirely different reasons.
Mom described him as having the smallest penis she’d ever seen.
Not small.
Tiny.
The kind of penis that looked like it had arrived by accident.
The kind of penis that could stand next to a button and lose a game of hide-and-seek.
The kind of penis that, if photographed from the wrong angle, might qualify as evidence that nothing was there at all.
When the judging concluded, my mother did something that perfectly captured who she was.
She declared a tie.
One winner for artistic achievement.
One winner for perseverance in the face of adversity.
Honestly, I think she may have invented modern inclusivity.
The older I get, the more I realize the story isn’t really about tattooed anatomy or secret societies.
It’s about my mother.
It’s about her ability to walk into the strangest room imaginable, keep her sense of humor, treat everyone with dignity, and somehow leave with a story instead of trauma.
That was her gift.
She could find the humanity in anyone.
Even a room full of mysterious men holding what may have been the world’s first and only underground penis pageant.
And if I’m being honest, that’s what I miss most.
Not just the stories.
The storyteller.
The woman who could make the bizarre feel ordinary and the ordinary feel magical.
Although I’d still really like to know who won second place.
Rock Bottom Was Only The Lobby 