With the Redskins battling the Giants, one can't help wondering if some epic story is hidden beneath the surface. That a football game, or any sporting event could be more meaningful than the simple details is hardly new. However, notions that perhaps, just maybe, there's an underlying current -- if the Redskins win ancient native gods will rise up, spectral entities emerging in the stadium to slaughter the white devils.
Such thoughts creeping into the foreground I find myself rooting for the racist titled team. It's odd to current company, given they've never seen me so enthusiastic about a sporting event. Even hockey, which I enjoyed enough to play as a youth, I rarely leap out of my seat shouting, "Murder that motherfucker."
And it isn't until Debbie the bartender passes me a shot to soften my mood, whispering, "You know if those gods come back, you're fucking white." -- I realize I'm rooting for my own destruction. No doubt. Yet, I long for it just the same.
Not from sense of social justice, simply the extension of a booze twisted thought aspiring to indirect suicide. For it's been a rough run the last few hours. I don't even remember coming into the bar. The spiral is circling the drain, though what bothers me most is that I feel an odd guilt not wanting to go down the tubes.
Hours earlier, stomach empty and head clear, I took a deep breath then plunged into the maelstrom of family. Opening the door I literally walked into the barrel of a gun.
Dad grunted, "Oh, it's you. There've been robberies."
Instead of uncocking the pistol, he uses it to shoot the top off his beer. Tucking the gun in his pants he waves for me to follow. I've learned over the years not to say no to a man with a gun.
In the living room I find my brother. He looks like a whale beached itself in a recliner. Seeing me he gestures at his kids. My nephews and niece immediately spring into action, turning the chair so he can face me.
"How's things?" he says jolly.
I shrug, "It's been better, but I can't complain."
Work is nothing to talk about, not during family gatherings. I'm sure most folks like to mention job nonsense, however, in my family, such conversations always end with the parental declaration: "You're wasting your life." So it's always safer simply to stay vague. If the bills are paid, and no begging ensues, that's all Pops wants to know.
Besides, I've no desire to inform anyone that selling bootleg porn is not a booming industry. Maybe if I sold it to children, but then I'd have to deal with tweens. That kind of unpleasantness I don't need.
Mom emerges from the kitchen. She hugs me. The aroma of dinner wafts off her, and my mouth starts watering.
She says, "It's just going to be us this year."
"No freeloading cunts," Pops says. Secured in the ass groove he's honed in the couch, Pops drinks his broken beer bottle. Nodding in agreement with some thought, he frowns.
Mom grabs my arm, "Come on. You need to see the bird."
I follow her into the kitchen. She cracks open the oven. Peering inside I see glistening ham covered in pineapple.
Mom giggles, "The turkey tried to fool me by being a pig, but I knew better."
Crusting a margarita glass with her own blend of Vicodin and Xanax, she asks if I'd like a cocktail. I ask if she'd like me to fix her one. Her eyes tear up.
"Lord no," she says, "You go watch the screaming box."
Shooed out of the kitchen I join my brother and Pops. Intrigued by absences, I ask my brother where his wife is. The ten minute explanation of her confinement -- too fat to leave the house -- is made less tragic by the farcical fact my brother is trying to sell the house. Apparently, his family plans to move into a larger home; however, they can't afford the means of moving Momma until they sell the old place. As such, they've been having open houses with her still confined within.
"Mixed results," brother says, "But I'm sure we'll find a buyer."
Pops grumbles, "Sure you won't."
I agree with Pops, but in the interest of holiday conviviality, "It's just a matter of sticking in."
The niece and nephews make their way over to me. The trio is getting less afraid of me over the years. They used to be terrified of the death metal werewolf who infrequently visited; and I don't blame them. I once punted my nephew when he came running at me. His mother insisted the kid wanted a hug, but I know a dangerous gremlin when I see one. Yet, as time's gone by we've softened to one another. I suspect them less of evil, and they trust me to be kind. So I hug them each.
Thanks to my brother using them as servers the kids are great at fetching things. I send them to the kitchen to get me a beer and whiskey. They depart happily. As such I can't help wondering what I'm helping them become. This kind of enabling is never good for anyone.
A flash bang grenade explodes in the living room. When the cacophony clears Mom is standing in front of the TV. Looking serene she says, "Diner is served."
Pops and I head off. The niece and nephews return to push Daddy's chair into the dining room. The table is covered in an array of food worthy of a billionaire's buffet.
Gathered together we say a prayer -- Mom improvising, "Lord, we hope the only Lord, thank you for this bounty. I especially want to thank you for expediting my exit from this evil world of robot mailmen, government vampires, and all around vultures."
"Amen," Pops says. Glaring to kill any follow up, he eyes the room like a sweeping dagger. My brother glances my way. I shrug, and focus on opening a bottle of wine. Having trouble with the cork prompts Pops to toss his gun at me. Fortunately I'm able to manage without shooting the bottle open.
Pops says, "Suit yourself pussy," and dinner commences.
We gorge. No other term applies. The feast is magnificent; Mom out did herself. Yet a certain awkwardness is present. Pops keeps sneaking a look at Mom, sometimes reaching over to pat her hand saying softly, "Great meal honey."
Every time he does my brother clears his throat, and I nod to acknowledge noticing. Still, we act like nothing's unusual, continuing to feed until there's no room left in any belly. There doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Every time an even remotely serious topic surfaces Pops cuts it off. It's almost like he suspects backdoor maneuvers aiming at indirect access to some forbidden topic, and in a way, he's right.
I say, "So I went to the doctor the other day."
"Fuck your doctor," Pops interrupts, "They don't know everything. You keep ya dick wrapped, you'll be fine."
No arguing with that, and no desire to explore it further, not with my Pops, I let the conversation shift.
But eventually there's no way anyone can eat anymore. The nephews and niece pass out in food comas on the floor. Pops undoes his belt. As usual I offer to help Mom with dishes, but just as usual she shakes her head.
She says, "If I don't do it right the sun won't rise."
According to her I know how to do dishes well enough for the ordinary every day, but don't know how to appease the dish gods on special occasions. Maybe if more people did the world wouldn't be the way it is. So, offer made and predictably rejected, I leave her to it.
Pushing my brother into the living room we soon drop into conspiratorial whispers.
My brother says, "What the fuck is up?"
"Hell if I know."
We try not to speculate, waiting instead until Pops enters. He sees us, the looks on our faces broadcasting our thoughts.
He says, "Don't."
"What's up?" I say.
I can see Pops feeling along his belt line for the gun, having forgotten he left it in the dining room. Sighing, shoulders slumping down, he trudges to the couch. Taking a seat he says, "It ain't good."
I turn my brother's chair so we can both look Pops in the eye. Impossible tears float in his eyes. He starts to speak, says nothing, and holds up an empty glass. I go to the liquor cabinet, fetching a bottle of high octane whiskey. After gulping a burning shot, gasping through the sizzle, Pops says, "Your Mom is dying. Cancer. I can't say how long."
Things start to blur after that. I took a long pull from the rocket fuel bourbon. My brother did the same. Then Pops. Then me. The bottle going between us until almost entirely drained.
This might seem arbitrary, a narrative addition out of nowhere, but that's what bad news is. It applies to no logic, or any convenient timing. It arrives unexpected, unwanted, and thoroughly undeniable. The only choice is to accept, or deny, and I have never been one to deny the downside of reality. It's too blunt to ignore without being willfully ignorant.
Mom popped out to announce desert would be on the way shortly. None of us knew what to say. So we said nothing. We just enjoyed the time together -- the best apple pie in the world.
And when the night ended, my brother and his kids driving off, I gave Mom a big hug.
Squeezing her too tight -- she whispered in my ear, "You can't squeeze it out."
She knew we knew.
The night's consumption kicked in, and I found myself in the local bar screaming at a television, believing old gods might be satisfied by a football victory. Yet, at one point I couldn't help laughing. Mom washing dishes to be sure the sun rose, her son shouting at a game to change the world -- we were oddly close in that moment. I knew then, no matter how much I missed her, she would, in a way, always be with me.
Such thoughts creeping into the foreground I find myself rooting for the racist titled team. It's odd to current company, given they've never seen me so enthusiastic about a sporting event. Even hockey, which I enjoyed enough to play as a youth, I rarely leap out of my seat shouting, "Murder that motherfucker."
And it isn't until Debbie the bartender passes me a shot to soften my mood, whispering, "You know if those gods come back, you're fucking white." -- I realize I'm rooting for my own destruction. No doubt. Yet, I long for it just the same.
Not from sense of social justice, simply the extension of a booze twisted thought aspiring to indirect suicide. For it's been a rough run the last few hours. I don't even remember coming into the bar. The spiral is circling the drain, though what bothers me most is that I feel an odd guilt not wanting to go down the tubes.
Hours earlier, stomach empty and head clear, I took a deep breath then plunged into the maelstrom of family. Opening the door I literally walked into the barrel of a gun.
Dad grunted, "Oh, it's you. There've been robberies."
Instead of uncocking the pistol, he uses it to shoot the top off his beer. Tucking the gun in his pants he waves for me to follow. I've learned over the years not to say no to a man with a gun.
In the living room I find my brother. He looks like a whale beached itself in a recliner. Seeing me he gestures at his kids. My nephews and niece immediately spring into action, turning the chair so he can face me.
"How's things?" he says jolly.
I shrug, "It's been better, but I can't complain."
Work is nothing to talk about, not during family gatherings. I'm sure most folks like to mention job nonsense, however, in my family, such conversations always end with the parental declaration: "You're wasting your life." So it's always safer simply to stay vague. If the bills are paid, and no begging ensues, that's all Pops wants to know.
Besides, I've no desire to inform anyone that selling bootleg porn is not a booming industry. Maybe if I sold it to children, but then I'd have to deal with tweens. That kind of unpleasantness I don't need.
Mom emerges from the kitchen. She hugs me. The aroma of dinner wafts off her, and my mouth starts watering.
She says, "It's just going to be us this year."
"No freeloading cunts," Pops says. Secured in the ass groove he's honed in the couch, Pops drinks his broken beer bottle. Nodding in agreement with some thought, he frowns.
Mom grabs my arm, "Come on. You need to see the bird."
I follow her into the kitchen. She cracks open the oven. Peering inside I see glistening ham covered in pineapple.
Mom giggles, "The turkey tried to fool me by being a pig, but I knew better."
Crusting a margarita glass with her own blend of Vicodin and Xanax, she asks if I'd like a cocktail. I ask if she'd like me to fix her one. Her eyes tear up.
"Lord no," she says, "You go watch the screaming box."
Shooed out of the kitchen I join my brother and Pops. Intrigued by absences, I ask my brother where his wife is. The ten minute explanation of her confinement -- too fat to leave the house -- is made less tragic by the farcical fact my brother is trying to sell the house. Apparently, his family plans to move into a larger home; however, they can't afford the means of moving Momma until they sell the old place. As such, they've been having open houses with her still confined within.
"Mixed results," brother says, "But I'm sure we'll find a buyer."
Pops grumbles, "Sure you won't."
I agree with Pops, but in the interest of holiday conviviality, "It's just a matter of sticking in."
The niece and nephews make their way over to me. The trio is getting less afraid of me over the years. They used to be terrified of the death metal werewolf who infrequently visited; and I don't blame them. I once punted my nephew when he came running at me. His mother insisted the kid wanted a hug, but I know a dangerous gremlin when I see one. Yet, as time's gone by we've softened to one another. I suspect them less of evil, and they trust me to be kind. So I hug them each.
Thanks to my brother using them as servers the kids are great at fetching things. I send them to the kitchen to get me a beer and whiskey. They depart happily. As such I can't help wondering what I'm helping them become. This kind of enabling is never good for anyone.
A flash bang grenade explodes in the living room. When the cacophony clears Mom is standing in front of the TV. Looking serene she says, "Diner is served."
Pops and I head off. The niece and nephews return to push Daddy's chair into the dining room. The table is covered in an array of food worthy of a billionaire's buffet.
Gathered together we say a prayer -- Mom improvising, "Lord, we hope the only Lord, thank you for this bounty. I especially want to thank you for expediting my exit from this evil world of robot mailmen, government vampires, and all around vultures."
"Amen," Pops says. Glaring to kill any follow up, he eyes the room like a sweeping dagger. My brother glances my way. I shrug, and focus on opening a bottle of wine. Having trouble with the cork prompts Pops to toss his gun at me. Fortunately I'm able to manage without shooting the bottle open.
Pops says, "Suit yourself pussy," and dinner commences.
We gorge. No other term applies. The feast is magnificent; Mom out did herself. Yet a certain awkwardness is present. Pops keeps sneaking a look at Mom, sometimes reaching over to pat her hand saying softly, "Great meal honey."
Every time he does my brother clears his throat, and I nod to acknowledge noticing. Still, we act like nothing's unusual, continuing to feed until there's no room left in any belly. There doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Every time an even remotely serious topic surfaces Pops cuts it off. It's almost like he suspects backdoor maneuvers aiming at indirect access to some forbidden topic, and in a way, he's right.
I say, "So I went to the doctor the other day."
"Fuck your doctor," Pops interrupts, "They don't know everything. You keep ya dick wrapped, you'll be fine."
No arguing with that, and no desire to explore it further, not with my Pops, I let the conversation shift.
But eventually there's no way anyone can eat anymore. The nephews and niece pass out in food comas on the floor. Pops undoes his belt. As usual I offer to help Mom with dishes, but just as usual she shakes her head.
She says, "If I don't do it right the sun won't rise."
According to her I know how to do dishes well enough for the ordinary every day, but don't know how to appease the dish gods on special occasions. Maybe if more people did the world wouldn't be the way it is. So, offer made and predictably rejected, I leave her to it.
Pushing my brother into the living room we soon drop into conspiratorial whispers.
My brother says, "What the fuck is up?"
"Hell if I know."
We try not to speculate, waiting instead until Pops enters. He sees us, the looks on our faces broadcasting our thoughts.
He says, "Don't."
"What's up?" I say.
I can see Pops feeling along his belt line for the gun, having forgotten he left it in the dining room. Sighing, shoulders slumping down, he trudges to the couch. Taking a seat he says, "It ain't good."
I turn my brother's chair so we can both look Pops in the eye. Impossible tears float in his eyes. He starts to speak, says nothing, and holds up an empty glass. I go to the liquor cabinet, fetching a bottle of high octane whiskey. After gulping a burning shot, gasping through the sizzle, Pops says, "Your Mom is dying. Cancer. I can't say how long."
Things start to blur after that. I took a long pull from the rocket fuel bourbon. My brother did the same. Then Pops. Then me. The bottle going between us until almost entirely drained.
This might seem arbitrary, a narrative addition out of nowhere, but that's what bad news is. It applies to no logic, or any convenient timing. It arrives unexpected, unwanted, and thoroughly undeniable. The only choice is to accept, or deny, and I have never been one to deny the downside of reality. It's too blunt to ignore without being willfully ignorant.
Mom popped out to announce desert would be on the way shortly. None of us knew what to say. So we said nothing. We just enjoyed the time together -- the best apple pie in the world.
And when the night ended, my brother and his kids driving off, I gave Mom a big hug.
Squeezing her too tight -- she whispered in my ear, "You can't squeeze it out."
She knew we knew.
The night's consumption kicked in, and I found myself in the local bar screaming at a television, believing old gods might be satisfied by a football victory. Yet, at one point I couldn't help laughing. Mom washing dishes to be sure the sun rose, her son shouting at a game to change the world -- we were oddly close in that moment. I knew then, no matter how much I missed her, she would, in a way, always be with me.
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