He is a vegetarian. She is not, reminding me of my daughters who are mostly vegetarian while I am not. I drink Coke, they do not. I use insecticide, they use citronella. I use commercial detergents, they use organic ones. I use my generation’s products better known as brands, they use their generation’s organics. My son and I operate on the same wavelength, something difficult to understand because he didn’t grow up with me. Two of my four children didn’t grow up with me, yet today I am closer to the two who grew up with the other parent.
Debbie’s or Beatrice’s son comes home after his third or fourth divorce to do what he calls "an experiment" with his mother. Essentially he wants to find out why they seem to hate each other. It is an uncomfortable situation. His mother wants him to sleep on her sofa and get out of her house quickly. He decides to reclaim his old room, which she had turned into storage. Then she has a boyfriend whom she sees and has occasional trysts with but refuses to have them with her son in the house. The son does not understand it. "Is he your boyfriend?" he asks. "No," the mother answers, "we just do it sometimes when he comes to town but I want to see him."
So she does see him. He picks her up, has a vague conver-sation with her son who looks warily at him while his mother hustles her date quickly out of the house.
Left alone a few hours, the son is restless. He watches TV, doesn’t last, goes to his room, searches for his slippers then accidentally sees two huge hat boxes bearing the label, "Poems, Essays, Short Stories." Curious, he brings them down and discovers his mother’s discarded work. She used to be a writer like he is now except she used to write stories based on real people while he writes science-fiction, about dumb men with big heads or giant hands.
Beatrice comes home from her date, who still wants to check the availability of her bed. She says she will check if her son, who is in his 40s, is still awake. She catches him reading her old work and gets upset. She sends her date home and mother and son have a confrontation in the living room. Finally, the son concludes: "You hated me when I became a writer because you always wanted to be one but you refrained from it. You gave it up when you got married and had children. And you hated me when I became a writer so I, too, instinctively began to hate you, not sensing that you were a writer, but sensing your dislike of me. Now I know we hated each other because we are both writers. Mom, why don’t you write? I read some of your work and you are excellent. And Mom, I love you."
The very next day he packs up his clothes and declares the experiment over. He begins his long four-hour drive to Los Angeles. He stops at a gasoline station where a lovely young woman recognizes him as her most favorite author, tells him she loves his books. He asks if she is married, no, she is single. He asks her to follow him and they can stop and talk together along the way. She agrees. In the meantime his mother is back home at the computer he left her, starting to write about their mother-son experiment.
There is something about this movie that grabs me. I don’t know yet what it is. Perhaps something in it speaks to me of my relationships with my adult children but I can’t figure out what yet as I am packing for a vacation in Pagudpud. Yes, that’s where I’m headed with my daughter, her husband and son. It is their birthday gift to me and I am so profoundly grateful because I need a vacation so badly. Maybe once there I will see why I enjoyed the movie so much and define the insights it gave me. Or maybe I will just enjoy being with them and resting, recovering my energy so when I return I am fresh and new again, no longer the piece of leftover garbage that fell out of the waste can.