Hand on the doorknob I started wondering if I should’ve brought a gun. As if to answer the speculation I heard the concussive thud of a grenade. The living room window exploded out, showering the front lawn with glass. Like a cartoon character diving away from an explosion too late, a charred body, I assumed to be a relative, flew out the opening.
Mom poked her head out, “Where do buy your shoes?”
Letting go of the knob I hurried next door. Knocking soon brought someone to the door. It opened revealing the cheery round face of Adam Hawks.
“Bless this day.” He stretched out a plump hand, warm as a fresh baked roll, and pumped mine twice, “It’s been too long.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I lied. The Hawks family lived next door to us for as long as I could remember. I used to sit at my bedroom window waiting for the arrival of the alien mothership that would take them back to their home planet. Even at a young age I found something unsettling about their unflappable, chronic optimism. It didn’t seem natural, though it would be years before I realized the distorted lens through which I see the world. Yet there would be occasions, rare as mermaid sightings, when I found myself watching them, and thinking, “Maybe they are normal.”
If nothing else whenever the weird got to be too much at my house I discovered I could always retreat to their home. Adam and I used to be like friends. We went to the same elementary school. Together we walk there and back every day, however, once inside we took two different trajectories. The bullies went after us both, but I learned to use a pencil as a shank, while Adam just kept smiling, lip split open by a right cross; he just stood there with a bloody grin. Yet, there’s a bonding element in such shared experiences – psychic glue. A shared past can be more important than a shared perspective.
Adam asked, “Visiting your folks?”
“Yep.”
My cousin came running out of the house carrying a carving knife. My elephantine brother soon followed after on a rascal scooter, firing an AK-47 in the air. The two went around to the back of the house, howling like moon-drunk madmen.
Nonchalantly I asked, “Mind if I step inside?”
“Come on in.” Beaming, Adam ushered me in.
I ducked inside. He closed the door behind me. He then led me to the dining room. There the Hawks sat, grins on every face, looking like a Norman Rockwell come to life. Briefly I envied them. Then I saw the wine.
“Is that non-alcoholic?”
“It is indeed. Care for a glass?” Mr. Hawks said, though I didn’t hear the question.
Already on the way out the door I said, “You people are fucking nuts.”
“Always a pleasure you kidder,” Adam called after me.
Taking a deep breath I marched into my parent’s home. My cousin left the door open, so I just went inside. Mom walked by carrying a flaming apple pie. She waved, and continued on without a word. I went into the living room where I found Dad behind an overturned coffee table. Kitchen knives flung with hostile intent stuck out of the makeshift shield.
Peering over Dad said, “Is that you boy?”
“It’s me.”
“Your cunt of an uncle shot the booze. Grab what you can, and keep it safe.”
Taking it as my solemn duty, I went to the liquor cabinet. Sad as a mass grave, the ruined bottles stood in pools, their blood promising bizarre cocktail possibilities. I found a cheap vodka, safe behind a noble tequila that took the bullet instead. Pouring a drop out for the fallen, I took the vodka away from that grim scene.
A trail of scorch marks like a dragon leaving a trail led to my Aunt Judy in the kitchen. She sat whittling a drumstick into a shank. She wore bits of turkey bone tied in her hair, her clothes torn into some kind of jungle warrior outfit.
Licking grease off her fingers she said, “We’ve been waiting for you.”
I backed out of the room slowly. Turning I bumped into my cousin. One eye ringed in swollen black, the white gone red, he swayed with the unbalance of someone concussed.
He said, “Myra. Has a hammer.”
He collapsed. I rummaged in his pockets, and found a pack of expensive cigarettes. I always suspected the bastard held out on me. Proof in hand I lit one up, stepped over the unconscious cousin, and headed to the dining room.
Mom sat at the table debating between a spoonful of stuffing or Hydrocodone. Shrugging her shoulders she settled on both. In the window behind her I saw my brother rounding the house, stilling firing in the air, though now my other cousin rode on his back; the two having joined forces to become a living tank. I sat down next to Mom.
She said, “At least we still have the smell.”
I nodded. A delicious aroma hung in the air, the ghostly remnant of the fine meal she prepared. Most of the dishes seemed to have been turned into weapons. Evidence abounded in the splatters on the wall, ceiling, and floor suggesting the fight began with food, and quickly escalated from there. A spot of blood on the table cloth hinting; perhaps honey glazed carrots scalded someone inspiring a punch that sent a hand after a fork then… the history of every arms races played out. I scooped up a bit of mashed potato with my finger.
Tasting it, “That’s good. Buttery and creamy.”
“Your grandmother made them. She knows how to do it best.”
Someone else might’ve been tempted to point out Grandma died twenty years ago. However, Mom believed enough in ghosts she made them real. Sometimes I even saw the specters she conjured.
Grabbing an intact wine glass I filled it with vodka. I gave Mom a quick hug as I departed the table. She patted my arm. I went to the front, watched my brother and cousin circle the house again. They briefly paused in their hollering and gunfire long enough to wave. I waved back then drained the wine glass.
While refilling, I heard an odd sound. Shouts came from the Hawks residence. Strolling over I stood by the dining room window. Mrs. Hawks sat weeping. Mr. Hawks looked beet red, his head likely to explode.
Mr. Hawks kept yelling, “Enough! Enough! Enough!”
Adam shouted at his sister Tina, “How could you vote for him?”
Tina hollered back, “How could you vote for her?”
And I felt at peace because it wasn’t just my family going mad this year. We’re all sharing the insanity this season. At least we all have that in common.
Mom poked her head out, “Where do buy your shoes?”
Letting go of the knob I hurried next door. Knocking soon brought someone to the door. It opened revealing the cheery round face of Adam Hawks.
“Bless this day.” He stretched out a plump hand, warm as a fresh baked roll, and pumped mine twice, “It’s been too long.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I lied. The Hawks family lived next door to us for as long as I could remember. I used to sit at my bedroom window waiting for the arrival of the alien mothership that would take them back to their home planet. Even at a young age I found something unsettling about their unflappable, chronic optimism. It didn’t seem natural, though it would be years before I realized the distorted lens through which I see the world. Yet there would be occasions, rare as mermaid sightings, when I found myself watching them, and thinking, “Maybe they are normal.”
If nothing else whenever the weird got to be too much at my house I discovered I could always retreat to their home. Adam and I used to be like friends. We went to the same elementary school. Together we walk there and back every day, however, once inside we took two different trajectories. The bullies went after us both, but I learned to use a pencil as a shank, while Adam just kept smiling, lip split open by a right cross; he just stood there with a bloody grin. Yet, there’s a bonding element in such shared experiences – psychic glue. A shared past can be more important than a shared perspective.
Adam asked, “Visiting your folks?”
“Yep.”
My cousin came running out of the house carrying a carving knife. My elephantine brother soon followed after on a rascal scooter, firing an AK-47 in the air. The two went around to the back of the house, howling like moon-drunk madmen.
Nonchalantly I asked, “Mind if I step inside?”
“Come on in.” Beaming, Adam ushered me in.
I ducked inside. He closed the door behind me. He then led me to the dining room. There the Hawks sat, grins on every face, looking like a Norman Rockwell come to life. Briefly I envied them. Then I saw the wine.
“Is that non-alcoholic?”
“It is indeed. Care for a glass?” Mr. Hawks said, though I didn’t hear the question.
Already on the way out the door I said, “You people are fucking nuts.”
“Always a pleasure you kidder,” Adam called after me.
Taking a deep breath I marched into my parent’s home. My cousin left the door open, so I just went inside. Mom walked by carrying a flaming apple pie. She waved, and continued on without a word. I went into the living room where I found Dad behind an overturned coffee table. Kitchen knives flung with hostile intent stuck out of the makeshift shield.
Peering over Dad said, “Is that you boy?”
“It’s me.”
“Your cunt of an uncle shot the booze. Grab what you can, and keep it safe.”
Taking it as my solemn duty, I went to the liquor cabinet. Sad as a mass grave, the ruined bottles stood in pools, their blood promising bizarre cocktail possibilities. I found a cheap vodka, safe behind a noble tequila that took the bullet instead. Pouring a drop out for the fallen, I took the vodka away from that grim scene.
A trail of scorch marks like a dragon leaving a trail led to my Aunt Judy in the kitchen. She sat whittling a drumstick into a shank. She wore bits of turkey bone tied in her hair, her clothes torn into some kind of jungle warrior outfit.
Licking grease off her fingers she said, “We’ve been waiting for you.”
I backed out of the room slowly. Turning I bumped into my cousin. One eye ringed in swollen black, the white gone red, he swayed with the unbalance of someone concussed.
He said, “Myra. Has a hammer.”
He collapsed. I rummaged in his pockets, and found a pack of expensive cigarettes. I always suspected the bastard held out on me. Proof in hand I lit one up, stepped over the unconscious cousin, and headed to the dining room.
Mom sat at the table debating between a spoonful of stuffing or Hydrocodone. Shrugging her shoulders she settled on both. In the window behind her I saw my brother rounding the house, stilling firing in the air, though now my other cousin rode on his back; the two having joined forces to become a living tank. I sat down next to Mom.
She said, “At least we still have the smell.”
I nodded. A delicious aroma hung in the air, the ghostly remnant of the fine meal she prepared. Most of the dishes seemed to have been turned into weapons. Evidence abounded in the splatters on the wall, ceiling, and floor suggesting the fight began with food, and quickly escalated from there. A spot of blood on the table cloth hinting; perhaps honey glazed carrots scalded someone inspiring a punch that sent a hand after a fork then… the history of every arms races played out. I scooped up a bit of mashed potato with my finger.
Tasting it, “That’s good. Buttery and creamy.”
“Your grandmother made them. She knows how to do it best.”
Someone else might’ve been tempted to point out Grandma died twenty years ago. However, Mom believed enough in ghosts she made them real. Sometimes I even saw the specters she conjured.
Grabbing an intact wine glass I filled it with vodka. I gave Mom a quick hug as I departed the table. She patted my arm. I went to the front, watched my brother and cousin circle the house again. They briefly paused in their hollering and gunfire long enough to wave. I waved back then drained the wine glass.
While refilling, I heard an odd sound. Shouts came from the Hawks residence. Strolling over I stood by the dining room window. Mrs. Hawks sat weeping. Mr. Hawks looked beet red, his head likely to explode.
Mr. Hawks kept yelling, “Enough! Enough! Enough!”
Adam shouted at his sister Tina, “How could you vote for him?”
Tina hollered back, “How could you vote for her?”
And I felt at peace because it wasn’t just my family going mad this year. We’re all sharing the insanity this season. At least we all have that in common.
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