Interviews with a Bail Bondsman (Parents Weekend)

By PJ Scott-Blankenship on September 28, 2012

I pulled up to Pokie’s house. A stone two-story home hidden by tall trees in a quiet cul-de-sac. She told me she moved here because she hated everybody knowing where she lived and didn’t want to be noticed. The Hummer parked in the driveway really clinches that subtle factor she was looking for, and she fits right in with all the retired school teachers.

Everything was picture-perfect, however, as I got to the lawn I came across an overflowing trash receptacle.  I walked into the breakfast nook and began looking around for Pokie. Her house was a labyrinth of cleanliness and yet Hoarder’s-worthy-pack-raticity.  That’s a word.  I know that Pokie or Teresa as her birth certificate likes to call her, had been in Los Vegas the week before and was itching to clean her home, having left it alone for so long.  Typically when you see her out and about she’s moving with a single-minded determination; swooping from location-to-location. Always with a phone on her ear.

Where is she going? It honestly could be anywhere. When I saw her this past weekend, I walked into a stack of DVD’s of recordings and interviews for a case she was working on.  Pokie the P.I., Bail Bondsperson, Bounty Hunter and sometimes real estate agent.  No wonder she’s constantly cleaning, it’d be easy to lose an important case file in a mess.

It’s hard to get a good luck at her because of all this movement. She’s over average height but seems taller than everyone. She’s got a pretty face but it’s usually hidden under a thick row of straight bangs, and a dark pair of Gucci sunglasses. She laughs and seems to be friends with everyone, but her temper is hot when left unchecked. Usually she’s the life of the party, but I know she sleeps with a gun under her pillow. A doctor once told her she couldn’t have kids. She called him an idiot and had one at 20 because she was provoked. She is the hardest case to crack; and I feel a little intrusive seeing her in her underwear as I enter the darkened living room and she’s smoking, in the fetal position, on the couch.

“Hey, PJ,” she says, eyes unmoving from the television.

“Hey, Momma.”

I used to have this secret wish where I could go back in time and meet my mother as a child. I feel like I’ve lived my whole life with caricature of someone  instead of an actual person, sometimes.  We’ve got nothing in common. I don’t know her favorite food, I don’t know how she met my father, I don’t know what the cases are that she’s working on. Before this weekend I couldn’t remember the last time we actually touched. I know she loves me, though. That is one thing I cannot ever question

I’ll tell you what it’s like, being me and knowing my mother. We have company, I make a rare appearance leaving my bedroom for a shower or food or whatever.  I meet the guest, introduce myself. The guest is floored.

“I didn’t know she had a son!”

As the weekend came to an end I packed my bags, and decided that since it was Sunday it was time  to return to Athens. She stopped me on the way out. Hugged me. And told me she was proud of me.  Another glaring example of how I don’t know the first thing about my mother.

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