JAMIE BRICKHOUSE freely and blithely admits in his new memoir that he “had no business being a child.” Then again, he never was a child, really, as becomes evident from his earliest memories. Starting at age five (the age at which his mother wished she could freeze him, Peter Pan style), he was his Mama Jean’s therapist, fashion advisor, and cheering squad—roles he happily embraced. He recalls with fascination watching the lengthy process of her putting on her make-up (a necessity she was never without) and assuring her of her allure in an attempt to make her happy. Like certain children of stay-at-home mothers of the ’60s, Jamie spent a lot of time in his mother’s company, whether in the boudoir or standing up in the front seat of her luxury car on the way to the beauty parlor in Beaumont, Texas.
Although Mama Jean warned Jamie that no one else would ever love him like she did, his first grade teacher came close. He adored this woman, who treated him almost like a grown-up confidant, sharing schoolroom gossip with him and treating him as a teacher’s pet. Later, after a playground friend became his “first boyfriend,” this same teacher carefully told Brickhouse not to play with this boy because he was a “sissy.” By junior high, Brickhouse realized that he was, too, but since Mama Jean had had a fit when his older gay brother came out, Jamie denied that he was gay. Years later, he also denied his HIV status to her, just as he denied his alcoholism.
With the latter admission, it’s easy to anticipate where the book is going. Once he entered college, Brickhouse’s drinking started to go out of control, and at some point his inebriation merged with his childhood obsession with sex. He recounts friendships, lovers, and their frequent intersection, as well as a long-suffering, longtime boyfriend who seems to be a candidate for sainthood, so patiently does he put up with Brickhouse’s philandering, blackouts, drug abuse, and after-work detours to local bars near their Manhattan home and Brickhouse’s workplace (where he works as a book publicist). In between the binges, blackouts, and sexual liaisons, Brickhouse recalls dealing with his mother’s final illness and the process of coming to terms with the person she was and the person he had become.
Though readers may be led to expect this book to be hilariously funny—Brickhouse has performed stand-up comedy and cartoon voice-overs—the book is more charming than laugh-inducing. Charm is perhaps the most charitable description that can be applied to a thumb-sucking, profane, high-maintenance, force-to-be-reckoned-with Mama Jean, except to say that she’s also like so many other moms: an exasperating, irritating reason for eye-rolls to their own children, but rascally adorable to others. Indeed, if there’s humor to be found, it’s in her scoundrel-like magnetism and her sometimes malcontent antics. The drinking-to-excess and blackouts, however, are anything but charming.
Terri Schlichenmeyer is a freelance writer based in Wisconsin.
Dangerous When Wet: A Memoir
by Jamie Brickhouse
St. Martin’s Press. 288 pages, $25.99
