Introduction
“The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off,” once said Gloria Steinem and dedicated her life to feminism. |
My name is Jake Rush – J.R. to my friends
– and although I was a kid when Ms. Steinem broke onto the scene as a leader
for the women’s liberation movement in the late 1960’s, I was totally aware
that the women in my life dedicated their existence to being generally
pissed off. The short list included my mother, Irene (who despised being called
her childhood nickname, Reenie), my Aunt Gin (who loved drinking her
namesake), their hairdresser, Dusty (who lost everything, including her
prize-winning Pekingese, in a bitter divorce settlement with her high school
sweetheart), and a mutual friend to all three women whose guts they secretly
couldn’t stand; Gloria (not to be confused with social and political activist,
Ms. Steinem).
By the time I reached puberty, I was
introduced to a new breed of women who followed in the ‘short list’s’
footsteps. They included my older sister, Ellie (who hated being called Eleanor),
my cousin, Doreen (who loved getting high the instant she woke up), Dusty’s
daughter, Olivia (who was jealous that her mother paid more attention to her
prize-winning Pekingese than her own daughter), and their mutual friend, Judy
(Gloria’s daughter), whose ass the prior three had kicked to the curb – literally
– on more than one occasion.
In my early adult life, I understood, to a certain
extent, the nature of why all of these women seemed content at being
discontent. They were stuck: in time, in loveless marriages and in dispute of
one another. All of them, prisoners, hanging midair on the mundane wrung of the
going nowhere ladder. I found this weird, especially in my mother’s case. At
seventy-two years young, Irene Rush was (is) a firm believer that a woman’s
best defense weapon is her tongue. Meaning, she’s never been afraid to speak
her mind, and has no remorse after slaying a person with her words. So why was
she terrified in taking a leap of faith to leave behind every thing and
everyone that pissed the bejesus out of her, particularly my father, Jack? Personally,
I always felt my mother was afraid of my father— when in truth? My mother was
madly in love with him.
My parent’s tempestuous relationship was
influential in my sister Ellie’s and my formative years, which I believe was a
clear indication why Ellie developed a deep resentment towards men. In her
youth, Ellie resembled one of those high fashion models in the Robert Palmer Addicted
To Love music video. Ironically, Ellie became addicted to sex. Good. Bad.
Sloppy seconds. Sex seemed to give Ellie superiority over the male ego. It had also
created a deep sense of loneliness as Ellie grew older. With her biological
clock ticking, Ellie eventually married and started a family of her own in the
hopes that a child would fill this void. Thus, she produced my niece, Kennedy,
who, as a vivacious young teenager, followed in her mother’s footsteps by
sleeping with anything that had a pulse-- or not. What had started out as a
dare amongst her peers, gradually had become an obsession for Kennedy to sneak
into the county funeral parlor and cozy up with the stiffs (of both genders), until she was
caught in a casket by the parlor’s proprietor, Mr. Clancy.
Weird, I thought. They’re all just weird.
Suitcase packed, I left behind the
insanity of Yellow Brook, Illinois at the age of twenty-five. Frantic with
worry, I had no life’s ambitions or idea where I was headed. I only knew that
had I not escaped, I would eventually plant my seed within the womb of a
maniacal woman who would inevitably blame me for being the bane of her
existence. So I drifted, and traveled west, landing several odd survival jobs
along my way, until one day I stumbled upon what would become my lifelong
passion: cooking.
Weird, to say the least, since I had no culinary
influence from my mother, whatsoever. Like many of the women in Yellow Brook, my
mother depended on Marie Callender and the Swanson Hungry-Man to do the cooking
for her. The only time she presented a “homemade” meal on the table was at Thanksgiving.
And then, she ordered a precooked turkey with all the fixings from the
supermarket, arranged everything on her best Corelle serving platters, hid the
takeout containers in the burning barrel, proclaiming, annually — while puffing
on a Virginia Slim – how, “Childbirth was easier than fixing this God forsaken feast!”
Anyway, I was working at ‘Big Jim’s Truck
Stop’ just outside of Reno, when in the midst of the breakfast shift, Big Jim,
who tipped the scales at 400 pounds, starting complaining about chest pains. I
immediately sprung into action and began manning the griddle. One week after
Big Jim’s demise, Jim’s wife, Doris, made me the lead cook in an establishment that
was built on the foundation of butter and bacon grease. There wasn’t a dish on
the menu that didn’t scream ‘instant heart attack.’ With Doris’ consent, I
added a Caloric Friendly section to
the menu. While it wasn’t a big hit with the truckers, my heart healthy creations
proved to garner sales among the regulars who were hoping to prolong their
longevity beyond the average life expectancy of 60 (give or take a few years) .
But my position itself was short-lived when
Doris sold the joint to a Japanese conglomerate that turned it into an
all-you-can-eat sushi bar/strip joint. Talk about a double entendre. From
there, I made my way to Los Angeles, where,
after mastering the griddle at ‘Big Jim’s Truck Stop,’ I truly believed that I
had enough culinary experience to apply as a real chef in one of those
swanky L.A. restaurants where the movie stars dined— Hey, what did I know? I was a kid from the Midwest, with eyes as
wide as saucers, looking to make a name for myself like Wolfgang Puck or Benny
Hannah.
I soon learned that Benihana was a chain, and not a real person, which in restaurant slang
“86’d” my chances of landing a job in any of those swanky restaurants, after writing
‘Benny Hannah’ as one of my favorite chefs who I aspired to become on several
of my job applications.
Still,
I persevered and wound up taking a job in a bowling alley as a short-order
cook. It’s there that I met my future wife, Winona. A transplant from Dallas, Texas, Winona was a
waitress/wannabe actress, who had all the qualities in a woman that were
foreign to me. She was caring, and loving, and understanding, not to mention
drop dead gorgeous. Winona boosted my confidence like no other woman I had ever
met, reminding me constantly how, “When one door closes, another one opens.” Always
the voice of reason, Winona and I wed six months after our first date. One year
later, Winona gave birth to our only child, Sam. Sam’s real name is Samantha,
but like her Grandma Rush and Aunt Ellie, she too has a hang-up about her birth
name.
A decade passed, and several doors had
opened and closed before I finally opened my own eatery on Venice Beach. Okay,
so it was a taco joint, but a trendy taco joint frequented by some of
Hollywood’s elite, whose autographed 8-by-10 photos I proudly framed and hung above
the pick-up window. I mean, you know you’ve arrived when you’ve got the likes
of Rob Lowe and Gary Busey hanging above your cash register (the latter of whom
dropped to the D-list since his first visit). Yes, by all accounts, I was living the dream. But that dream
became a nightmare when Winona walked through a different door. That of a
casting director’s bedroom door that
led her to a leading role on a popular TV crime series. The once caring, loving
and understanding woman of my dreams had metamorphosed into a conniving, loathing,
self-absorbed thespian, who drained me of every hard-earned, red cent I was
worth in a divorce settlement that made my mother’s hairdresser, Dusty’s, seem
like a walk in the park. She was even granted custody of Sam on the grounds
that I was “an absentee father.” Duffel bag packed (Winona even got custody of
my luggage), at forty-years old, I had no idea where I was going at this stage
in my life. But one phone call from my
sister Ellie made that decision for me.
(c) 2014 T. Jerris
(c) 2014 T. Jerris
