Saturday November 27, 2004
	Thanksgiving day with grandmother (and friends) in Miami.
	Have a Holly Jolly Christmas by Burl Ives is coming from the speakers plugged into the Fisher model 800c 22 tube integrated stereo amplifier and when I push the doorbell button the song is abruptly switched off and a moment later the door opens. "Happy Thanksgiving," I say to my grandmother. "Did you bring it?" she says, then pushing a Vicks Vapor Inhaler into her old nose hole. "It's better if you plug the other hole while you're inhaling," I say.  I've told her this for years. "I plug the other hole all the time," she says.  "Where's my papers?"  My grandmother was 13 years old when she first started rolling her own cigarettes and she has rolled them every day since (In 1977 she slammed a car door on her fat hand and for a short time she bought factory rolled Chesterfield's).      "Black Death, grandma," I say then handing her the shopping bag.  Black Death is her favorite brand of rolling paper. "Uh huh," she says while at the same time looking down and into the bag. "50 packages grandma.  I bought you the entire display box just like you'd see on the store counter at the tobacco store." "What about tobacco?" she says.  "Where's the tobacco?" "McClintock full flavor 6 ounce can (168 grams)," I say then handing her another bag. "Uh huh," she says.  Like a doorman at a busy nightclub she gestures with her old head for me to enter and when I'm finally in the house she says: "Good boy."                                                             - "I'm Norm," I say to a dress wearing woman sitting alongside a pant wearing man.  My grandfather died on the couch that they're sitting on and I'm thinking about this good to look at woman; thinking about her breasts and about her lips and about all the future that the two of them might have and I'm thinking about how the back of my grandfathers head lie lifeless and open eyed (on that couch looking up toward the ceiling) right about where her panty clad ass is presently situated.        "I work with your grandmother at the restaurant," says the woman, then smiling.  My grandmother is 84 and works as a hostess at Boston Market.  I'd like to ball the dress wearing woman if only she wasn't sitting with her pant wearing man especially after getting a whiff of her Burberry perfume.  She has little ankles and good female hands and I'm imagining her flour dusted face pressed against mine and when I look too long her man says: "Are you here with somebody?"  "I'm single," I say. So as to impress onto me his title to the dress wearing woman he says: "That's our daughter."  The shorthaired pant wearing daughter is sitting on the floor in the center of the room and she is pushing a toy truck and when she pushes the truck away I say: "There are dolls in the bedroom, honey." "Please don't," says the pant wearing man. "We don't push her into stereotypical roles," says the good to look at woman. "And I'd appreciate you not referring to my child as, honey," says the pant wearing man. "Pardon?" I say. "Honey has a female connotation to it," he says. "Isn't your daughter a female?" I say. "Don't start," says my grandmother.  Tobacco is stuck to her upper lip. "Of course she's a female," he says then lowering the volume of his voice, "But we don't want her to be consciously aware of it." "Huh?" I say. "We want her to be competitive," says the woman. "Let me guess," I say, then standing.  "You named your kid Taylor or Bailey or Casey or maybe even Gibson." "Time to go, Gibson," says the pant wearing man. The good to look at woman hugs my grandmother then walks to the door with her pant wearing man while at the same time holding Gibson's hand. "You don't want her to be consciously aware of it?" I say. "We were warned about you," says the pant wearing man then exiting. "Happy Thanksgiving, shit for brains," I say then slamming the door.                             - Feliz Navidad is coming from the speakers plugged into the Fisher model 800c 22 tube integrated stereo amplifier and when I turn the bathroom doorknob my grandmother says: "Your sister is in there with her friend." "What friend?" I say. "The friend she came with," says my mother.  "They arrived when you were chatting with that nice couple."   "What are they doing in the bathroom?"  I say. "They're washing up," says my mother. "Washing up?" I say then putting my ear to the door. "They're washing up, boy," says my grandmother.  She is using her fat trembling tongue to put spit on the rolling paper adhesive. My sister Sandy comes to all our family gatherings always bringing along a new male friend.  The two of them will (more likely than not) spend the entire holiday in the bathroom washing up. "Happy Thanksgiving Sandy," I say. Says my sister: "Happy Thanks...giving." "Did you hear the way she said Thanksgiving?" I say.  "She kinda grunted when she said the giving portion of the word, Thanksgiving." "They're washing up," says my mother. I say: "They're not washing up.  They're balling.  They're in there just a few feet from our holiday pies and stuffing and sauces and our Fisher AM/FM model 800c and they're porking the shit outta one another." "They're washing up," yells my grandmother then throwing her hand rolled cigarette at me.  "I can smell the burning flesh," I say. "Norman," says my mother. I say: "On the other side of this door two people are naked and they're sweating and their faces are twisted and stretched and their tongues are out and they're probably saying things to one another that even I can't imagine and they're doing it.  They're DOING it on Thanksgiving day just on the other side of this thin, flimsy, cheap, plywood door." Says my grandmother (through gritted teeth): "What the f-ck is wrong with you, boy?" "Help me with the turkey," says my mother. "Help her with the turkey," says my grandmother then putting her ear to the bathroom door. Feliz Navidad is coming from the speakers plugged into the Fisher model 800c 22 tube integrated stereo amplifier: Feliz Navidad Feliz Navidad Feliz Navidad Prospero año y Felicidad I want to wish you a Merry Christmas I want to wish you a Merry Christmas I want to wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart. The doorbell rings and the holiday music is switched off and when I open the door the pant wearing man says: "We forgot Gibson's truck." PREVIOUS   HOME   NEXT