My father and I never talked much really. We had very little in common and rarely saw eye-to-eye on anything at all. It’s not like we ever hated each other, but as I got older this looming cloud of awkwardness seemed to settle down quietly between us. Hell, the last pleasant memory I have with the guy was from when I was eight years old. The barn down at the old Silverman’s Ranch had caught fire. My father walked me over to the fence and put me on his shoulders and together we watched it burn to the ground. But ever since then, it’s been all grades, mowing the lawn, and finding the god damn remote.
That is, until, my mother started intervening. She said it was good for a father and son to spend time together. That’s what families did. They spent time together doing things. It made them normal and healthy and families.
So, anytime mom got a new issue of Reader’s Digest, we’d find ourselves out on a fishing boat, or at a car show, standing around, looking at each other uncomfortably. He’d grunt. I’d roll my eyes. And then we both just kind of shrugged and left. It just didn’t look like we were cut out to be father and son. Eventually my mother’s subscription ran out and we were both very grateful.
So, while we couldn’t really talk, hug, or act like father and son, we did have one thing in common: A deep and passionate disgust for my mother’s family. They were awful, rude, and ate with their mouths open. While, my father never actually expressed his feelings, I think it was well understood. I, on the other hand, made no secret of my revulsion. I kicked and screamed and made myself vomit in the bathroom, but no matter the performance, I always found myself in the backseat headed towards hell.
There was one Thanksgiving, however, that I still look back and smile upon. I’ll never forget it. It was November 26th, 1992 and we are driving down a dirt road to my uncle’s house in Corona, California. My father’s 1984 Datsun 210 suddenly received a fatal blow to one of its rear tires. He slowed gently and pulled off the asphalt, onto a dirt shoulder.
Stepping out of the car, my father grumbled incoherently and slammed the door. I heard the trunk bounce open metal tools clank as he fumbled through the trunk. My mother, the brilliant magician, suggested I go out and assist him.
“Ah, mom, I don’t know a dang thing about cars.”
“Danny, you get your ass out there right now and help your father.” She turned back around. “Oh, and you better watch your mouth.”
There was no winning this one. I stepped out of the car and wandered to the rear.
“Danny, you seen the jack?”
“No, I haven’t seen any jack.”
“Look, we’re already late and I don’t need to hear your mouth. So, just keep quiet and help me find the damn thing.”
He tossed a few more items roughly around the trunk. He slapped both hands on the trunk and looked to the sky.
“Emma, you seen the jack?”
“Did you check inside the spare, Honey?”
My father lifted the particleboard covering the spare.
“Who the hell would put the jack in the goddamn spare? I mean the damn pegs are right here on the side.”
My father had put that jack there. I saw him do it. We had broke down on the way to an unsuccessful vacation in the mountains a few years back. After twenty minutes of listening to him swear at the “god damn tire iron,” holding greasy lug nuts, my father heedlessly threw the jack into the spare and we zoomed off.
Both these trying, unpleasant situation could have well been avoided if my father wasn’t the cheapest bastard in the whole world. Two years ago those tires needed attention. Gas station attendants all over Southern California had told him. One even offered some used tires he had in the back at nothing but a labor charge for changing them.
“Nah, I don’t think so. There’s still a thousand miles left on these babies. No sense in throwing away a perfectly good tire.”
“Okay mister, have it your way.”
Every time he got back in the car he felt as smart as Jesus Christ.
“Tell me I need new tires. Bastard’s just trying to squeeze a few more dollars out of my gut. New tires, my ass.”
Then, one by one, they all burst. My father always acted surprised and then astounded at the lack of care our country has put in to maintaining their highways.
“God damn pothole. If the highways weren’t so damn awful. Whole damn country’s gone to hell. This new generation. Young smart ass punks concerned with nothing more than their pinko policies. The problem’s right in front of their god damn face. Roads. That’s how you know what kind of god damn shape the country is in.”
In the end, I’d say my father has spent more time and money on the side of the road than anyone else I ever knew.
“Danny! Pay attention, son! Help me off with this here tire.”
My father had jacked up the left-rear axle. I crouched down along side of him, and he looked up at me and raised his eyebrows. I was never very good at telepathy.
“You gonna do this with your jacket on!?” He hit my shoulder lightly. “Think son, think!”
“Oh yeah, sure. Forgot, Dad.”
The suit didn’t really matter. He just wanted to boss me over something. Hell, I’d had that god damn suit since I was eleven years old. The sleeves hard rode up past my wrist, the pant legs exposed too much sock, and I could barely get the damn thing around my shoulders. Sure, I knew how ridiculous I looked, but, one, I’ve never been much for fashion, and, two, going shopping with my mother at the cheap suit store was not exactly a night on the town.
I wadded up the jacket and handed it to my mother through the window.
“Danny, you know we could go shopping and—”
“Mom, not now. Okay. I’m busy.”
My father was too busy to correct my insolence; I have his temper.
We eventually replaced the incapacitated with the spare, which really wasn’t that much better off, and continued down the road toward my aunt Norma’s house.
The rest of the car ride was pretty normal. I sat quietly in the back, while my father listened to talk radio, “bahing” and “goddamn liberaling” whenever he got the chance, which left my mother to herself, starring out the window and uttering an occasional inane platitude about a tree, or a rock, or just whatever.
We finally arrived at my aunt Norma’s, late. The house itself was part of a tract, white stucco, red tile roof, and a modest plot of lawn. They had bout it a few months back, and my family had never seen it before.
The door opened, and we were inundated by a sudden flood of warm, familiar scents: turkey, mash potatoes, fresh baked bread, and my uncle Ralph. He had recently been promoted to some other middle-management position at the furniture store he worked for, which, incidentally, is how he found his way into his new, middle-management home.
I couldn’t help but notice he was wearing a conspicuously new outfit; all the creases stood sharp and his shirt still had that virgin sheen to it.
“Well, dang howdy! Look who it is! We were afraid you weren’t gonna make it.”
My father chuckled nervously and explained the flat tire.
“You’re not still driving that old Datsun are you?”
“Well, right now we can’t exactly aff—“
“Well, let me show you the new house!”
My uncle prompted us up the staircase and then followed. Slapping me way too hard on the shoulder he started in on his usual routine.
“Danny, how’s the team; they play you this year?”
“I didn’t try out.”
“Grade gotcha, huh?”
My uncle Ralph loved to believe all teenagers were drooling idiots because his was.
“No, actually I—“
“Well, don’t feel too bad. Your cousin Scoot is playing first instead of pitcher. Goddamn coach wouldn’t know talent if it bit him in the ass.”
Scott, a relative who I only see twice a year but hear about constantly, is possibly one of the stupidest individuals I have ever encountered. I actually feel a little dumber each time I talk to him. He is my age but prolific in every sport known to man, at least the ones important to fathers. My relatives, well, mostly my uncle, constantly portrayed us as competing.
The house was well furnished but obnoxious. Rooms were over decorated and cluttered with gaudy whatnots. The hallway shelves were filled with books the family had never read, nor ever would. It was generally the kind of house that had a cute little framed picture of a teddy bear holding a sign with a pukey little poem abut flushing the john written on it.
After my uncle received his expected compliments, we were led into the kitchen where everyone was gathered. I exchanged hugs and handshakes with a number of forgotten relatives I had forgotten about and made my way over to the stove.
My aunt Norma was busily attending to numerous culinary tasks. I took hold of a wooden spoon sitting inside a simmering pot of gravy and stirred violently.
“Danny! You made it. It’s so good to see you.”
My aunt Norma is a woman of moderate beauty by any standards. She had no fantastic or exotic features, just a simple, well-proportioned system of arms and legs that complemented the hell out of each other. She always made feel all right.
“Did you finish the book I bought you last year? I hope so. I absolutely love it. Did you? I did.”
I told her I had and enjoyed it immensely. Amongst the massive mound of socks, ties, and ill-fitting clearance shirts I received each year, her small literary contributions were the only thing that really made Christmas anything for me. I still remember reading the first book she had given me, Stienbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath”, and thinking she’d given it to me because she was the mother in the book and she wanted to take care of me. Norma was sweet, caring, and generous yet somehow still an amazing woman. Hell, she would have let anyone sit at her table: bums, thieves, burglars, whoever. She’d take you anyway way you came, which, incidentally, would explain why she is with my uncle.
She first let me complain about my friends, school, and parents and then told me about a mute teenager she had been working with at the high school she taught at. I listened and snacked on warm, fresh rolls she had made earlier. After a few minutes were interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. My aunt Norma having her hands full and asked me if I could open the door.
Being in better spirits, I skipped down the hallway and flung the door open violently. My grandparents looked extremely startled, as if they expected a ravenous dog to leap out at their throats; but, fortunately for them, it was only me. We exchanged perfunctory hugs, and I relieved my grandfather of the gigantic platter of turkey my grandmother prepared. Walking down the corridor, my grandmother went on about how many pounds it weighed and how she got sucha lovely deal on the bird at Al Somebody’s Meats. I lifted the silver lid and inhaled audibly.
“Smells great, grandma.” She is very sensitive, you know.
I led them straight to the dinning room, set the platter as carefully as I could in the middle of the table, and removed the lid, leaving everyone to “ooh” and “ahh” over what a spectacular bird it was. I returned to the kitchen with the lid and assisted my aunt with the finishing touches in the kitchen.
Everything was ready. The potatoes had been mashed; the gravy had thickened; and the carrots, peas, and broccoli had been steamed. The kitchen smelled so goddamn good, I wish I could have stayed in it forever.
I gathered various platters, stuffed a roll into my mouth, and entered the dinning room. While placing the potatoes down, I heard Scott mumble something about how I should give up sports and take up home-making. Everyone had a good laugh as I roughly set the gravy boat down and mumbled through the roll in my mouth. Norma came in with the rest, and I reluctantly took my seat between Scott, who hadn’t had a chance to quit laughing at his own joke, and my five-year-old cousin, William.
The Bruno turkey carving process always took some time, so I had a few more rolls. William had been kicking my ankle since I had sat down and it was beginning to hurt.
“Knock it off, William.”
He looked to his corpulent mother in distress.
“Danny, he’s only five! Why don’t you try being nice for a change!?”
My father issued a quick cautionary raise of the eyebrow. He wanted me to shut up and apologize.
I grit my teeth, closed my eyes, and used all the energy left in me to sound as insincere as possible.
“Sorry, William”
As William’s mother tried to elicit a response from her sweet little demon, I watched her fat, quivering neck and imagined all the little kittens she ate for breakfast trying to escape through her massive throat.
William looked at me. “But his pants are too high...”
This had to be the goddamn funniest thing anyone at the table had heard since last Christmas when William spilled his milk on my lap and, as my uncle so readily pointed out, it looked as though I had wet my pants.
The laughter died down, and my family began their feast. They ate like jackals; they always did. It was nauseating. This in conjunction with my pre-dinner, bread binge took my appetite sailing out the window.
Brooding, I was tracing the awful pattern of my plate with a fork. Norma looked at me sympathetically and said nothing.
William had been manipulating the massive slab of mashed potatoes his mother had served him into a mountain that covered his vegetables. He then placed all his slices of turkey so the sat teepee-style against it. It was a pleasant diversion, and I watched with interest.
“William, quit playing with your food.” His mother meant business.
“I’m not hungry.”
“William, don’t you want to grow up big and strong like your cousin Scott here,” my uncle added with his mouth full. I had to take this personally.
William groaned and squirmed in his chair a while, poking at his food. His mother slammed her fork into her plate.
“William, eat!”
“I don’t wanna!,” he said flopping himself against the back of the chair and crossing his arms.
“William!” His mother’s under chin was quivering with obese seriousness.
“Danny’s not!”
His mother stared at me with an eyebrow raised, as if she expected the food to jump right into my mouth.
The table momentarily paused to look at me. I felt like I was on the spot. Something needed to be said.
“Oh, well, I had quite a few—“
“Common, Danny boy! Have some of your grandma’s turkey.” My uncle had an unbelievable talent for talking with his mouth full.
I had the undivided attention of the entire goddamn table. Everyone sat staring, as if I was Jesus about to bless the dinner. I wasn’t sure what to do; I didn’t know what to say. Then, my father threw me another suggestive nod.
My grandmother had just now noticed the interruption; she knew something was amiss. She whispered quietly and followed the stream of attention down to me.
“What’s a matter with Danny?”
She meant well, and I was careful with my words.
“Well, you see I—“
“Danny doesn’t want any turkey this year,” my uncle said, shaking his head in disbelief. He reached across the table towards the turkey for emphasis.
“Oh, but I—,” my grandmother began mumbling as she burst into tears and buried her face in the cloth napkin. My grandfather immediately rose to comfort her. “For chrissake, son, just eat the damn turkey.”
My uncle, still chewing, nodded a see-I-told-you-so at me.
Scott was grinning at me like an idiot.
William had his teeth out at me.
My father said “Danny” slowly, like it took more energy than he had to say it.
Grandfather reminded me that I was still making my grandmother cry for Christ’s sake.
The table waited expectantly; no one stirred.
My uncle pointed his fork at me. “Danny, you know turkey has a lot of great—“
I stood up, slammed my hands on the table and screamed, “I just don’t want any goddamn turkey! Ok! That’s it! I just don’t feel like goddamn turkey. Ok!”
Everyone was shocked; they just stared. Scott slowly shook his head back and forth. Norma looked sorry for me and shifted her eyes from one family member to the next. My grandmother, astounded, ceased crying momentarily. She opened her mouth and was going to say something but instead began bawling once again. My father had his palm pressed against brow. Finally, someone dropped a fork on their plate.
I could hear myself breathing through my nostrils and fumbled past William towards the front door. I wasn’t embarrassed or anything like that. I was just angry and needed to get the hell out of there. I sat on the hood of the car throwing rocks until my parents came out. They looked sore as hell.
“You know, Danny, you have got a lot of nerve. Your grandmother—“
“Emma, let it be. After all,” my father said, “it was just a turkey.”
I couldn’t believe it. My father was actually defending me.
My mother, taken aback, mumbled, “Well, I just thought since—“
“Damn turkey.” He looked back at me grinning; then, turned back towards the road and chuckled.
My mind thrown into a fit of consternation was only to be further bewildered when his grin turned into laughter. “Damn turkey!”
I began chuckling; half amazed at my father’s amusement in something I was so sure I would get beat for.
“Danny!” My mother didn’t know who to yell at.
Soon, my father and I were now in tears, laughing wildly.
“Jack!” My mother scowled at the both us, but we couldn’t help it. We just went right on laughing our guts out. She directed her attention out the window in a tempered defeat.
My father slapped the steering wheel of the car and turned to me, laughing hysterically, “Gawd Damn Turkey!”
I’ll never forget that car ride home, a final period of unspoken understanding and friendship between my father and I.
