Twisted
Mary Beth Hoerner
Word Count 596
In the late 1960s, fake hair was all the rage. Fake everything, really. Tang was considered a health drink. Mom’s braid was not the shiny, funky braids Chér rocked. Her braid was a coarse, manmade structure made from the latest in wig-and-fall technology.
Patsy would pull her God-given hair into a high ponytail, form a bun with it atop her head, then encircle the bun with the massive five-inch-tall braid, fortified with two types of bobby pins: the closed ones and the V-shaped ones. Lots of them.
If a friend of mine dared to utter, “Why does your mom wear that braid on her head?” my response would be the evil eye and an “Ugh!” in a tone disgusted enough to halt all further inquiries. Even though the question was always in my pants pocket.
Some questions you don’t ask your parents. You’d know either no response would be provided, and the parent would be disappointed in you for asking. Or you’d be afraid of the answer. So I never asked Dad why he would growl and scream and jump up at night from dreams he had that I was sure were triggered by his time in the worst battles of WWII.
When I was a kid, Mom didn’t ride on roller coasters. She was super proper and composed. It came as a surprise to me when we went to Six Flags’ Great America when I was in my 20’s and mom was in her 50’s. She shied away from nothing. Not even the American Eagle—the theme park’s original scariest, old-school, white wooden roller coaster/death trap that had become exponentially more rickety and decrepit with age.
Part of the ride’s allure was the wait. All day there’d be painfully long winding loops of sweating people, and the longer one stood in line, listening to the screams, observing the creaking contraption run by fifteen-and-a-half-year-olds, and dodging the occasional skyfall of vomit, the scarier it became.
Enter Patsy in her kitten heels and bun. Who was this devil-may-care mother I came home to after college?
The American Eagle ride should have been allowed to become extinct. Instead, it was band-aided together without the shoulder protection all subsequent self-respecting roller coasters required. My boyfriend Rob and I sat behind her, every other seat taken.
The ride’s macabre, chug-a-lug climb straight up into the heavens was the longest and most terrifying part of the ride. It was here that Mom and I could be heard praying to Jesus and his folks.
Like all traumatic events, the ride plunging down, and up, and around is a blur marked with ear-piercing shrieks. Mom’s bun was caught off-guard during the initial drop, but like all of us on the ride, struggled to stay in place and alive.
The mighty force of gravity, however, had other ideas. While my eyes were locked shut, my quick-reflexed partner raised his arm and caught the wayward, disobedient, boulder of hair after it had indulged in one sweet moment of freedom.
The screeching unoiled brakes miraculously exhaled; we experienced minor whiplash in unison; and the contraption’s doors clicked to unlock. Clasping her bare bun, Mom exited the ride relieved to be among the living but frantic for her furry investment. “Mare! Mare???” she cried out to me.
Bumping shoulders with the other discombobulated riders, Rob, the hero, quickly tossed Patsy her booty. She cradled the hair like the cherished family member it was, and as we unsteadily trudged out of the ride past the expectant crowd, a little girl said, “Look, Mommy. That lady brought her cat.”
Mary Beth is a Chicago writer and playwright and a 2021 winner of Nickie’s Prize for Humor Writing. Her short fiction has appeared in Hypertext and Halfway Down the Stairs, and her creative nonfiction has appeared in Hypertext and the Bacopa Literary Review. She has two memoir pieces published in anthologies: one in Cubbie Blues: 100 Years of Waiting Till Next Year and in Sisters! Her education includes an M.A. in English from the University of Illinois, Champaign, and an M.F.A. in fiction writing from Columbia College Chicago.