Say It With A Cookie

There has never been a big “to do” over my birthday. Because of Labor Day I could never have parties. Everyone I knew from school would be out of town. We a had a few parties, I suppose, but they were attended by cousins and other family members; and a couple of other trailer park kids who, like my family, couldn’t afford no fancy three day excursion. I don’t remember when but it got started that my mama would get cookie cakes for me and my brother, his birthday is later in the month. This went on for years and I’ve since missed them. Mama forgets. Not because she’s forgetful, but that birthdays aren’t a big deal in my family. We all still have to ask each other our ages.

So, anyway, I’m on the phone with mama a few nights ago and she’s asking me about the book. As much as I want to I don’t lie. I tell her it’s about drugs and sex and corpses. I tell her about big black transvestites and dirty old men who’ll keep all kinds of company. I tell her it’s based on my own experiences in Atlanta. I don’t tell her these things like I’m proud or ashamed. I just tell her. She seems interested. My mama is a sweetheart. She has had hard times and so is not naïve, nor is she in any way cynical. It’s amazing I’m her child. She listens and makes comments that lead me to believe it is not motherly duty that keeps her from gasping and fainting and disowning me. So I am rewarded and not shunned for my honesty. I believe that she owns up to me as her son because I own up to myself, and that’s as perfect as a child can be, I suppose. Before we hang up she tells me to look for something in the mail. Something small, nothing big; for my birthday.

I forget about it; the present and my birthday, and would have forgotten about the day all week if the Lady Windham hadn’t called on Saturday the 3rd to wish me happy birthday. I tell her she’s wrong and I scold her. My b-day is Wed. the 7th, leave me alone, stop calling. She calls again the next day to wish the same. Her watch is busted and she won’t do anything about it. I say fine, thank you; happy birthday to you too.

The day before my b-day there is a box in front of my apartment door. I snatch it up and in snatching snag a glimpse of the sender. I just see the word cookie, and I’m immediately thrilled. I’m a 28 year old grown man and thrilled near to tears about getting a cookie cake. I take it to my office and brush aside a short story I’m working on when I take a break from working on the book, of which I’ll be sharing on this site. I mean the short story and not the book. It’s about a girl with green eyes and the end of the world. I open up the box and it is not a cookie cake. It is something else, and it is much better.

It started long, long ago. There were many kids in our family. Either all my cousins were over at my house or we were all at some other aunt’s house. We were wild, dirty yard apes and hard to keep track of individually. Whoever was in charge was happy enough to count the same number of heads in each check up to see if anyone was bruised and squalling yet. I had gotten Superman underoos as a present, I think. I may have just bawled and hollered for them. This particular occasion we were all being herded into a car for an older cousin’s softball game. Here’s the thing. I had cowboy boots I wore with the underoos. For those uninitiated underoos for Superman came with briefs (red with yellow band), t-shirt (blue with the yellow, red S insignia), and a little red cape that tied around the neck. I had curly black hair, still do. After donning my attire I would take mama’s hair products and mousse my hair down, pull one curl down over my forehead. The tag was sewn into the back of the band on the briefs, on the inside. This made a square of the fabric a little thicker than the rest of the band and I mistook it to be the belt buckle of Superman’s yellow belt. So, I wore them backwards. Since the smaller front was now in back it gave the effect of wearing thong underwear. And cowboy boots.

So it was that I went unnoticed as me and my cousins were corralled into the car, and I was in the back-back by myself. The number of heads added up and we were off. We arrived at the ball park and as soon as the car was stopped, possibly a moment or two before, we all lit out to go play, wherever. I was not seen all day. Until the ninth inning, when my cousin’s team was down three runs with two outs, bases loaded, and she was up to bat (baseball clichés added for theatrical effect). It would take a miracle to save them now, when, look! Up in left field! It’s…. some kid in brightly colored thong and cape with cowboy boots and he’s holding his arms out in front as he whooshes across the outfield and jumps the right field fence and storms into the woods. No one remembers the outcome of the game. They just remember me, and though I don’t remember it, I’m not allowed to forget.

It wasn’t a cookie cake my mama had sent me. It was a basket of cookies. Twelve shortbread cookies, big as the palm of my hand. They are shaped in the likeness of Superman from behind. There’s a little head of black hair, then a bell shape for the cape and the emblem. Two little blue legs poke out the bottom, and red squares for feet. I like the idea that I don’t remember it and have had the story recounted to me time and time over. In a way it feels like I was Superman in a previous life, which gives me a feeling of potential. I saved one cookie for the Lady Windham, and one more I keep on my desk in my office. As a birthday present it serves as both a tasty treat and an overwhelming sentiment from my mama reminding me that I’m still her little Jody. The one I keep is not just a memento to remind me of my 28th birthday, like people keep movie ticket from first dates and whatnot. I hate those kinds of keepsakes. The memory is better than the token, and when forgotten the “story of” is even better. I keep this one as a symbol, so when I look up from writing I see Superman with his back to me, and am reminded of what it is I’m chasing. It doesn’t tell me that I am now 28, or that I used to be a kid. Why would I need a reminder of that? It tells me of my past, solidifies this moment, and keeps me hopeful in the face of my future. What I love about it, and am moved the most by is that it is just a cookie. It’s mine, and you all will have to get your own.