Tale of a Boorish Jerk

From a writing prompt with friends: How have you dealt with the most boorish person you couldn’t escape from?

I’m aware that I’m not perceived as tough. I know I’ve been through hard things, so perhaps some see me as strong. But mostly I hear that I’m nice. I love people, to a fault, and try to love them with openhearted empathy and grace.

However, my mom’s fifth husband tested my niceness to its limit.

They met dancing at the Eagles club. My mom loved to dance. He was charming, and complimentary. Before long he moved into her house, and a few months later they got married at the Eagles club dance hall. I sang “All I Have” by Beth Nielsen Chapman, accompanying myself on my brother’s portable keyboard.

His nickname was Foggy - an apt description. I describe him as a compulsive liar, bragger, flimflam man, thief, hoarder of anything and everything he could get his hands on. He convinced my sweet, trusting mom that he would take care of her, except he never did. He only worked for cash, which he kept for himself. I could go on and on, the stories are endless.

My mom and I were close, and often I was the mother figure for her, our dynamic all of her life. I loved her dearly but tried to respect her agency to make adult decisions. I told her often that I would help her, but only when she was ready for me to do so. She was so unhappy. I once asked her why she married him, and she said, “because I thought I had to.” I thought that meant she didn’t want to “live in sin,” but now I believe she didn’t think she had the resources to survive on her own.

Although Foggy claimed he could fix anything, he didn’t do any repair or upkeep on the house. The city sent several notices about the house needing paint. So, to help her, I bought paint and got my brothers and my son to help get it done. This made him angry; I guess he thought we were intruding on his space. He fumed in the house while my son, who was recovering from brain surgery, climbed a ladder. I could go on and on.

Finally, in 2006, after seventeen years, she told me she was ready to make a change. The house, garage, attic, basement, and front porch were packed to the rafters with junk and she felt like the house was going to implode upon her. She filed for divorce. We found her an apartment for seniors, moved her out, and hired a contractor to get the house ready to sell. Foggy watched as we filled five huge dumpsters with his precious junk. We had hoped he would take all of his stuff somewhere else, but he claimed he had no money or place to take it. When the house sold, we gave him a $10,000 from the sale of the house, and my brother’s truck. I had to enlist the Sheriff to escort him out of the house.

When my mom died in 2008, he came to her funeral and acted like he was still her husband. Then he asked me to give back some jewelry that he had given her. She didn’t even like jewelry, especially the cheap pieces he got who-knows-where. For years my brothers and I gave him too much of our time and energy, and we were done with him.

And the worst thing he did? He called me “Baby Girl.” I visibly flinched every time, felt like throwing up. But trying to keep the peace, I never told him to stop. Too nice.