It was the winter of 1986 and I had just pulled up in my parents driveway. At the time, they lived in a small suburb on the outskirts of Cleveland, Ohio. I looked down at my car, a 1977 Chevy Nova in pristine condition, and sighed. She didn’t look good in the snow. I turned to the house, and sighed again. Ah, to be back on the beach in San Diego where I lived with my on again/off again girlfriend, a surfer who showed no fear except when it came to meeting my family. So I took the trek alone, in the Nova.
I sledged up to the house, knowing full well that my father probably hadn’t turned on the heat yet. It was below zero out, but dammit – put on a sweater! I knocked on the door. I had left my bags in the car, I really didn’t want to stay there and judging by the amount of cars in the street around the house, I figure they already had enough people in there already. I would book a hotel. Or sleep at the YMCA. I didn’t care. I heard barking. Then I heard yelling.
“Shut that goddamn dog up!”
“Get the door and he’ll stop barking!”
“Who’s dog is that?”
The door swung open and my father stood there. He was a full head taller than me, and unlike myself – had retained all his hair. I had lost mine before hitting 30. He regarded me for a second, took a long drag off a menthol cigarette (without using his hands) and stepped back, ushering me in with his eyes.
“Your brother is upstairs.” He said. “See if you can get him to stop being a gay.” My younger brother had been a complete disappointment to my father. Not for being gay, while my father was a pretty die-hard bigot, he didn’t really seem to mind my brother’s sexual orientation. No, what bothered him was his lack of success. While I had moved out young and was now successful in my marketing gig in San Diego, my brother at 25 had neither moved out, nor had gotten a respectable job – at least in my father’s eyes. My brother changed tires and oil at the local Tire & Lube shop. He only did it five days a week. He didn’t tell my dad that he was a DJ at a disco club the other two days. Neither did I.
I ignored his request to go upstairs and un-gay my brother and instead went into the kitchen, where my mother and aunt were busy cooking what appeared to be a collection of meats, none resembling a full turkey. Instead, they seemed to be basting necks and organ meat. This was in fact, the case.
“Where’s the turkey?” I asked, peering over my mother’s head into the pan of castaway meat.
“Oh honey! You’re here! Give us a hug!” My mother always spoke in third person. Later I would eulogize at her funeral that she was in fact, a robot. She disengaged her hug (which was very robotic and seemed timed) and went back to basting. My aunt, on my father’s side, regarded me with a sideways glare and hacked something into her mouth without moving her lips. She swallowed and went back to basting. I wanted to kick her in the face. Not sure why, just the feeling that I got when I was around her.
I left the kitchen and walked into the living room. I glanced up the stairs as I walked by. In the living room, my father has assumed his position in his Lazy Boy chair in front of the Television. My aunt’s husband, the used car salesman, was spread out on the couch. He was wearing a sweater and underpants. That’s it. Oh, and a bad, bad toupee. Like dead squirrel bad. Like shaved skunk bad. He didn’t notice me at first, as he scratched himself and watched the football game on my father’s brand new (used) 19 inch television. When he did finally notice me standing in the archway, he jumped up and clapped his hands loudly. My father glared and took a drag from what I could only assume was his sixth cigarette since I had been there.
“Holy shit! It’s the prodigal son all the way from California! The business man! Mr. Successful! Well, let me tell you about successful – did you see the Turkey? I got it for pennies on the dollar from a business man I do business with! I sold him a used Pacer for a great price and he traded me that Turkey for the taxes. Huh! Your uncle Barry came through again! What’da say sport! Let’s wrestle!” Barry was an idiot. Still is. He motors around the retirement home, bumping into people and telling the nurses how to used to rip off China-men at his car dealership. I can only guess that’s where he got the so-called “turkey.”
“You are one creepy bastard.” I told Barry. “Put on some damn pants. Your junk is coming out. No-one wants to see that. No-one.” My father grunted in agreement and lit another cigarette. Barry stuffed a testicle back into his underpants and sat back down. He was silent for a minute, then yelled something incoherent at the football game. I noticed the half empty bottle of cheap rum at his side. There’s a surprise.
“Why are there so many cars outside?” I asked out loud. My father pointed at Barry. I looked down at the moron.
“I parked my best cars here for the weekend so they don’t get stolen off the lot. People steal at Christmas.”
“Ever hear of insurance?” I asked. Of course, I added on a tone of sarcasm, which was probably a bad idea when speaking to a mostly drunk used car salesman in his underpants. He shot up off the couch with a hand raised as if to make a point. He fell back down to the couch. He shot up again, this time making it stick. Across the room, my dad’s head turned. He knew what was coming. It happened ever year. Barry would get drunk, I’d get in his face and he’d end up with a broken nose, shattered kneecap (bowling ball incident of ’79) or several black eyes. This Christmas felt different. I was going to go for the ribs this time. “Listen you little shit – you think you are so d…” I struck him in the lower ribs on the right side. He doubled over and sat back down on the couch, exhaling at an Olympic runner’s pace. Then he puked. That was a new one. The dog came in, barking and jumping, then saw the puke. My father lit another cigarette.
My mother and aunt ran into the living room. My aunt smacked Barry on the back of the head and went outside to smoke. She refused to smoke indoors for some reason. I reached over and locked the front door while my mother was trying to keep the dog from eating all of Barry’s puke. That was when the naked man rolled down the stairs.
“I said no!” Yelled my brother from the top of the stairs. I turned around as the naked man came bounding off the stairs and into the front door. I heard a click, a familiar click as I heard it the last time I called this place home. I turned back around. My father was standing, and he had the shotgun down from over the mantle. Mind you, I had been at the house for close to 20 minutes at this point and the shotgun was already out. Of course, it wasn’t completely my doing – but they had wondered why I hadn’t come home since I left.
The naked man was standing at the door, trying to get out. I had locked it only a moment before. He was fiddling with the lock, couldn’t quite get it. Of course, had my aunt not been trying to turn the knob while he was trying to unlock it – he may have gotten it open.
My mother stood up, and with a very monotonous tone said to my father, “we don’t shoot people at Christmas.”
We all looked at my father. The naked man paused. My father took a drag off his cigarette and then spit it onto the floor and cocked the gun. “We’re Jewish.”
