Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
I’m standing by the back issue bins when a woman walks into the store. She looks at my shirt, smiles and begins creeping he way toward me.
"Do not even think about pinching me." I say, with no humor in my voice. "You’re not wearing green." She says. "I’m not. That doesn’t mean you can pinch me." "You don’t like The Irish?" She asks. "I am of Irish descent." I reply. "But I didn’t feel like wearing green today. Are you Irish?" She laughs. ”Everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.” "Are you also a tree on Arbor Day?" She frowns. ”Excuse me?” "If you don’t magically turn into a tree on Arbor Day, you are also not magically Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. "
0 Comments
My father doesn't really celebrate Christmas ever since the Church where he served as altar boy for years told him he wasn't good enough to adopt a child. He played along while I grew up, but once he and my mother were divorced, he decided he'd give out unwrapped gifts that he thought people needed. Not what they, necessarily wanted. I've always been ok with that. Even when, some years, it was scratch tickets and beer.
This, the first year (first week really) since his second wife died, he went through the Christmas presents she'd bought, and, without a list, decided who should get what. I was puzzled by the aromatherapy neck & back pillows, until he called and let me know that those were "probably" meant for my grandmother. So I got a snuggie, and t-shirts. Now, the t-shirts. The t-shirts. I suspect they are t-shirts someone gave to my father that don't actually fit him. They are, of course, huge on me. There are a couple of Martha's Vineyard art fairs, and country fair shirts. Those are fine. The seven traffic cone orange Doo-Wop 2007 shirts are...interesting. But the truly fantastic? "Welcome To America, Now Learn To Speak English", and "Richardology: The Study Of Dicks". The first shirt was, I assume, a deliberately ironic shirt. The second? I wonder if my dad understands that when he, a Richard, wears it, it has a very different meaning than when I, not a Richard, put it on. Doesn't he know I'm an ass man? My Christmhistory:1977-1981: I don't fucken remember. 1982-1990: My cousins and aunts and uncles on my mother's side of the family owned all of the property around a lake in Atamansit. Every year we would all gather at my great aunt's and tell stories, sing Christmas Carols, and record the event on VHS. There were a couple of years when my father's parents would come, too. I'm blinded by nostalgia, of course, but apart from my prick of an uncle who would berate his business-arrangement-wife and kid, I remember these being very happy Christmases. We didn't exchange many gifts at these events, mainly stocking stuffers, but even as a kid, I didn't care. I just lliked being around people who were happy. 1992-4: I had about two weeks of vacation from boarding school, and every year I would come home with another student, and my parents would tone down their arguing (they were going through a divorce, and then they were divorced) for the visitor. 1992 my guest was a Saudi Arabian prince who lived in the next room (there are billions of Saudi Arabian princes, I'm told). He bought my parents traditional Saudi Arabian garb, and my parents bought him tacky sweatshirts and jeans (traditional American garb). In 1993, my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend came by for a couple of days. It was ho ho hella awkward. 1995: I had just dropped out of college, which I spent all of Christmas hearing about. Most of my gifts were suited toward me living in Florida, which I no longer did. I also spent the vacation week running a holiday camp at they YMCA. The camgrounds I loved so much in the summer were pretty desolate in the arctic winter, so we ended up mostly watching movies, doing arts and crafts, and playing Capture the Flag. 1996-8: The more immediate part of my mother's side of the family (just her brothers, not any cousins) would get together in western MA to exchange gifts, and go to a restaurant with my nearly housebound uncle. There were always some pleasant times, and a lot of arguing. In 1998, I videotaped the event. Before recording, I checked the camera to see that I wasn't recording over anything important. What I found was my eighty-one year old grandfather and two eighteen year old escorts at an event called Fantasy Fest, where there were all kinds of kinky shit going on. There was a point where my grandfather was making out with someone who I'm near positive was a guy, but my grandfather didn't know that. I haven't picked up a video recording device since. 1999: Being completely in love with my oblivious, homophobic (didn't know that at the time) best friend, I spent much of the holiday with him and his family. We cleaned up his father's warehouse, made each other mix CDs, recorded an EP of songs with my lyrics and his music, had a long conversation about relationships. Seriously, the fact that it took him another seven months to realize I was in love with him makes him borderline comatose. 2000: Having just quit my job selling chocolates in Vermont, I made my first trip back to the Cape in months. My mom and her boyfriend spent the day arguing with each other, even throwing ornaments across the room, which triggered their singing fucken Christmas tree. 2001: I watched the snow from my new apartment with MelissafuckenPlummer. I also headed over to housesit for Zuzu. 2002: My last Christmas spent with my mother's side of the family. My mom's neurotic then-boyfriend, now-husband freaked out because my mom had moved his dining room table over six inches so that my grandfather could fit at the table. Every person in the house spent the day arguing with everyone else in the house, including my Alzheimer's infused grandfather. 2003: The end of my time in Arizona. All I wanted to do was get back to MA. I cooked some Ground Nut Stew for myself, and watched A Very Brady Christmas. I was so absorbed in the show (I was also downloading porn and music), that I forgot I was cooking until the smoke from the burning rice spread to the bedroom. I scraped most of the rice into the trash, but a small amount (cough) made it into the sink, blocking the pipes, causing rice to flow up through the shower when I turned the water on. Did I mention I was staying in a friend's apartment? I made it back to MA in time for New Year's. 2004: My father and I hung out at his house, watching TV and eating too much. There was no exchange of presents (my father is a post-Catholic non-celebratory agnostic), no family drama. I returned home to discover that not only was FOOD included in the RENT at my new apartment, but that my whack ass landlord was an opportunist. During my four day absence, he had let three Chinese teenagers (18/19 year olds) stay in my room, and sleep in my bed. He was befuddled when I seemed upset that I was paying for a room that I couldn't use until three people who were also paying for the room (a single bedroom) got their shit out of it. 2005: I was invited to spend the day with Baker, a guy who was infatuated with me. He cooked kangaroo, and a variety of other delicious foods. We did a Holiday Present swap with his assortment of roommates and friends, we played some games, and hung out for a while. We retired to his room, where he proceeded to do a lot of post-drink vomiting. I declined to make out with him (vomit breath, not sexy), but we made plans to hang out the next week. I never heard from him again. 2006: I did nothing. 2007: The first year where I set out to be alone, to no avail. Zuzu needed help fixing her toilet seat, so I spent an hour or so on Christmas Eve in a position most people reserve for New Year's Day. Of course, I wasn't vomiting, so, point me. When we were done in the bathroom, Zuzu offered to drop me off at Racist Grandma's on her way to Virginia. We left at 11pm, spent the entire time failing to find any decent songs on the radio while Pup Ratzinger sat in the back, alternating between whining and farting. Christmas was brimming with stank dogs. We got to CT around 1am, where I was assaulted by Frisky, my grandmother's ADD mutt. Once Zuzu took Ratzinger, and headed out, my grandmother filled me in on how my mother keeps hysterically calling her, asking how I'm doing. We haven't spoken in three months, as I told her I wouldn't talk to her on the phone if she insisted on calling me while her deaf, nosy husband was in the room. I don't like listening to people argue over the phone. On Christmas Day, my grandmother and I watched a Crossing Jordan marathon, ate some great steak, and talked. Everything was low-key until my she looked out her window and saw a bunch of cars across the street. "What are all those people doing over there?" she asked. "It's Christmas, they're probably having a party or something." She sucked on her false teeth. "No. I don't like it. They're up to no good." A few minute pass, and then she inhales deeply, "Safey! Look! There are colored people coming out of that house! I knew it, they're dealing drugs." "Grandma, keep your voice down." I said, trying not to laugh. "You know those people always carry guns. Do you want to get us shot?" I figure, since I can't get her to stop being a racist lout, I can at least entertain myself by upping the stereotype ante. On my way home, the next day, new laptop in hand, I receive the greatest Christmas present I can think of. In the middle of South Station is a gaggle of attractive people, among them, Mr. HotPositive, the man who gave me a rousing round of Applause for Thanksgiving. Mr. HotPositive and I haven't really spoken since I informed him that he gave me The Applause. In fact, he deleted his Myspace Profile, and changed his e-mail address within a week or so of my notifying him. Needless to say, he didn't look too excited to see me, particularly as he appeared to be surrounded by people he was trying to impress. "Hi?" "How have you been?" I asked, positively nauseous with champagne voice (sweet and bubbly, with a hint of dryness). "Uh. I've been okay." He didn't ask how I've been. "I'm sorry," one of the obvious fag hags around him said, "I don't think I know you." "Safey Mode." I said. "Mr. HotPositive and I are" PAUSE OF DOOM "friends. We met" PAUSE OF DOOM "at a poetry event I work at." "Ooooh." She said. And we small talked about nothing, while Mr. Hot Positive (who has never been to a poetry event in his life) tried to stay away from my eye contact. After a minute or so of chatter I said, "Well, I really have to get going. It was great catching up with you, though. This was loads of fun." PAUSE OF DOOM. "Hot, positive loads of fun." Then I kissed him on the cheek (I assume his mouth is full of herpes), and walked away. Thanks Santa. The last couple of Thanksgivings, a bunch of my poet friends and I have gotten together to have a family-free holiday. We have lots of alcohol, tell lots of raunchy stories, and eat a lot of amazing food. This year, my former roommate, and former romantic foil, Ben joined in. The favorite story of the day was about the Mr. Hot Positive Load. We, in fact, referred to Thanksgiving as Hot Positive Loads Of Food Day. I was almost thankful that I had fucked Mr. Hot Positive, as he'd given me a great story. He had also, however, bruised my ribs while riding me. I thought that was his final gift to me. I was wrong.
The day after Thanksgiving, I was preparing to take a piss when I saw a thick yellowish liquid on the head of my cock. Now, after nearly a decade of very carefully protected sex with many, many people, I've never had an STD, but I knew immediately that I had one then. So I entered my symptom online and took an educated guess that I had gonorrhea. I made an appointment at an STD clinic, and sent off an e-mail to Mr. Hot Positive's Myspace Profile. It said "Hey. You should e-mail me. There's something we need to talk about before you sleep with anyone else." He responded by defriending me. So I left a comment for him. "Thanks for the STD, jerkface. Get tested before you give it to someone else." How was I supposed to know his mom and his sister read his MySpace page? Oh, right, he'd told me before we met. Whoops. He replied with "I don't have any STDs. Why are you being such an asshole?" Now, I had only had sex with two people during a two week stretch. Mr. Breedme and Mr. HotPositiveLoad. I had inserted my penis (fully condomed) into Mr. Breedme for a couple of minutes, and then made him leave. Also, Mr. Breedme said he hadn't gotten laid in years, and given his appearance and self-esteem, I believe him. Mr. HotPositiveLoad is a big slut (I realize this is the proverbial pot calling the proverbial kettle Cookware American) who likes to have men pee in him. We had fucked and whatnot for hours, and while I had been very careful with condoms, there had been some non-latexed oral that would lead me to believe he, and not Mr. Breedme was the one that gave me The Applause. But if I'm wrong, then Mr. Breedme gave me The Applause, and I probably passed it along to Mr. HotPositiveLoad. Either way, he had gonorrhea. By the time I write out my kindlier than it should be e-mail, I discovered he had me blocked, changed his MySpace profile to private, changed his name, gotten rid of his picture, and changed his age and location. I'm pretty sure that doesn't change the fact that he had The Applause. Around about this time, my penis started to hurt. I already had an appointment at the clinic for the next day, so I resigned myself to the fact that there was nothing I could do. I made it a point to not pee very much, as the idea of having hot lava shoot out of my cock has never been very appealing to me. Ben called. He was running a show at his college, and his host had bailed. He wondered if I could come host the event. Seeing as I had a show there myself the next week, I agreed. I wrapped some Kleenex around my cock, and shuffled off to the train. An hour and a half later, I reached my destination (late), and Ben picked me up. We drove about 100 MPH all the way to the show (about another hour of travel), where I waddled into the lecture room. In order to host, I had to walk up and down the stairs of the lecture hall every five minutes or so. My ribs were bruised. My cock was ON FIRE. The Kleenex had shifted to somewhere around my kneecaps, and my penis, dripping hot lava out of it, was now scraping against my jeans. The show lasted about two hours. So I missed the last train home. Meaning, I would not be able to make it back to the city in time for my appointment. I was not very happy. Ben got on the phone to his sister, who is a doctor. The conversation that I heard went something like, "Well, it's my friend Safey. He's got The Applause. Uh huh. Well, he's not going to make it in for his appointment at the clinic, which means he's not going to get any medication for at least another couple of days, and I was wondering if you could prescribe me the drugs, and I could pick them up first thing tomorrow, and give them to him. Well, it's kind of my fault he isn't going to make it to the clinic. I know I'm not supposed to ask you about drugs, and I normally wouldn't, but do they really think someone is going to recreationally take antibiotics? Thanks. Thanks. No, really. I'm sure he appreciates it." Ben went to sleep a bit later, while I kept waddling back and forth to the bathroom to survey the damage. I may First thing the next morning, we took a trip to the pharmacy, where Ben picked up the prescription, while I waited in the car. "You know that the lady inside totally thinks I'm the one with The Applause." He said, fluffing his hair at me. I did. And it amused me. I took the pills immediately, thanking any deity in the vicinity that, if I had to have an STD, it, at least, was one that you can knock out with one dose of pills, and not have any sort of recurring rash or quickened death. Ben then drove me, and a few of his friends to the restaurant/poetry venue where I work. I was dreading going up and down the stairs all night, carrying plates of food; and was overjoyed to discover that the kitchen was closed, and I would still get paid, even though all I would have to do was deliver the occasional drink from the bar to one of the nearby tables. I still decided that this was a sign that I shouldn't be meeting strangers for sex via The Internet anymore. So I was pleased to receive an e-mail from Duke, a couple of days after a doctor confirmed I was "cleared up". After all, I'd fucked Duke once already, so he was hardly a stranger. Also, I hadn't even been able to masturbate while I had The Applause, as even brushing the tip of my ON FIRE cock against a sheet caused incredible pain. I could tell by the way he kissed me when I got to his house that we were going to have loads of sex to make up for the last couple of weeks. But while they would certainly be hot loads, and I hoped they'd be positive loads, I was hoping they wouldn't be hot positive loads. Near as I can tell, they weren't. Also, the next week I had my show at the college, and it went very well. My ribs felt a lot better, and I was definitely Applause free (though many people clapped during my show). I had Ben call his sister and let her know how much I appreciated what she did, and that I think of her every time I pee, and it doesn't hurt. I hope she understands that's supposed to be a compliment. also have put a voodoo hex or two on Mr. HotPositiveLoad. I barely got any sleep, as the pain was...and the gross was...and ewww. From an actual ad:
My boyfriend dumped me because he said I was needy. All I wanted was love, respect and the few things a relationship was based on. He never wanted to give me any of those things. Material things do not make up for emotional things. Why is it that was supposed to be an apology for not giving me the things that I want. I posted this here because I know he reads these. Im not sure what hurts worse Uhhhhh, I would have dumped your needy ass, too, bitch. Jesus, it's one thing to confess something like this to your friend or in your Livejournal (*coughs politely*), but why the hell would you post a thing like that in a place where people are looking for casual gay sex. Oh, right, because you wanted your boyfriend to see it. Well, if Elvis or Tommy, or any of my other exes posted an ad like that I'd certainly run out to take them back. In fact, I'd buy a car so I could drive over, pick them up, warmly embrace them, slap the handcuffs around their wrists and drive them to the nearest institution so they could get the help and attention they so desperately need. If I were to place an ad on Craigslist this week (which I might do just for the amusement of viewing the responses, I don't think I have time or the interest for whoring this weekend), my ad would look like this: Tricks For Treats No, not those kind of tricks. I'm not offering anyone money for sex. I'm broke, too. I'm a 27 year old versatile redhead looking for someone my age or younger for safe fun. I have the weekend off from work, and would rather not spend it masturbating to reruns of Queer as Folk. So, if you're a guy in your twenties, looking to get fucked or better yet interested in a full day of various positions/techniques, drop me a pic, and I'll reply in kind. While I am fairly open minded about things, I tend to be on the French Vanilla side of kink. I don't want you to dress me up in high heels and a Red Sox uniform and flog me with a leather whip. I also would appreciate keeping our bodily fluid interaction to saliva and sperm. Otherwise, let me know what you're into. If you're a closet case, it's Halloween, put on a mask and an outift and pretend you have a fucken spine. Synopsis of the week so far. Call airline to let them know I have no ID. Am advised to kill myself, there is no way on plane. Call VT DMV to find out how to get new ID. Am advised to call AZ DMV. Call AZ DMV. Am advised to get lost. I consider going Greyhound. Get good info from Steggy. Get an e-mail from a police officer/poet/friend informing me I need only file a report with the PD, and they'll give me paperwork to get on my flight (which is now the third scheduled flight on the third different airline).
I call the PD, fill out an incident/lost ID report. Am advised to call VT DMV, that they will fax a copy of my ID to me. Call VT DMV. Am advised that it is against federal law to fax me any ID info. This makes me comfortable security wise, decidedly cross on getting-homewise. They suggest I call the AZ DMV, that they can help me. Call AZ DMV. They are completely useless and can do nothing. They are the only people I called that are both useless AND rude. I call the airlines and update them on my situation: no ID, no ID related paperwork, one copy of my incident report. Am advised that I will probably be able to get a boarding pass, but that the gvt. security has the right not to let me on the plane without ID. I call the gvt. agency (Flight Security or something). Am informed by a very nice lady that apart from checking my bags, I should have no problem with the gvt. security, but that the airline will probably not give me a boarding pass. Call airline again. Update them on the gvt. security issue. Am advised that it's not up to them or the gvt. agency, but Phoenix Skyway. Call Phoenix Skyway. Am advised that it's not up to them, but really the airline. The terrorists have already won. I just want to get the fuck home. ATA airlines to the rescue. I don't know what ATA stands for, but they promise to give me a boarding pass, and let me deal with security. I damn near crawl through the phone and give the lady on the other end cunnilingus. You have no idea how much I have to love a person to offer that. My flight leaves on the 26th. Tomorrow. A day too late to spend Christmas with my family, but at least it gets me out of this fucken town. To celebrate, I throw on my bathing suit and head out to do water angels in the pool. Soon enough I'll be able to do snow angels. For now, this is comforting. Several...ok, two...very kind people have offered to include me in their Christmas plans. Nelson has done enough for me. He got me a job, he tried his best to keep me from killing certain people who could have used a good dying, he even had me over for Thanksgiving for an amazing meal with his family. Fox invited me, as well. But, like Nelson, he's done so much that I don't want to infringe on him anymore. He offered to get me out of my roommate's house long before I was unhappy there. He helped me move my stuff to his apartment, where I'm not paying rent, I even had to talk him down last week when my ex-roommate came buy to pick up the last check. I really thought he was going to rip the skin off her face and shove it down her sanctimonious throat. Because I didn't want to alter their Christmas plans, I am on my own. I've got all the ingredients for , a computer, a DVD of my favorite gay porn, and a two liter bottle of Cherry Coke. It's entirely possible that this Christmas will only Mostly Suck. I toss the sauce I made for the ground nut stew last night in the microwave, put some rice on the stove, and turn on the TV. I don't want to risk being distracted by porn or The Internet while the food is cooking. The only things on TV are "The Married With Children Christmas" and "A Very Brady Christmas". I am officially in Hell. Although, "A Very Brady Christmas" isn't nearly as bad as I'd imagined. It's a reunion show. The kids are all grown up. Dad Brady is very obviously making eyes at Greg Brady. All in all it's---why is the fire alarm going off? FUCK!!!! THE RICE!!!! I rush to the stove, pull off the pot. Curse myself for not thinking to use a towel. Put my now burned hand under some cold water. It doesn't look too bad. I grab a towel, pick up the pot and begin scraping the rice into the garbage disp---oh fuck. You don't put rice in the garbage disposal. I dig out as much as I can and then hit the switch. Grind grind grind grind grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgrgrgrgrgrgrgr grgrrg sputter wheeze. Fuck. I open all the doors and windows, and turn on all the fans, blowing the burned rice smell throughout Fox's condo complex. Here's the smell of my holiday cheer Ari-fucken-zona! I then go to scrub the rice that burned into the bottom of the pan in the sink. Joy of joys, my garbage disposal breaking is causing the sink to back up. How am I supposed to clean up this mess if I can't use the si...ahhh, I'll use the shower. I don't think it's possible for anyone, even people who've known me for years, to imagine the look on my face when I realized the rice that was blocking the sink/garbage disposal in the kitchen, was now floating up into the bathtub. This was really Not Good. Fox was Not Going to be Happy. I cleaned up as best I could, popped the DVD in the computer, and prepared to pop myself. Just as I was cruising down Ejaculation Alley, Fox came home. I turned off the computer and zipped up. Most of the smoke had cleared, but he has Wolverine's sense of smell. "Burned rice?" he asked as soon as he walked in. "Yeup." "Hope you didn't try and get rid of it in the garbage disposal." Velociraptor look. "You did, didn't you? Fuck. I did it a couple of months ago. I had to call the condo people to fix it." Man, my fuck up wasn't even original? "I brought you some of the Girlie Beer that you left at The Kuk's house. If you put the red and green Skittlez in the Stoli Razz, it's almost like being festive." Ok, maybe there was one thing I was going to miss. The worst Thanksgiving ever happened between St. Augustine and Vero Beach Florida in 1995. I was eighteen, and angry at my family for not flying me back to New England for Thanksgiving. "But, Safey, your grandfather lives just a few hours away. And he says you never go and visit him." Probably because I hated the man. Everyone in the world had to conform to his timetable, and his way of life. If you did something that didn't fit exactly into the mold he had set for his life, he would spew forth venom that made Poison Dart Frogs and Sea Wasps blush and ask "Was that really necessary?" I made plans to stay there as short a time as I could.
My roommate, Matt, lived two and a half hours further south. He kindly offered to drop me off on his way to his happy platonic orgy of Thanksgiving Family Fun on Wednesday afternoon, and pick me up Saturday morning, so we could get work done before classes resumed on Monday. Truth be told, I had brought all the work I had to do with me, knowing there would be loads of time that I didn't want to deal with my grandfather. On our way down, Matt decided to show me what was, at the time, The World's Largest Wal-Mart. A grocery store and three fast food restaurants in one department store was a little much for my non-Walmartian brain to deal with. I had to get away from the grocery section before my head a sploded. As I walked away, I heard a man absolutely screaming at an eight year old boy. The kid was bawling. And while I am just evil enough to be amused by kids who cry at ridiculous things like losing an annoying toy, or not getting to eat ice cream because they called their mother a bitch; seeing a defenseless kid being verbally abused in public while not being in injury threatening danger (I do believe a parent should scream their head off at a kid who is about to seriously hurt himself or someone else.), twists my psyche into something pretzilian and Herculean. It took every fibre of my being not to get involved. I did not know what the kid did that instigated the yelling. Unless there was physical violence, this was none of my business. After we finished our BK or MCD "food", Matt and I headed back to the car. We were nearly in the car when I saw Screamy MacAsshole continuing to berate his kid. This was easily twenty minutes after I saw them by the grocery section. "Safey, are you ok?" I knew there were blood vessels bursting in my face. "Do you want me to hit you again?" Again? "Because I'll beat your ass right here in the parking lot." I snapped. This happens generally every three years or so, when something strikes me as so heinous, I lose all sense of boundaries and social behavior. "I fucken dare you." "Excuse me?" This was none of my business. I should be in the car. I should be on my way to a miserable Thanksgiving with the one member of my family I truly couldn't stand. And maybe that was a part of the reason why I snapped. "If you hit him while I'm in the same parking lot," Matt grabbed my arm, which I yanked from his grasp, "I will beat you til you bleed." I very much meant it. "Safe, we should--" Matt looked into my eyes and backed off. "No. We shouldn't. This guy has been yelling at this kid for at least a half hour, and he's threatening to beat him right here in public." "Mind your fucken business, padre?" Padre? As in Father? As in the thing he wasn't qualified to be? And here, I'm making a huge assumption. Maybe he wasn't a bad dad, maybe he was a kidnapper, or maybe he was what my friend referred to as Daddy Stove Top, a guy who just happened to be stuffing the kid's mom. We were still close enough to the front entrance that the security guards could see us, and one of them, Spidey Sense all akimbo, came outside. "Is everything alright out here?" "No." I said, in my sterncalm voice. "This man is threatening to beat up his son in your parking lot." "Now wait a fucken minute. This isn't anybody's goddamn business." "Actually, sir," the security guard said, "it is our business. You were asked to leave the store because you couldn't keep your language in check. I've already called the police. If I see you touch your son, I'll make sure your arrested for assaulting a minor. And I doubt the police will be real gentle with you." The guard went on. But his presence made this very much No Longer My Business. Shaking, I followed Matt to his car. I buckled my seat belt, and we drove out of the parking lot. "I hope I didn't make things any worse for that kid." I said five minutes into the silence. It was about to get dark when Matt dropped me off at my grandfather's condo. My grandfather's second wife (my grandmother had died in 1991), buzzed me in, and met me at the door. "Your grandfather is...I'm not sure where he is, but he's not in the house, Thank God. Your room is all made up. Do you want any ice cream or anything." I loved Caroline (my step-grandmother). I had no concept of what she was doing with my grandfather. She was unselfish, smart, funny, an English teacher. None of us knew that by next Thanksgiving she'd be ravaged with Cancer. "No, thanks. I had a long trip." "How about a game of Cribbage?" Ahh, Cribbage. The family card game. "Sure. But if Grandpa comes home, let's hide the board. I don't think I can deal with him losing and accusing me of cheating. The only thing worse is actually losing to him." After three games, and half a bag of Milano cookies, my grandfather came home, and the board and cards were hidden under one of the deck chairs. "Well lookee who's here." Oh, great, he was drunk. "My favorite grandson. My only grandson." "Hey Grandpa." "Up for a game of cribbage?" "No, I was thinking about turning in. I'm incredibly tired." "You chicken?" I wanted to fire his internal author. "Goodnight Grandpa." I went to the guest room for about a half hour when I heard him snoring on one of the couches. I took the opportunity to sneak out to the beach and get some writing done. I was so incredibly proud of the poetry I wrote that night. It was so cutting edge, so Important. I've long since burned any and all copies of it, but that's because it was too amazing to be comprehended, not because it was horrible crap written by an egomaniacal eighteen year old with three different colored pens in his possession. I snuck back into the house and went to sleep around three. At six, I woke up to my step-grandmother stage whispering. "Robert, you keep your voice down. Safe is in the other room trying to sleep." "Well, he needs to get up. We should leave in an hour." "For heaven's sake, we are not going to spend Thanksgiving at a boat yard--" "A yacht club." "A boat yard. This is Thanksgiving. If you want to go to a proper yacht club with a buffet service, that's fine. But I see no reason to drive to your old boat docks and eat turkey with a bunch of strangers who don't need our company." "Care, they're living on boats, and need some company during the Holidays. It's the Christian thing to do." It's important to note that my Grandfather only attended church for weddings and funerals. I'd never heard him mention Christ's name before without having dropped something on his foot. "If you want to be Christian, let's go volunteer at a soup kitchen. I'm not going to your damned boat yard." But we did. When the smoke cleared, Caroline and I were sitting on elementary cafeteria style chairs at the end of an oblong table full of rich people too cheap to buy their own food, and too hated by their families to be invited to Thanksgiving dinners. These were definitely my grandfather's people: assholes who owned boats and treated everyone else like trash. They hated us, despite our best green bean casserole and mashed potato intentions. "He was the cutest little thing." Snob #47 said. "A Brazilian nigger. Dumb as a tack, but loyal to no end." The part of me that wasn't horrified by the language, was amused that he'd inadvertently admitted the guy was smart. You didn't have to be sharp as a rubber ball to figure that out. "Sandi" (sometimes you can tell when names are spelled with an "i") "be a good girl and get daddy some more turkey." Daddy was too fat to get it himself. "Wayers yer bote?" asked a particularly well-groomed boat child. "Ares is the biggggg won over thayer." It's important to note that I'm not making fun of a child's accent. This kid was likely from Connecticut or Ohio, or one of those states that has no discernible accent. He was talking this way specifically to aggravate me. "We don't have a boat anymore." My grandfather had sold the Spar-Kee a year before. "Sew weye are ewe heeeeyer?" "That's a great question." Caroline asked. "Why are we here Bob?" I excused myself under the pretext of getting more turkey. I have actually never been hungry enough to eat the fried cardboard that they were serving as turkey. But while I was up, Caroline grabbed my arm. "Grab your jacket, we're leaving." Hallefuckenlujah. "Do you have a suit with you?" Caroline asked. Given that I'd expected my grandfather to spring a formal meal on me, I had, indeed, brought a suit. "Good, we're going to the Yacht Club." "We were at a yacht club." My grandfather mumbled. "We're going to a yacht club that made a big fancy buffet for all the members. Not one where I have to eat jello with marshmallows and broken glass with a bunch of people who were invited to spend time with their family, but decided they were too good for it. You know, civil snobs." So we stopped off at the condo, and walked to The Yacht Club down the street. The Yacht Club was only about half full. "Most of the members are with their families today." The hot maitre'd said when my grandfather pointed out that they weren't full. There was an implied "But I can see you're the sort of asshole who doesn't get invited to family functions" on the end of his statement that made me miss Alex. I got the feeling that if Alex spoke better, all of his statements would have implied insults in their intonation. The Yacht Club was...Yacht Clubby. There was a gigantic center island in the ballroom with a six foot tall cornucopia ice sculpture. It was surrounded with every type of food imaginable. And a few types you wouldn't believe even after they'd passed through your digestive system. Having already had my stomach shredded by the half piece of cardboard I'd ingested with The Boat People (and not the interesting International kind), I was pretty reserved with what I picked up from the buffet. A little bit of turkey with mashed potato. Then, some ham with corn on the cob. Then, a very little roast beef. "Safe!" My grandfather called from the other side of the ice sculpture. "Come here." Not willing to sink to his level and scream back across the room, I walked over to him. "Try this." He said, putting some sort of grease covered squid looking thing on my plate. "No, thanks. I'm getting kind of full." "Try this." I began walking away from him. "No, thank you." "I'm not asking you. Safe!" My name is not Safe. I am Edouardo. I am minding my own business at this hoity-toity buffet being stalked by a cray person. Ring-around-the-rosy-pocket-full-of-restraining-orders. "SAFE!" "Robert!" Caroline. "Lower your voice this instant." Thus began the public unwinding of five years of family turmoil being voiced very loudly in public. I'd like to think that if this happened now, I would have just taken whatever the alien life form was he was trying to get me to eat, and defused the situation. Of course, if this happened now, it would be really creepy because my grandfather has been dead for eight months. But I was eighteen, and angry, so every time he pushed one of my buttons, I pushed his back until the hot maitre'd actually asked us to lower our voices because we were disturbing the other guests. "I'm going back to the condo." I walked back to the condo, changed into some less formal wear, and went back to the beach to be passive aggressively angry. |
Categories
All
Archives
December 2023
|