Trip to the Lake.

Part I

About six weeks before we were suppose to leave, the phone calls began.

My cousin Kelly had just moved to New York and was temporarily staying with me while she looked for an apartment. Sitting together on her cot in my living room, first her phone would ring. She would look down and roll her eyes and place her phone on silent. “It’s her again” she’d warn me, shaking her head. Next, my phone would ring.

“Hi Auntie Lynn…” I would say, watching my cousin wave her arms and mouth I’m not here.

“Hi Chrissyfer” Aunt Lynn would say, “Is my daughter there? I’m trying to get a hold of her but she’s not answering her phone.”

“No Auntie Lynn” I would tell her, flicking off Kelly with my free hand. “I’ll tell her you called when she gets back from the gym though…”

“Well will you ask her…” and that’s when my Aunt Lynn would start rattling off information into my ear a mile a minute. Even if I was listening…even if I had intended on giving my cousin the message, it was doubtful I would be able to retain any of this. Instead I would write “fuck you slut” on a piece of paper for Kelly and doodle a picture of her getting eaten by a dinosaur, and she would love it forever.

With summer upon us, there was only one thing on my Aunt’s mind; the annual family vacation. Every year for the last 7 or 8 years, my parents and Kelly’s parents would burn their two weeks of annual leave at a lake house in North Carolina, noodling and talking about corn (noodling; a verb my parents made up to describe the action of placing a Styrofoam flotation noodle between one's legs, and floating in water for hours). My brothers and cousins and I would usually join them for few days, but for the last two years I had declined my invitation. The constant and incessant nagging by my mother and Aunt Lynn, in combination with the drunken antics of my father and Uncle Ed was all too much for me to handle, and when my father shattered his hip in a freak knee boarding accident three years ago, I found the perfect reason never to return.

This year was different however. My invitation was not so much an invitation, but a demand…crippled father or no crippled father. My mother and her sister decided to hold a celebration for my grandfather’s 85^th birthday at the lake house, and my attendance was “highly suggested.” By my mother’s tone, I could tell that Christmas presents hung in the balance, so I reluctantly agreed. Kelly was like-wised cornered.

To sweeten the deal, our parents told us they would fly us down together. We would only have to stay through the weekend, and with the promise of a free trip I told myself it couldn’t be that bad right?

Oh fuck me was I wrong. As soon as we agreed to take them up on their flight, Aunt Lynn and my mother would call us every night with a litany of questions. And as the date approached, the calls only became more frequent and more frantic.

Urgently, our mothers would ask:

“What airline would you prefer to fly? Jet Blue or American? Well neither one is available, so what’s your feeling on Delta? Would you prefer to sit window or aisle? If Kelly wants to sit window too, how should we work it? Maybe rotate? Maybe she can sit window on the way there and you can sit window on the way back? Oh well I think she wants to sit in the aisle anyway. Now you might be sitting in the emergency row. Is that going to be a problem? Do you want me to change it? How do you plan on getting to the airport? Do you think you and Kelly should ride together? Can you get to Kelly’s work and then go to the airport from there? Do you think you’re leaving yourself enough time to get there?”

The answers were always the same. “Whatever, I don’t care. Leave me alone.” Then about two weeks before the big birthday bash, our mothers convened and decided that instead of flying us to South Carolina, they would fly us to Richmond, where my cousin John would pick us up and drive us the rest of the way. So the litany of questions began again. See above.

The night before we were to fly out, Kelly and I reluctantly packed our bags like two convicts preparing for prison. As I shoved my clothes into my 17 year old duffle bag, I debated as to what the worst part of the trip would be. Would it be the nagging? The unfriendly demand to shuck corn? The “can you get my reading glasses? Can you get my sunglasses? Can you get my reading glasses with the sunglasses attached to them?” The way Aunt Lynn stills refers to our seating arrangement as “the Kids Table” (even though the youngest one of us is 22)? The way my brother and his wife make cat noises when they’re angry with one another? The way my father pronounces filet mignon phonetically every times he says it, repeating himself until someone politely laughs. The way my uncle “gooses” me when he’s had one too many? The way my twin’s head smells when he’s worn his hat all day? My cousin John’s ridiculously long nipple hair?

As per my mother’s recommendation, Kelly and I decided to meet up after work and split a cab to LaGuardia. I met her at her office, and then the two of us spent 20 minutes trying to find a cab. It took forever, but we finally convinced an off duty cabbie to stop and take us. Things from there seem to go without a hitch. There was no traffic…no long lines to check our bags. We printed our boarding passes without any problems.

Our good luck was ruined though when we got in line to go through security. Kelly looked at me. “Oh shit!” She said. “I brought liquids.”

“Why God why would you do such a thing?” I asked her. Clearly she had not read her mother’s three page email breaking down new airport security procedures. Clearly.

“It’s fine” she told me. “As long as you can fit it all into a plastic bag you’re fine.” I had already given her up for dead. I was picturing how I would explain to our parents as we sunbathed on the dock the story of how Kelly was snipered down right there in the security line when she pulled out her bottle of Scope. Kelly turned around to find where she could pick up a plastic bag to stow away her liquids. She had difficultly located one however, and so she grabbed an airport employee she thought would be able to help.

He was a small Indian man. He looked at Kelly like she was a crazy woman when she asked for a plastic bag. “FOR MY LIQUIDS!” she shouted repeatedly. I ducked to dodge the sniper bullets. With a smile on his face, he finally nodded as if he understood. He walked over behind a counter and pulled out a plastic bag…a large plastic garment bag that could have easily fit the three of us in it. Kelly shook her head in frustration. “Look, I need a small regulation plastic bag to put my liquids in. I don’t mind throwing away my makeup, my shampoo, my mouthwash. I just need this one cylinder of medication.” The Indian dude finally understood. “Oh! Liquids!” he shouted triumphantly. “What kind of medication is it?”

Kelly squirmed a little and I could tell she was embarrassed. I recognized the bottle. It was her topical acne medication, the one I had drunkenly confused with my toothpaste and brushed my teeth with a few nights before. “It’s for my face…” she told the guy. He smiled and grabbed the bottle from her “Oh! I see. Follow me!” Kelly then hurried to follow him as he dashed across the airport, waving her acne cream in front of every attendant in the terminal.

I put my bag down so that I could more readily enjoy the spectacle. I stuck my hands in my pockets, and then realized that something was missing. My phone was gone.

I threw my bag on a chair and started rummaging through it like a mad man. I told myself that I had probably mindlessly thrown it in there when I had gotten my itinerary out, but deep down I knew exactly where it was. I had left it on the seat of the cab, and it was probably gone forever. I had come to terms with its loss about the time Kelly returned.

“So apparently they don’t have a single fucking plastic bag in this airport. That Indian dude told me he would take care of it though.” She noticed my look of concern and I told her I had lost my phone.

“It begins…” she responded.

We went through security, and once on the other side, Kelly began looking for her Indian friend. He was gone though. He had taken her acne medication and ran. She came to the same terms of loss that I had come to about my phone, and downtrodden, the two of us made it to our gate.

“Fuck it” Kelly said. “Lets get fucked up.” I laughed and she responded “I’m serious. We have an hour to kill. We’re going to need this. I need this. I need this now. Let’s drink.” So she and I made a detour to Chili’s and started throwing down.

“This trip is going to fucking suck.” Kelly said over her giant novelty margarita. “It already sucks. Let’s just fucking go home. Let’s tell them our flight was cancelled. It could happen right?”

And for the first time, I started to think that maybe this trip wasn’t going to be that bad after all. I mean, I was ready for a break of the city. I was tired of cramming myself onto the subway, getting bumped into on the street, squeezing into overcrowded bars. I could use a break. And I was with Kelly. As we pounded our overpriced airport drinks, we laughed together at the elderly woman in the wheel chair being padded down by the security guard. I mean, yeah, we had already had a few setbacks, but things were looking up. She and I were having a good time and I was actually looking forward to getting down to North Carolina.

And it would be at about this point that we heard our flight was canceled.

To Be Continued...

Night of the Living Hobos

April 29^th is an unavoidable birthday gang bang for me, spawning both my mother and my best friend Lindsay. This year I was torn on whether I should go back to Virginia or not to attend their parties. I’ve been going home a lot lately and the back and forth is exhausting. I had made up my mind just to send cards in my stead – a Mahogany card for my mother and a discounted “He has Risen” card for Lindsay. But having had a terrible week, at the last minute I decided that a trip home was just what I needed. And since my mom and Linds have both been going through tough times as of late, it seemed like the right decision.

I wasn’t going to tell either of them I was coming. It was going to be a surprise, and then I wouldn’t have to get them a gift. My presence could be gift enough. So Saturday morning, I stuff my clothes into a bag and headed to Grand Central. My roommate suggested taking the Greyhound. The last time I road in a Greyhound is a story in and of itself – a two hour trip taking four as I sat behind a man who described his fondness of “eatin’ a fat pussy” ad nauseum. Needless to say, I was reluctant to try again, but since I didn’t have a lot of options I went for it.

The trip itself was uneventful. No pussy talk. However, when I got off the bus in DC, five hobos ran up to me, asking me if I had change or if I needed a ride (I’m guessing they were going to give me a piggy back ride to my next destination). At the time I was puzzled why they had all chosen me and not any of my other travel companions, but in retrospect I guess I had all “easy prey” written all over me. The combination of the large Yves Saint Laurent bag I was carrying my luggage in, along with my unzipped fly suggested that I was both well off and mildly retarded. (I just want to take a second to clarify that I’ve never actually shopped at Yves Saint Laurent. I had taken the bag from work weeks earlier to help me sneak all of my roommate’s umbrellas I had stolen back home.)

I blew threw the first hobo blockade with ease. Rounding the corner, I was accosted by four more. These ones more aggressive then the first. I pushed my way threw them, but two followed me for another block yelling “MISTA! MISTA!” I hurried my pace, but I knew that walking alone down the long narrow stretch in front of me was going to be tricky. I put my headsets in and my extra grumpy face on, which fended off the next beggar. I couldn’t get over the amount of hobos. It was like something out of Night of the Living Dead. As I started to near the metro station I thought I had finally made it unscathed. However, as I got towards the entrance, one last hobo jumped in front of me. I accidentally made eye contact and it was all over.

With his sad eyes digging into my soul, he asked “do you have any change you can spare? I have a kid at home…” It was all so sad and pathetic I couldn’t take it. I rustled through my pockets to find some change. Nothing. So I reached into my bag and found some quarters at the bottom and gave them to him. He smiled and we both went on our way.

It was approximately 3 minutes later when I realized I was no longer carrying a wallet.

I turned around and headed towards the bus station to see if my bus was still there. I knew deep down that I had most likely dropped it while sleeping on the bus, but in route I convinced myself that I had been pickpocketed. It was that asshole I gave change to I told myself, I was distracted as I rummaged for change. He must have grabbed my wallet when I wasn’t paying attention.

I got to the bus station only to find that the bus had already left. When I asked the woman if anyone had turned in a wallet to lost and found she just laughed. “Honey, I wouldn’t hold your breath” – definitely not the words of encouragement I was looking for.

As I walked out of the bus station, the same five hobos I had initially encountered when I first got off the bus confronted me for a second time. Filled with anger and desperation, I snapped. As I pushed through them I yelled “You fucking hobos already took my fucking wallet! What more do you fucking want from me?!” (In the heat of anger I tend to repeat “fucking” several times in a single sentence, usually causing people to laugh at me more than anything else).

With my adrenaline high, I rounded the corner. And there he was. The hobo I had given change to. He was just standing there, smoking a cigarette. Smugly. Smug cigarette smoker, with MY wallet. Something got into me, and before I realized what I was doing, I was standing next to him. “Excuse me, sir?” I asked him. “Do you have my wallet?”

He looked up from his cigarette and looked at me. “Your wallet?” he asked, “Did you lose your wallet?” He looked concerned and apologetic, which only made me suspect him more.

“Look, maybe it fell out while I was looking through my bag,” I said to him, “maybe you found it on the ground. You can have the money inside it, I just want me driver license and ATM card back.”

“Sorry man, I don’t have it. Good luck though. Sorry to hear about you losing your wallet.”

Fucking hobo fuck! Why did he have to be so fucking nice?

Whether pickpocketed or on the floor of the bus, I conceded that my wallet was forever gone. I sulked on the steps in front of Union Station until my father picked me up. “I know you lost your wallet,” he said “But it means a lot to your mother that you’re coming down. She’s been asking all day if you were going to surprise her or not.”

My mood started to improve when I got home (although when my brother asked me for a second time if I have found my wallet I screamed “I already fucking told you I fucking didn’t!”) At the end of the night, somehow my brothers and I convinced my mom and dad to come with us to karaoke at the bar down the street. And while losing my wallet was a horrible ordeal, watching my mother wave to the crowd as Brian, Matt and I dedicated our favorite Journey song to “our mother, the bitchinest birthday girl ever” – somehow made it all worth it.

And in case you were wondering, three days later I got my debit card resent in the mail. And two days after that II lost it at a bar.

The Hunt.

My mother has a monopoly on holidays. Over the last few years, she’s been slowly accruing the rights to host large family events at our house. She swindled Christmas away from my grandmother, claiming that our home was the only one big enough to accommodate “five Burton asses.” With Christmas under her control, she quickly gobbled up smaller functions, including birthday parties, baby showers, and Cinco de Mayo. This year, she annexed Thanksgiving with the promise of deep fried turkey. And then, this spring, she seized the final stronghold – Easter.

Traditionally, Easter has been held on my Grandma and Grandpa Miles’ farm in Round Hill, but with my grandma fresh out of surgery (something involving gallbladders, throat tubes, and urination…I tried not to ask too many questions) we decided to hold festivities at my parents’ house. I could sense that my grandma was uneasy about giving up her Easter glory, so my brothers and I brainstormed ways to ease the transition for her. Immediately, we thought of one of her most cherished traditions – the annual Easter Egg Hunt. Every year since I could remember, Grandma littered her yard with Easter eggs, mismatched, Scotch taped shut, and filled with mixtures of jelly beans and pennies. It wasn’t uncommon to come back with two or three eggs filled with nothing but a faded Hershey kiss wrapper and several dead insects. These were the eggs we had missed the year before. My grandmother continued to orchestrate it even after her arthritis started getting bad, although her hiding spots became slightly less inventive. Instead of concealing eggs inside bird feeders or dangling them from wind chimes, grandma took to hiding them in, for example, a small pile in the passenger seat of her car. But even still, we ate those hard jelly beans and liked it, because that’s what Easter was about. Dammit.

So this year my brothers and I proposed that we continue the annual Egg Hunt at our house, and my mother acquiesced. Early Easter afternoon, she brought down several groceries bags and dropped them in front of the three of us. We peered inside and saw mounds of candy and brightly colored plastic eggs – the good kind too. None of the cheap shit. “Have at it, boys,” mom said.

“Woah woah woah,” I told her, “This sounds like woman’s work.”

She eyed me up and smirked. Point; mother.

“But I’m drinking beer,” Matt said. “You can see the predicament I’m in.”

She left us with the eggs without saying anymore, and we all knew that we had lost. I looked around the room for people I could recruit to take my place. I saw my younger cousin Tatum (with whom I know little about) walking towards the table, so I shouted out to her, “Hey Tatum, do you still believe in the Easter Bunny?”

“I’m 12.” She said. Or maybe she said she was 9. I don’t know, I’m a bad cousin, but the inflection in her voice told me she did not.

“Well then help us with these eggs.” I told her. She pulled up a chair and happily started filling the plastic eggs with Skittles and mini chocolate bars. T.J. convinced his wife Heidi to join, and pretty soon we had a gaggle of women surrounding us, all stuffing eggs. I knew that this was woman’s work.

I sat there listening to the family chitter-chatter as I blindly filled up eggs, but I soon was lost in thought. Every year, same old Egg Hunt. Where’s the challenge? Where’s the fun? You find an egg, you win. That’s so expected. It’s so boring. You know what, life isn’t about having eggs laid out for you, always filled with candy. Did Forest say that life was like an Easter egg…every time you open it BAM there’s candy? No! Life is like a box of chocolates dammit! You never know what you’re going to get. Everyone knows that. And frankly, I think children should have to work for their eggs. I mean, did Jesus die on a cross so that we can have candy basically thrown at us? Um, NO! This was MY house and this was MY hunt, and this year, things were going to be a little different.

With an empty egg in hand, I walked over to a vegetable platter my mother had put out and shoved two or three pieces of celery into it. I fought back the laughter, picturing the look of disappointment on the small child’s face as he or she opens the egg, expecting candy but instead looking at raw vegetables.

It was about this time when I noticed Matt digging through the fridge. He turned around with a guilty look on his face. He looked at me and I looked at him. I then looked down at his hands. He was shoving diced carrots into his egg. We pointed at each other and started laughing. Twinsies.

As the women filled eggs with candy at the kitchen table, Matt and I started going through the pantry. I filled an egg with raisins as Matt filled one with Special K. I filled one with French fried onions, and Matt filled one with potatoes flakes.

We stopped when we heard someone approaching behind us. It was T.J., and he was shaking his head. “You guys are sick,” he said. We all looked at each other awkwardly for a second, and then T.J. reached behind us and put a handful of beef bullion cubes into an egg.

The three of us moved through the kitchen, finding other things to put into the “loser eggs”. T.J. filled one with paper clips. Matt filled one with shrimp. I took a post-it note and wrote “Jesus loves you” on it put it into an egg. I took another post-it and wrote “Jesus does not love you, play again.” Matt laughed. “You go too far…” he said as he grabbed the egg and mixed it with the rest.

It was then time to hide the eggs. Tatum and Heidi shared a bag, and placed them in easy to find spots across the lawn. My brothers and I agreed that we would hide our eggs in slightly more challenging locations.

T.J. wedged one under the wheel of our SUV. Matt placed one inside the raccoon trap my father has set up in the back yard. I placed one on top of the barbecue grill, which my dad was using to grill a leg of lamb (however, my mother moved it when the plastic started melting).

Matt put some atop a lily pad in the center of our pond, T.J. wedged two in between a garden gargoyle’s legs to give the allusion of testicles, and neighbors watched in horror as I placed two eggs in the middle of the street. T.J. yelled from across the lawn “Chris! What are you thinking!?” I thought to myself that perhaps he was right. Maybe this was going too far

“Don’t put two eggs in the middle of the street,” he continued. “Save some for the thorn bush!”

Having scattered all the eggs, we walked triumphantly back inside. My mother asked us how it turned out. Matt told her “This year’s theme is ‘the most dangerous game’”

I dipped my fingers in the lamb drippings and smeared it under each eye, and in a low voice I grunted “The hunt…..is on.”

My brothers and I waited with anticipation for the hunt to begin. It was going to be sick and awesome and we couldn’t wait. But we did. We waited and waited and waited. Finally I asked my grandmother “when are we going to do the Easter Egg hunt?” Matt, remembering his shrimp egg, added “time is of the essence.”

“Easter egg hunt?” she responded. She looked surprised. “Your youngest cousin here is Tatum, and she’s twelve (or nine). Didn’t you notice that there weren’t any kids here young enough to want to hunt for eggs?”

My brothers and I stared at each other, jaws wide open. Strangely, we had not.

“What…about…Sadie’s…kids?” Matt stuttered.

“They’re not they’re not coming.” Grandma told us.

“Then why did you help us fill up the Easter eggs?” I asked. “Why didn’t you stop us?”

“I thought it was funny.” Point; grandma. She looked at us, all standing there in shock, and started to laugh as she walked away.

And I’m pretty sure I heard her mutter “Easter is mine bitches.”