Crossed Giblets Of Death III -- The Reckoning

"Voice Mail" is merely a bowl of nuts on the coffee table, a little saucer of sweet pickles and olives on the kitchen counter.

Bring on the first course!

(Why the teeny refrigerator?)

 

21 Night Shamayan presents

"The Teeny Refrigerator in the Basement"

 

Monday. Invoking the Never Call Back the Same Day rule, in hopes that the problem has gone away.

No such luck.

'Mom? Got your message'

'Oh good, I never know if those machines work, I thought when you didn't call back that maybe the machine didn't work, or maybe I was on the phone when you called back, I was talking to Alex, he says they might not come.

'He always says that, Mom, you have to be nicer to Marcee.'

'Oh, 21, please, I have killed myself for that girl, I just think she might be happier if she'd lose a little weight, I think people are just so much happier when they're thin, don't you agree? Aren't you just happier when you're thin? Are you happy, 21? We never talk any more.'

What were you asking about a little refrigerator?

'Oh, the refrigerator, do you have one? Just a little one, I thought you might have that nice refrigerator from Sears, the one you took to college, do you still have it?'

'Mom, I've been out of college for 20 years.'

'Well, what difference does that make, people keep refrigerators for years and years! They are perfectly wonderful to use for extra things in the basement, UNTIL SOMEONE STUPIDLY UNPLUGS THEM AND DESTROYS TEN YEARS WORTH OF PERFECTLY GOOD INGREDIENTS AND ALL THE EXTRA BUTTER! NOT NAMING NAMES! LOU, CAN YOU TURN UP THE TV LOUDER SO THE TROOPS IN IRAN CAN ALSO HEAR THE DOODY SCENE IN CADDYSHACK? So do you have the refrigerator, 21? I thought maybe you could bring it?'

 

Her bras were in the fridge too?

 

Don't rush me.

 

sorry... :-[ :-X

 

Let the woman work.

 

I am scared of the teeny fridge.

 

Who needs television or movie theaters when you can get quality entertainment like this for free? Honest to God, you should be working this stuff into a screenplay, 21.

I'm just about to leave for a long visit to my in-laws, and the worst part of it is I may not get to find out what's up with the tiny fridge until Saturday, when I get back.

 

They don't have the internet? You could get online on your phone.

 

They have dial-up, and I won't have time to sit in front of the computer for a half hour waiting for pages to load. There's the traditional Thanksgiving Day Scrabble tournament to think about, you know.

And I wish I was kidding.

But enough about my in-laws...let's get back to the tiny fridge.

 

So yesterday, Sisbeat and I fly down to D.C. to visit our parents and half sister for Thanksgiving. We had a flight that was supposed to leave JFK at 4:45 P.M. and get into Dulles by 6.

As pain is wont to do, it starts innocently and early. I am in the lobby of my building, waiting for the cab we reserved for 12:30 P.M.. Our planning was meticulous. Four-forty-five flight. Cab picks me up, then the SB. Twenty minutes later, we'd be at the airport with plenty of time to kill. We'd be through security a little after one. Who's better than us?

I look at my watch. 12:30 P.M. Time to check for the cabbie. He's waiting and pissed. "Do you know how long I've been here?" he demands. No, I surely don't. I learn that his angst is at the doorman in my building for not letting me know he was there. I offer him a sympathetic hug and my apologies. He accepts the apology, but not the hug. Now, I need a hug since my feelings have been Sabaned.

We pick up SB and start towards the Van Wyck Expressway. I hear the Seinfeld dialogue in my head. I begin to shake.

Yet, there's no traffic on the Van Wyck, a direct contrast to its history; the Van Wyck extends the idea of hope only to callously snatch it back. A cruel taunt.

The shoe doesn't drop. We get to Delta departures without incident and check in. SB and I wander through security, having three hours until our flight. It's too easy. It's too easy. It's not supposed to be like this.

Following a bit of lunch, we get to our gate. Two-and-a-half hours to spare until our flight. I pull out my laptop and begin to write. She reads a magazine. About 15 minutes in, she leans over conspiratorally and whispers, "Did I tell you about my conversation with mom the other day?"

Higher Religious Entity, who-or-whatever you are, you are a bastard. Now, you decide to play your heartless hoax? What did we ever do to you?

I sigh. "No {SB}. What happened?"

She tells a tale of being in the horror that is Toys 'R' Us, looking for a birthday gift for our half sister. A blonde wig catches her eye. It has the name and face of Hannah Montana. Amused, she called our mom to tell her about the discovery. In response, my mom asked, "Are you going to buy that for yourself?"

I sagged. I sighed. I shook my head and with a resigned tone said, "You know, she's our mom and I love her, but sometimes she has the IQ of cooked spaghetti." SB giggled, then went back to her magazine and I to writing. Engrossed in my work, I do not see that she gets up to take a walk over to check on the flight schedule.

SB walked back, leaned over and said, "We're boarding at five." Okay, that ain't bad. Holiday week and all. Back to writing I go.

Fifteen minutes go by. Pounding away on my laptop, I hear, "We're boarding at six." It had been a cloudy, rainy, overcast day in the NYC, a day that made you think of Notre Dame's Four Horsemen. Weather is holding up the flight. Or maybe the 2007 season in South Bend. Either way,it happens.

I finish my writing and begin to stretch my legs. A walk around the gate area ending at the board. We're pushed back to 6:15, then 6:30 and finally 6:40. The news is relayed to SB. It's agreed that there's nothing either one of us can do, so there's no point in getting impatient.

Finally, we board. To be fair, three flights simultaneously through our gate. As I step onto the plane, the chief stewardess has rather large eyes. Attractive, certainly. I begin to scroll through the list of things that could possibly have shocked her. I momentarily forget that I am 6'2, 200 pounds. Until I board the plane and WHAM. Skull meets the roof of the plane. I have empathy for the monstrous 7'0 centers of the NBA. Now, I know what Wilt Chamberlain went through on a daily basis, save for making love to multitudes of women during the day, then collecting forty points and twenty-five rebounds on the hardwood in the evening.

Everyone is on board. The flight is about to take off. We're only going to be an hour late to Dulles, where Momsbeat is waiting on us. Enter Higher Religious Entity, who decides to drop the other shoe.

The grounds crew would not let the flight go. The pilot argues with a member of the grounds crew, stating, "I am the captain of this plane. I am in control. You are, in effect, hijacking this plane."

Motherfucker. This is not going to be resolved any time soon. Mercifully, I have a book and a front row seat to this miniature morality play.

Threats are made, forth-and-back. There's talk that the pilot had so offended the ground crew that they were taking him off the flight, to be replaced by another. A New York Port Authority cop boarded the plane to take a look around. He begins to make small talk with the stewardess, who is clearly displeased. "It's justa matter of whose got da biggah muscles, ya know? Both are flexin' to see who's are biggest," the cop says in authentic Brooklyneese. The stewardess notes that the flight was supposed to be in Dulles, originally, at 6:30. "It's 7:15 now. You probably ain't gonna make it," responds the cop, in an effort to get her to laugh. She doesn't.

Sometime after eight, all seems to be resolved. The plane steams down the runway, then launches itself into the air. We get into Dulles, and I learn that it--and not JFK, which is second--is the airport from hell. There are twists and turns, then a door through which there are leather seats and poles. I look at SB. "The baggage claim is separate from the airport." I think of a former board member who hates layout and I begin to understand his disdain.

It's now 9:30. Bags collected, SB and I begin the process of looking for Momsbeat. We cannot find her and she does not own a "cellular device." We have her paged. SB spots her. "There she is, in her bright green sweater.

It is said that The Great Wall of China can be seen from outer space. So can this sweater. It's an uncomfortable combination of lime green and yellow lemon. She walks up to SB and I, saying, "I wanted you guys to see me!"

I ask her if that sweater has stopped traffic. She smirks, proudly informing us that she purchased it on sale at Modell's for five bucks. I decide not to suggest that she paid $5.01 too much for it.

On the ride home, we're promised lasagna and that Dadsbeat is waiting up for us. The parkway is empty and we're going along at a hair-raising 35 MPH. I resist the urge to ask if I can drive, opting instead to suffer a panic attack.

A little after 10:30, we arrive at my parent's place. We drag the bags in. Dadsbeat is nowhere to be found. Apparently, he's in his office/living room, pounding away at work. But we're going to eat together. That will be nice.

There's a piece of lasagna missing. He comes up the stairs and announces that he's going to bed. SB, MB and I eat. They go to bed. I wander down to the living room, having been told that I was sleeping on the couch. I watch TV for a little while before drifting away.

Sound asleep, dreaming of holding an unrequited love in a passionate embrace. Then a left to the jaw! A right to the jaw! Lefts and rights by the most devastating puncher in NHL history, Joey Kocur. I can't get my arms up to protect me, as I'm still holding my love while Kocur, Lord Of The Goons, swings away. He opens his mouth and it's a female voice.

"HB, it's mom. It's 11:30 A.M. SB and I are going out for awhile but we'll be back soon, then at 2:30 P.M., we're going to Burlington. If you're not ready than you stay home. If you want lunch, there are Cheerios and soup. The Cheerios are on the table."

She slapped me awake. I roll off the couch and stumble to this computer, eager to share this story with the SJ family. I pound away on the keyboard when I realize that there is some business I have to take care of.

I walk into the bathroom only to stop in my tracks. It's wallpapered, in much the same fashion of Zach Braff's family in Garden State. I spin, scanning to see if there's a shirt with the same design of the wall paper. I fear that I will look like this:



There is no shirt to be found.

Yet, I am still scared.