Supposedly the guy was high up in the Church of Satan.
He definitely looked the part. He was always dressed in black, even in the summer--black pants, black leather blazer, some sort of black or red shirt, black boots. His head was shaved and he had a long goatee and these little, beady eyes. If you got close enough to steal a closer look, the rings on his hands were adorned with skulls and pentagrams. Sometimes you would see him walking some sort of hulking albino wolfhound. Often he was with a woman, the kind of woman you would expect to see with Marilyn Manson.
You could tell people recognized him, the way people recognize local quasi-celebrities. But they didn't want to let on that they knew him, so they went out of their way not to gawk. And that seemed to suit him fine, walking down the street with the baddest dog, the freakiest chick, and the evilest wardrobe. I didn't know how much of the stuff about Satanism was true, but it was easy to let your imagination err on the side of the fantastic. I pictured candles, darkness, sacrifices, alters, orgies with blood. Leather, robes, Slayer, piercings, Wagner, fingernails painted black, and rituals in Latin.
One Sunday night I saw him at the supermarket. He was dressed in black, of course, but he was by himself doing his grocery shopping. I pretended to check out something in his aisle, excited to see what kind of evil shit was in his cart.
It was very disappointing.
Dude had Snackwell cookies in there. Silk Soymilk. A head of iceberg lettuce, Grape Nuts, baloney, toilet paper, fair trade coffee, some produce--and not particularly interesting produce: tomatoes, bananas, that kind of thing.
I couldn't believe it.
First of all, how did a guy that was supposed to be high up in the Church of Satan buy his own groceries? Shouldn't he have minions to do that kind of thing for him?
And the crap he was buying: Snackwell cookies? Soymilk? What the hell? Dude presented himself to the world like he was the embodiment of evil and sinful debauchery and most of what he was buying was health food. His cart should have been full of red meat, sides of lamb dripping with blood that he would eat raw. Bottle after bottle of red wine, impossibly decadent desserts, rich cheeses from Europe, exotic fruits from places I'd never heard of that he and his cabal of dangerous hotties would use in disturbingly obscene fertility rites.
But no.
He was buying really boring shit, just like the rest of us. I'll bet he used coupons, too.
I went home that night feeling like the world had become a slightly less interesting place. For all I knew, he also wore sweat pants around the house, forwarded emails, watched The Simpsons, got annoyed by traffic, and kept a garden. I had to wonder if the guy had ever even been in a three-way.
The biggest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world that his followers were anything to be impressed by.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
January 7 - The Thais That Bind
Two roundtrip tickets to Thailand: $3800
A week's stay at a resort in Phuket: $1500
Hearing your father tell the Thai ladyboy prostitute he's hired for the weekend that he would like to eat the peanuts out of his shit: Priceless.
My dad's annual trips to Thailand are both the cause of and the reward for my parents' divorce. For several years prior to the divorce, he'd been going there once a year for business--and pleasure, as it turned out. He kept the pleasure side of it a secret from my mom for a surprisingly long time, but the game was up five years ago when she got the clap out of the blue and he was the only man she'd ever slept with.
Oops.
Their divorce was quick and relatively amicable, under the circumstances.
Since then, he's been taking me along with him on his trips to Thailand. I guess he's going through some sort of Cat's in the Cradle thing. Whatever. As long as he pays my way, I'm not going to ask too many questions.
But the ladyboy thing is kind of weird. And first of all, don't get me wrong: I don't have a problem with it. I mean, if he's got a thing for ladyboys, that's cool with me. Seriously. I'm not into it, but whatever.
But it's the way he always acts so surprised when he "discovers" that she is a he. That's what gets me. Every time we're at the bar and I try to tell him that the chick he's talking to is actually a dude, he won't listen. "You're out of your mind," he always says. "This chick is gorgeous."
And then the next morning, he tries to blame it on the booze and he always comes up with some joke, like, "Well, turns out you were right after all. Looks like the phad Thai wasn't the only noodle I put in my mouth last night. He, he!" or "Wow, first we had tom ka guy and then I ended up with tom some other guy." He was big on food jokes. "Listen to me: No matter how hard I beg you tonight, do not let me drink that much again. Ha, ha. Now, who wants coffee?"
The funny thing is he'll never admit he's gay. He always plays it off like it was no big deal, like, what guy doesn't go on vaction and accidentally wake up with a hangover and a transgender/transvestite prostitute in his bed? To him it's on the same level as forgetting to use sunscreen and then getting a sunburn.
I've long since stopped trying to have a real conversation about it with him. It's just part of our routine now. We go on vacation, he makes references to girlfriends back in Detroit that I never see pictures of, we visit the go-go bars, and then, whoops, he does it again.
I don't think soliciting ladyboy prostitutes makes my dad a bad guy, though. I mean, I know it's not a good thing. But he's generally a decent guy. He works hard, he still takes care of mom, and, I don't know, he's a good guy.
Besides, our annual trips to Thailand aren't just about him sleeping with another batch of ladyboys. We do other stuff, too. This past year we went snorkeling. It was fun.
A week's stay at a resort in Phuket: $1500
Hearing your father tell the Thai ladyboy prostitute he's hired for the weekend that he would like to eat the peanuts out of his shit: Priceless.
My dad's annual trips to Thailand are both the cause of and the reward for my parents' divorce. For several years prior to the divorce, he'd been going there once a year for business--and pleasure, as it turned out. He kept the pleasure side of it a secret from my mom for a surprisingly long time, but the game was up five years ago when she got the clap out of the blue and he was the only man she'd ever slept with.
Oops.
Their divorce was quick and relatively amicable, under the circumstances.
Since then, he's been taking me along with him on his trips to Thailand. I guess he's going through some sort of Cat's in the Cradle thing. Whatever. As long as he pays my way, I'm not going to ask too many questions.
But the ladyboy thing is kind of weird. And first of all, don't get me wrong: I don't have a problem with it. I mean, if he's got a thing for ladyboys, that's cool with me. Seriously. I'm not into it, but whatever.
But it's the way he always acts so surprised when he "discovers" that she is a he. That's what gets me. Every time we're at the bar and I try to tell him that the chick he's talking to is actually a dude, he won't listen. "You're out of your mind," he always says. "This chick is gorgeous."
And then the next morning, he tries to blame it on the booze and he always comes up with some joke, like, "Well, turns out you were right after all. Looks like the phad Thai wasn't the only noodle I put in my mouth last night. He, he!" or "Wow, first we had tom ka guy and then I ended up with tom some other guy." He was big on food jokes. "Listen to me: No matter how hard I beg you tonight, do not let me drink that much again. Ha, ha. Now, who wants coffee?"
The funny thing is he'll never admit he's gay. He always plays it off like it was no big deal, like, what guy doesn't go on vaction and accidentally wake up with a hangover and a transgender/transvestite prostitute in his bed? To him it's on the same level as forgetting to use sunscreen and then getting a sunburn.
I've long since stopped trying to have a real conversation about it with him. It's just part of our routine now. We go on vacation, he makes references to girlfriends back in Detroit that I never see pictures of, we visit the go-go bars, and then, whoops, he does it again.
I don't think soliciting ladyboy prostitutes makes my dad a bad guy, though. I mean, I know it's not a good thing. But he's generally a decent guy. He works hard, he still takes care of mom, and, I don't know, he's a good guy.
Besides, our annual trips to Thailand aren't just about him sleeping with another batch of ladyboys. We do other stuff, too. This past year we went snorkeling. It was fun.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
January 6 - The Hand of God
When Peter got back from his trip to Denver, Sarah made him sit down on the chair in his study and stood in front of him. Then she slowly removed the floppy Green Bay sweatshirt she was wearing and stood before him, topless.
Peter was speechless. Sarah had expected this, so she explained as best as she could, just like she'd rehearsed it. When she finished he was still speechless, so she explained again. But it still didn't make sense because the change in Sarah was so dramatic, so profound, so impossible, that his brain couldn't process it. Finally he began to speak.
"And so when you woke up this morning . . . " he began.
"I had this," she finished.
"This" was a functional human hand between her breasts. Not a tattoo of a hand, but an actual hand, pretty much identical to the hands at the end of her arms only this one was attached at her sternum. Like any other hand, it had four fingers and a thumb. It waved shyly at Peter and then rested.
"And," Peter began, but he didn't know what he was going to say, so Sarah explained it again.
"Like I said, I was in the middle of doing a million things. I had burgers burning on the stove, I was talking to Megan's homerun teacher on the phone, the doorbell was ringing, I was trying to clean up a spill before it left a stain and I just said, 'God, I wish I had another hand.'"
Peter was silent for a moment.
"And so you just woke up . . . "
"Yeah."
"And you had an extra hand."
"Yes."
"Ah."
"Yeah."
"So, what do we do now?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, like, shouldn't you see a doctor?"
"Probably, but what am I going to tell him?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what am I going to tell him? I can't just show up and tell him I asked God for an extra hand and he gave me one."
"Even though that's what seems to have happened."
"I know, but I mean. I'm going to sound crazy."
"Well yeah, it sounds crazy. But I mean, you do have an extra hand. Whatever the doctor thinks about your story about how it came about, he'll have to admit that that is in fact a hand and it wasn't there before."
"Yeah, I guess so, but I just feel weird."
"Yeah, I would imagine."
"Thanks."
"No, I mean . . . " Yes, Peter. What do you mean? He didn't know, so he kept quiet for a minute.
"Does it work?"
"Does it--Yeah. Well, kind of. I mean I didn't ask for an arm, so he just gave me a hand. If I'd known he was going to be so literal about it I would've asked for an arm, too. But yeah, I guess it works. It can hold stuff. Here, watch."
She handed it her hairbrush and it gripped it just like a normal hand would.
"God, that's so fucked up."
"Thanks, Peter. I'm glad you think so."
"No, I mean. Jesus, Sarah. You've got a freaking hand between your tits. I'm sorry, but that's fucked up."
"Yes, I know, Peter. I'm the one that's been dealing with it and hiding it for the last 36 hours."
"Why didn't you call me? You could've called me."
"Oh, Jesus, Peter. Why didn't I call you. And what would I say?"
"I don't know. The truth?"
"Yes, the truth. Hi Peter, how's Denver? Oh, great. Nice. Super. Oh, here? Well, Megan's feeling better. Went back to school today. Snow's starting to melt. Oh, and yeah. Here's something odd: I woke up with a third hand between my breasts."
She had a point.
"So," he began cautiously. "Are you going to keep it?"
"Am I--"
"The hand. Are you going to keep it?"
"Jesus, Peter. I don't know. I'm still kind of processing this too, you know?"
"Well, I mean. You can't . . . I . . . Like, what do you wear? Did you go out at all?"
"I had to pick up Megan from school."
"And, like, what did you wear?"
"It's cold. I wore my parka."
"What about Megan? Does she know?"
"No. No, she doesn't. Not yet. And I have no idea how we're going to tell her but I hate having her not know. I don't like us keeping secrets from her."
Peter nodded, unsure what to say next. "Does it hurt?"
"Why would it hurt?"
"Well, I don't know. But. Like. OK. So. Like, what are we going to do?" The hand kept moving nervously.
"I don't know."
"OK, are you going to keep it?"
"Well, I kind of have to keep it, don't I?"
Peter looked at her in a way that made it clear that she still had the floor.
"Well, don't I? I mean, I asked God for this. In a way. I mean, I didn't really mean it. I didn't literally want an extra hand, like if God had somehow materialized and asked me if I really wanted an extra hand and was all final answer and everything, I would've said no. But that's not what happened. What happened was in a busy moment when I was totally flustered and trying to do a million things at once I said I wished I had an extra hand. And then, well." Her extra hand finished her sentence for her with a kind of ta-da motion.
Peter still didn't say anything.
"And so, I can't get rid of it. I mean, for starters, technically, I did ask for it. And he gave it to me. And it feels totally weird to say this, but it would be, I don't know, rude of me to get rid of it. There's also the whole thing about not wanting to offend God."
Peter tilted his head to the side as if to say Yes, there is that.
"Plus, I mean, it's kind of a miracle, right? I mean, technically, doesn't this pretty much qualify as a miracle? I asked God for something and I got it. I was going to look it up earlier, but I didn't get around to it."
"Look what up?"
"The qualifications for miracle-dom or whatever. Don't roll your eyes at me. Seriously, I don't see how this isn't a miracle. I mean, this pretty much proves the existence of God."
Peter wanted to object, but then realized he couldn't, not really.
"And so, I don't know. I can't just get rid of it. It wouldn't be right. Besides..."
"Besides?"
"Oh, God. This is going to sound crazy."
Peter wanted to tell her that in light of the existence of a hand between her breasts--a hand that hadn't been there the last time he'd seen his wife without a shirt--the normal rules of what sounded crazy didn't apply anymore, but she continued before he had a chance.
"Maybe I'm meant to have this. I know, I know. Believe me, I really don't want to think that, but, you know, mabye this is some sort of sign?"
"Of what?"
"I don't know. But it has to mean something, right? Otherwise it just means that God can be, I don't know, kind of a dick. I mean, in his infinite wisdom, he had to know that I didn't really want an extra hand. Or if he did, I'd want it to come with an arm or be detachable or . . . something. But to just randomly answer this one--I don't want to say prayer because it wasn't one--wish? No. It must have some sort of significance."
Neither of them said anything for a few minutes.
"So now what?"
"Well, I guess we should go tell Megan."
"And then?"
"I don't know. Maybe she'll have some ideas."
"Sarah."
"Well, I don't know," she said and for the first time since it happened she let herself laugh a little.
"But we'll figure it out. Come on," she said, putting on her sweatshirt. And they held hands and went downstairs to tell Megan about mom's new hand.
Peter was speechless. Sarah had expected this, so she explained as best as she could, just like she'd rehearsed it. When she finished he was still speechless, so she explained again. But it still didn't make sense because the change in Sarah was so dramatic, so profound, so impossible, that his brain couldn't process it. Finally he began to speak.
"And so when you woke up this morning . . . " he began.
"I had this," she finished.
"This" was a functional human hand between her breasts. Not a tattoo of a hand, but an actual hand, pretty much identical to the hands at the end of her arms only this one was attached at her sternum. Like any other hand, it had four fingers and a thumb. It waved shyly at Peter and then rested.
"And," Peter began, but he didn't know what he was going to say, so Sarah explained it again.
"Like I said, I was in the middle of doing a million things. I had burgers burning on the stove, I was talking to Megan's homerun teacher on the phone, the doorbell was ringing, I was trying to clean up a spill before it left a stain and I just said, 'God, I wish I had another hand.'"
Peter was silent for a moment.
"And so you just woke up . . . "
"Yeah."
"And you had an extra hand."
"Yes."
"Ah."
"Yeah."
"So, what do we do now?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, like, shouldn't you see a doctor?"
"Probably, but what am I going to tell him?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what am I going to tell him? I can't just show up and tell him I asked God for an extra hand and he gave me one."
"Even though that's what seems to have happened."
"I know, but I mean. I'm going to sound crazy."
"Well yeah, it sounds crazy. But I mean, you do have an extra hand. Whatever the doctor thinks about your story about how it came about, he'll have to admit that that is in fact a hand and it wasn't there before."
"Yeah, I guess so, but I just feel weird."
"Yeah, I would imagine."
"Thanks."
"No, I mean . . . " Yes, Peter. What do you mean? He didn't know, so he kept quiet for a minute.
"Does it work?"
"Does it--Yeah. Well, kind of. I mean I didn't ask for an arm, so he just gave me a hand. If I'd known he was going to be so literal about it I would've asked for an arm, too. But yeah, I guess it works. It can hold stuff. Here, watch."
She handed it her hairbrush and it gripped it just like a normal hand would.
"God, that's so fucked up."
"Thanks, Peter. I'm glad you think so."
"No, I mean. Jesus, Sarah. You've got a freaking hand between your tits. I'm sorry, but that's fucked up."
"Yes, I know, Peter. I'm the one that's been dealing with it and hiding it for the last 36 hours."
"Why didn't you call me? You could've called me."
"Oh, Jesus, Peter. Why didn't I call you. And what would I say?"
"I don't know. The truth?"
"Yes, the truth. Hi Peter, how's Denver? Oh, great. Nice. Super. Oh, here? Well, Megan's feeling better. Went back to school today. Snow's starting to melt. Oh, and yeah. Here's something odd: I woke up with a third hand between my breasts."
She had a point.
"So," he began cautiously. "Are you going to keep it?"
"Am I--"
"The hand. Are you going to keep it?"
"Jesus, Peter. I don't know. I'm still kind of processing this too, you know?"
"Well, I mean. You can't . . . I . . . Like, what do you wear? Did you go out at all?"
"I had to pick up Megan from school."
"And, like, what did you wear?"
"It's cold. I wore my parka."
"What about Megan? Does she know?"
"No. No, she doesn't. Not yet. And I have no idea how we're going to tell her but I hate having her not know. I don't like us keeping secrets from her."
Peter nodded, unsure what to say next. "Does it hurt?"
"Why would it hurt?"
"Well, I don't know. But. Like. OK. So. Like, what are we going to do?" The hand kept moving nervously.
"I don't know."
"OK, are you going to keep it?"
"Well, I kind of have to keep it, don't I?"
Peter looked at her in a way that made it clear that she still had the floor.
"Well, don't I? I mean, I asked God for this. In a way. I mean, I didn't really mean it. I didn't literally want an extra hand, like if God had somehow materialized and asked me if I really wanted an extra hand and was all final answer and everything, I would've said no. But that's not what happened. What happened was in a busy moment when I was totally flustered and trying to do a million things at once I said I wished I had an extra hand. And then, well." Her extra hand finished her sentence for her with a kind of ta-da motion.
Peter still didn't say anything.
"And so, I can't get rid of it. I mean, for starters, technically, I did ask for it. And he gave it to me. And it feels totally weird to say this, but it would be, I don't know, rude of me to get rid of it. There's also the whole thing about not wanting to offend God."
Peter tilted his head to the side as if to say Yes, there is that.
"Plus, I mean, it's kind of a miracle, right? I mean, technically, doesn't this pretty much qualify as a miracle? I asked God for something and I got it. I was going to look it up earlier, but I didn't get around to it."
"Look what up?"
"The qualifications for miracle-dom or whatever. Don't roll your eyes at me. Seriously, I don't see how this isn't a miracle. I mean, this pretty much proves the existence of God."
Peter wanted to object, but then realized he couldn't, not really.
"And so, I don't know. I can't just get rid of it. It wouldn't be right. Besides..."
"Besides?"
"Oh, God. This is going to sound crazy."
Peter wanted to tell her that in light of the existence of a hand between her breasts--a hand that hadn't been there the last time he'd seen his wife without a shirt--the normal rules of what sounded crazy didn't apply anymore, but she continued before he had a chance.
"Maybe I'm meant to have this. I know, I know. Believe me, I really don't want to think that, but, you know, mabye this is some sort of sign?"
"Of what?"
"I don't know. But it has to mean something, right? Otherwise it just means that God can be, I don't know, kind of a dick. I mean, in his infinite wisdom, he had to know that I didn't really want an extra hand. Or if he did, I'd want it to come with an arm or be detachable or . . . something. But to just randomly answer this one--I don't want to say prayer because it wasn't one--wish? No. It must have some sort of significance."
Neither of them said anything for a few minutes.
"So now what?"
"Well, I guess we should go tell Megan."
"And then?"
"I don't know. Maybe she'll have some ideas."
"Sarah."
"Well, I don't know," she said and for the first time since it happened she let herself laugh a little.
"But we'll figure it out. Come on," she said, putting on her sweatshirt. And they held hands and went downstairs to tell Megan about mom's new hand.
Monday, January 4, 2010
January 5 - Behind the Trouble Door
Don't open. This left door is trouble.
That's what is written in cursive on the sign on the (left) door of Robert's apartment building. He looks at it a moment, shrugs, pushes open the door on the right, and goes to work, but all day long the sign nags him. This left door is trouble? What the hell does that even mean? Is it broken? Is it loose? If so, why not just say that? Why be all weird and cryptic?
He tells a few people at work about the sign to see what they think, but he can't get any momentum going. Rick says it's probably just broken. Jill, after more than a little prodding, admits that, "Yeah, that's weird," but you can tell she doesn't really mean it. Even Wilson, who can normally be relied on to at least say something witty, gives him next to nothing.
"That's messed up," he says looking at his computer screen, his mouth full of sandwich. Like the door had hit on his girlfriend or something.
Everyone else's indifference only intensifies Robert's interest in the sign on the door. A brief timeline of his feelings toward the sign:
2:03 Cooperative - Hey, fine with me. If they don't want people opening the door, I won't open the door.
2:37 Curious - In what way is this left door trouble? And how can I help?
2:38 Indifferent - Yeah, OK. "This left door is trouble." Duly noted. Can I get back to work now?
3:19 Annoyed - "This left door is trouble"? Who says that? How the hell do you not just say the door is broken? And what the hell is with the cursive writing?
4:33 Self righteous - What the hell gives anyone the right to tell me which doors are trouble and which ones aren't? Seriously, who freaking died and made you the authority on troubled doors? Condescending prick(s).
And that's the mood he carries home, all the way to the door.
He stands a bit away from the door at first, trying to act casual as he watches people coming and going, each person dutifully obeying the sign and using the door that is not trouble. At one point a little kid starts to go for the left door, but his mom stops him, points to the sign, and undoubtedly uses it as some sort of teachable moment about the importance of doing everything a goddamned cursive sign tells you to do.
Robert starts to hate everyone who uses the right door, those sheep he shares a building with. Not a free thinker among them. Some sign tells you a door is trouble and that just becomes gospel.
Screw that.
Not me.
Robert goes up to the door, reads the sign one final time, and takes a deep breath. Then he pulls the left door open, the floor swallows him up, and he disappears forever.
Seriously, man. This left door is trouble.
That's what is written in cursive on the sign on the (left) door of Robert's apartment building. He looks at it a moment, shrugs, pushes open the door on the right, and goes to work, but all day long the sign nags him. This left door is trouble? What the hell does that even mean? Is it broken? Is it loose? If so, why not just say that? Why be all weird and cryptic?
He tells a few people at work about the sign to see what they think, but he can't get any momentum going. Rick says it's probably just broken. Jill, after more than a little prodding, admits that, "Yeah, that's weird," but you can tell she doesn't really mean it. Even Wilson, who can normally be relied on to at least say something witty, gives him next to nothing.
"That's messed up," he says looking at his computer screen, his mouth full of sandwich. Like the door had hit on his girlfriend or something.
Everyone else's indifference only intensifies Robert's interest in the sign on the door. A brief timeline of his feelings toward the sign:
2:03 Cooperative - Hey, fine with me. If they don't want people opening the door, I won't open the door.
2:37 Curious - In what way is this left door trouble? And how can I help?
2:38 Indifferent - Yeah, OK. "This left door is trouble." Duly noted. Can I get back to work now?
3:19 Annoyed - "This left door is trouble"? Who says that? How the hell do you not just say the door is broken? And what the hell is with the cursive writing?
4:33 Self righteous - What the hell gives anyone the right to tell me which doors are trouble and which ones aren't? Seriously, who freaking died and made you the authority on troubled doors? Condescending prick(s).
And that's the mood he carries home, all the way to the door.
He stands a bit away from the door at first, trying to act casual as he watches people coming and going, each person dutifully obeying the sign and using the door that is not trouble. At one point a little kid starts to go for the left door, but his mom stops him, points to the sign, and undoubtedly uses it as some sort of teachable moment about the importance of doing everything a goddamned cursive sign tells you to do.
Robert starts to hate everyone who uses the right door, those sheep he shares a building with. Not a free thinker among them. Some sign tells you a door is trouble and that just becomes gospel.
Screw that.
Not me.
Robert goes up to the door, reads the sign one final time, and takes a deep breath. Then he pulls the left door open, the floor swallows him up, and he disappears forever.
Seriously, man. This left door is trouble.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
January 4 - Letter to a Former Ugly Duckling
Dear Uckling--oops, I mean Swan,
Congratulations. And welcome to the big time. Swimming with the swans now, eh? I'm impressed. No, really. You must be excited to be part of such a high class crowd. No more wasting your time with us losers at the far end of the pond. Good for you! By the way, I tried to say hi to you the other day, but I guess you didn't see me. Maybe your swan neck is just too long, what do I know?
So much has changed since the last migration season. I hardly recognize you! I mean, you look fantastic! It must be such a relief for you to know that you were never a lowly duck. All along, you were a beautiful swan. It was the rest of us that had the problem. We were just too stupid and shallow to realize how amazing you actually were.
Oh, what's that? Sarcasm? Hmm, I guess you could call it that. I mean, I didn't want this to turn bitter and nasty, but now that you mention it I guess you could say that this letter isn't entirely congratulatory. You see, I hate to break your little fairy tale fantasy, but not all of us were dicks to you. In fact, I seem to remember one little duckling in particular that stuck by your side all through your tough times. There was one little duckling who could see how beautiful you were on the inside even while everyone else called you Uckling (as in Ugly Duckling--not that you need a reminder (but then again maybe you do). Hmm, who could that have been? Who was it that made room for you in line at swimming practice? Who was it that helped you make your nest when everybody else was laughing at you? Who was it that stuck up for you when all the other ducklings were making fun of your ridiculous feathers (which, let's be honest, were atrocious)? Need a clue? Well let me help you out. It was me, but I guess that doesn't really matter. You've found better birds to hang out with. No need to waste any more time with this ducky. It's time for you to swim on to prettier shores.
Anyway, I really am happy that you finally found a crowd that will appreciate what a wonderful and special bird you really are. But enjoy it while it lasts because believe me, it won't. One of these days, they're going to remember who you are and where you came from and they're going to send you right back and it won't feel good. And then, when you're feeling real low and dirty, and your heart is splattered all over hell, don't look to me to pump you back up because maybe for the first time in your life I WON'T BE THERE!
Sincerely,
Dale Duck
Congratulations. And welcome to the big time. Swimming with the swans now, eh? I'm impressed. No, really. You must be excited to be part of such a high class crowd. No more wasting your time with us losers at the far end of the pond. Good for you! By the way, I tried to say hi to you the other day, but I guess you didn't see me. Maybe your swan neck is just too long, what do I know?
So much has changed since the last migration season. I hardly recognize you! I mean, you look fantastic! It must be such a relief for you to know that you were never a lowly duck. All along, you were a beautiful swan. It was the rest of us that had the problem. We were just too stupid and shallow to realize how amazing you actually were.
Oh, what's that? Sarcasm? Hmm, I guess you could call it that. I mean, I didn't want this to turn bitter and nasty, but now that you mention it I guess you could say that this letter isn't entirely congratulatory. You see, I hate to break your little fairy tale fantasy, but not all of us were dicks to you. In fact, I seem to remember one little duckling in particular that stuck by your side all through your tough times. There was one little duckling who could see how beautiful you were on the inside even while everyone else called you Uckling (as in Ugly Duckling--not that you need a reminder (but then again maybe you do). Hmm, who could that have been? Who was it that made room for you in line at swimming practice? Who was it that helped you make your nest when everybody else was laughing at you? Who was it that stuck up for you when all the other ducklings were making fun of your ridiculous feathers (which, let's be honest, were atrocious)? Need a clue? Well let me help you out. It was me, but I guess that doesn't really matter. You've found better birds to hang out with. No need to waste any more time with this ducky. It's time for you to swim on to prettier shores.
Anyway, I really am happy that you finally found a crowd that will appreciate what a wonderful and special bird you really are. But enjoy it while it lasts because believe me, it won't. One of these days, they're going to remember who you are and where you came from and they're going to send you right back and it won't feel good. And then, when you're feeling real low and dirty, and your heart is splattered all over hell, don't look to me to pump you back up because maybe for the first time in your life I WON'T BE THERE!
Sincerely,
Dale Duck
January 3 - Passenger 52
On his way back to Tokyo after winter break, there was literally no one on his train car he didn't hate.
Not the dumbass kid in front of him with his loud ass video game.
Not his dumbass parents who were apparently the only people in Japan who didn't know you weren't supposed to let your kids play video games on trains with the sound turned up.
Not the phlegmatic cougher who only ever managed to get the phlegm halfway up his throat, so he could swallow it back down and then cough it back up again 30 seconds later.
Not the crying baby.
Not the flatuent bastard who was silently letting them go throughout the afternoon and probably feeling like nobody noticed.
Not the kid behind him kicking his seat like it was a fire he was trying to put out.
And definitely not the asshole sitting next to him with her iPod turned up loud enough for him to hear her shitty ass music.
Seriously, there were 51 other passengers on his nonreserved car and there wasn't one of them that he didn't hate.
After a couple of hours, he resigned himself to being on the worst train ride of his life, just gave up on it getting any better and it was a relief in a way, knowing that this was it. It couldn't possibly get any worse. He would suffer through it and then his next train trip would be better by comparison. A switch was flicked in his mind and he decided to wallow in it, all of it: the farts, the kicked seat, the video game, the crying baby, all of it. He would luxuriate in the misery. Yes, go ahead and cry. Go ahead and kick. Go ahead and fart. Really, I want you to.
And once he made that decision, things became marginally more acceptable, even pleasant in a way. His mood began lifting and he started fancying himself as the calm Buddha in the center of a raging shitstorm. The train ride still sucked, yes. But he embraced the suck.
At the next stop an older woman got on board and entered his car. There were no empty seats. As the train lurched out of the station, she fought to keep her balance and bumped around between the aisles and seats like a geriatric pinball.
The other 51 passengers pretended not to see her.
Such was his newfound beatific state that he got up from his seat and offered it to the woman. And for once in his Japanese life, there was no embarrassing back and forth No, I couldn't, No, I insist tug-o-war over who would get the seat. No. The woman's eyes lit up with pure, unalloyed gratitude and she hugged him.
The woman actually hugged him.
A hug from a stranger. That had never happened to him before in Japan, and it was well worth the price of having to remain standing for the rest of the trip. And actually--incredibly--the trip at that point took a turn for the better--for the sublime. The boy in front of him turned off his video game and started reading a book. The coughing man finally cleared the phlegm out of his throat and sat quietly. The baby went to sleep. Whoever it was who'd been farting stopped. The kid behind him stopped kicking, and the iPod battery of the woman sitting next to him ran out of juice.
Silence.
The man managed a smile and felt like he was floating.
The train pulled into Ueno Station and the woman got off, smiling and hugging him once again before she left.
He had done it. He had managed to have a pleasant trip after all.
As he nestled back into his seat, he felt pretty good about himself and the turn the day had taken. He looked out the window and saw the old woman walking past his window. He raised his hand to wave goodbye to her, but she didn't notice, focused as she was on stuffing wads of bills into her coat pocket. The man suddenly felt sick. Something was wrong.
Their eyes met as she waved his wallet at him triumphantly with one hand and flipped him off with the other.
He banged on the window impotently as the train left the station and the old woman made her way across the platform looking for her next mark.
Not the dumbass kid in front of him with his loud ass video game.
Not his dumbass parents who were apparently the only people in Japan who didn't know you weren't supposed to let your kids play video games on trains with the sound turned up.
Not the phlegmatic cougher who only ever managed to get the phlegm halfway up his throat, so he could swallow it back down and then cough it back up again 30 seconds later.
Not the crying baby.
Not the flatuent bastard who was silently letting them go throughout the afternoon and probably feeling like nobody noticed.
Not the kid behind him kicking his seat like it was a fire he was trying to put out.
And definitely not the asshole sitting next to him with her iPod turned up loud enough for him to hear her shitty ass music.
Seriously, there were 51 other passengers on his nonreserved car and there wasn't one of them that he didn't hate.
After a couple of hours, he resigned himself to being on the worst train ride of his life, just gave up on it getting any better and it was a relief in a way, knowing that this was it. It couldn't possibly get any worse. He would suffer through it and then his next train trip would be better by comparison. A switch was flicked in his mind and he decided to wallow in it, all of it: the farts, the kicked seat, the video game, the crying baby, all of it. He would luxuriate in the misery. Yes, go ahead and cry. Go ahead and kick. Go ahead and fart. Really, I want you to.
And once he made that decision, things became marginally more acceptable, even pleasant in a way. His mood began lifting and he started fancying himself as the calm Buddha in the center of a raging shitstorm. The train ride still sucked, yes. But he embraced the suck.
At the next stop an older woman got on board and entered his car. There were no empty seats. As the train lurched out of the station, she fought to keep her balance and bumped around between the aisles and seats like a geriatric pinball.
The other 51 passengers pretended not to see her.
Such was his newfound beatific state that he got up from his seat and offered it to the woman. And for once in his Japanese life, there was no embarrassing back and forth No, I couldn't, No, I insist tug-o-war over who would get the seat. No. The woman's eyes lit up with pure, unalloyed gratitude and she hugged him.
The woman actually hugged him.
A hug from a stranger. That had never happened to him before in Japan, and it was well worth the price of having to remain standing for the rest of the trip. And actually--incredibly--the trip at that point took a turn for the better--for the sublime. The boy in front of him turned off his video game and started reading a book. The coughing man finally cleared the phlegm out of his throat and sat quietly. The baby went to sleep. Whoever it was who'd been farting stopped. The kid behind him stopped kicking, and the iPod battery of the woman sitting next to him ran out of juice.
Silence.
The man managed a smile and felt like he was floating.
The train pulled into Ueno Station and the woman got off, smiling and hugging him once again before she left.
He had done it. He had managed to have a pleasant trip after all.
As he nestled back into his seat, he felt pretty good about himself and the turn the day had taken. He looked out the window and saw the old woman walking past his window. He raised his hand to wave goodbye to her, but she didn't notice, focused as she was on stuffing wads of bills into her coat pocket. The man suddenly felt sick. Something was wrong.
Their eyes met as she waved his wallet at him triumphantly with one hand and flipped him off with the other.
He banged on the window impotently as the train left the station and the old woman made her way across the platform looking for her next mark.
Friday, January 1, 2010
January 2 - Nen Matsu Jumbo Takara Kuji
"And what will you do with your share?"
Momoko chewed her lower lip and concentrated. Every year she had only one chance to get this right, and if she blew it she would have to live with it until next New Year's Eve. Finally she had her answer.
"A puppy hotel!" She blurted it out like the idea wouldn't stay in her head any longer. And from the roars of approving laughter from her mom and dad and big sister and big brother she knew she'd made the right decision, and so she told them all about it.
"It'll have a restaurant where dogs can eat dog food and people food. There'll be a swimming pool and a park with dog sleds and dog rides. And all the dogs can bring their favorite toys. And there'll be a beauty shop where the dogs can get a new haircut and--"
Her dad cut in. "What's the name of your puppy hotel going to be?"
"Princess Momoko's Puppy Academy!"
Nobody there--not Tomo Suzuki or his wife Ayako; not their 15-year-old daughter Junko or their 13-year-old son Taka--would tell Momoko that Princess Momoko's Puppy Academy would be a name better suited for an obedience school. It would have gone against the spirit of their annual New Year's Eve tradition when they bought one ticket for the Nen Matsu Jumbo Takara Kuji--the biggest lottery in Japan--and shared their fantasies about what each of them would do if they won (This year's answers: Tomo would build his own golf course. Ayako would renovate the kitchen. Junko and Taka rolled their eyes at mom's lack of imagination, but Junko didn't do much better. She couldn't decide between clothes and a trip to Disney World (her father encouraged her to get both and that settled it). Taka, like last year and the year before, went with a swimming pool.).
They'd been doing it since Momoko was born and it was the one part of New Year's that everyone still rallied around, even as Junko and Taka entered their headstrong teenage years. For those brief moments around the kotatsu, the Suzukis were like a family from a board game commercial: delighted to be in each other's company, nowhere else they'd rather be.
The thing is, they never checked to see if they won. They just assumed they didn't. The fun part was sharing their daydreams. A couple hundred yen was a small price to pay for that.
But the following year, as Ayako was making room in the scrapbook for that year's entry, curiosity got the better of her and she decided to look up the winning numbers from last year.
She logged on to the lottery's website and checked the archives and then looked at the ticket that was glued in the family's scrapbook.
Obviously something was wrong so she checked the numbers again.
And then again.
And again.
All the oxygen was sucked out of the room and she grew dizzy as she reread the computer screen yet again. With trembling fingers, she clutched the scrapbook and checked the numbers again five times and reread the lottery rules seven times and it still didn't seem imagineable, much less possible, and far less true, and so she brought her news to Tomo and the kids. Maybe they could make sense of it.
They had won.
Not only last year but the seven previous years as well--every year that they'd played. However, in each case, the deadlines for claiming the prize had long since passed and their winning tickets were worthless.
Denial and disbelief came first.
Then panic and then bargaining.
Then nausea.
Then silent, shocked acceptance.
And then gradually, but with increasing intensity, came blame and accusations and scorn and venom. It was Tomo's fault. It was Ayako's fault. It was Taka's, Junko's, and Momoko's fault. The details are unimportant. Everyone blamed everyone and it was personal and it was nasty. Things were said that could never be taken back and it wasn't long before the attacks expanded beyond those related to the lottery: Tomo never got promoted because he was worthless and incompetent. Ayako's cooking wasn't fit to be served to prison inmates. Taka and Junko were stupid. Momoko was immature. And on and on, and it all happened so fast, within minutes.
New Year's Eve was ruined.
They had dinner together but they didn't talk much, and certainly not about puppy hotels or golf courses or swimming pools. They were too focused on how stupid everyone was to have blown it in previous years.
Shortly after dinner, they gathered around the TV as the winning numbers were announced.
They lost.
In fact, for the first time since they started playing, they failed to get a single number. Silently, they went to bed.
After New Year's, things gradually returned to normal in the Suzuki household. Tomo went back to work, the kids went to school. Apologies were made and they were (more or less) sincere and (generally) accepted.
The next year and each subsequent year, New Year's Eve dinners became more civil, though the tradition of sharing their lottery winnings fantasies never came back. Like before, every year they still bought one ticket, but they never won again.
Momoko chewed her lower lip and concentrated. Every year she had only one chance to get this right, and if she blew it she would have to live with it until next New Year's Eve. Finally she had her answer.
"A puppy hotel!" She blurted it out like the idea wouldn't stay in her head any longer. And from the roars of approving laughter from her mom and dad and big sister and big brother she knew she'd made the right decision, and so she told them all about it.
"It'll have a restaurant where dogs can eat dog food and people food. There'll be a swimming pool and a park with dog sleds and dog rides. And all the dogs can bring their favorite toys. And there'll be a beauty shop where the dogs can get a new haircut and--"
Her dad cut in. "What's the name of your puppy hotel going to be?"
"Princess Momoko's Puppy Academy!"
Nobody there--not Tomo Suzuki or his wife Ayako; not their 15-year-old daughter Junko or their 13-year-old son Taka--would tell Momoko that Princess Momoko's Puppy Academy would be a name better suited for an obedience school. It would have gone against the spirit of their annual New Year's Eve tradition when they bought one ticket for the Nen Matsu Jumbo Takara Kuji--the biggest lottery in Japan--and shared their fantasies about what each of them would do if they won (This year's answers: Tomo would build his own golf course. Ayako would renovate the kitchen. Junko and Taka rolled their eyes at mom's lack of imagination, but Junko didn't do much better. She couldn't decide between clothes and a trip to Disney World (her father encouraged her to get both and that settled it). Taka, like last year and the year before, went with a swimming pool.).
They'd been doing it since Momoko was born and it was the one part of New Year's that everyone still rallied around, even as Junko and Taka entered their headstrong teenage years. For those brief moments around the kotatsu, the Suzukis were like a family from a board game commercial: delighted to be in each other's company, nowhere else they'd rather be.
The thing is, they never checked to see if they won. They just assumed they didn't. The fun part was sharing their daydreams. A couple hundred yen was a small price to pay for that.
But the following year, as Ayako was making room in the scrapbook for that year's entry, curiosity got the better of her and she decided to look up the winning numbers from last year.
She logged on to the lottery's website and checked the archives and then looked at the ticket that was glued in the family's scrapbook.
Obviously something was wrong so she checked the numbers again.
And then again.
And again.
All the oxygen was sucked out of the room and she grew dizzy as she reread the computer screen yet again. With trembling fingers, she clutched the scrapbook and checked the numbers again five times and reread the lottery rules seven times and it still didn't seem imagineable, much less possible, and far less true, and so she brought her news to Tomo and the kids. Maybe they could make sense of it.
They had won.
Not only last year but the seven previous years as well--every year that they'd played. However, in each case, the deadlines for claiming the prize had long since passed and their winning tickets were worthless.
Denial and disbelief came first.
Then panic and then bargaining.
Then nausea.
Then silent, shocked acceptance.
And then gradually, but with increasing intensity, came blame and accusations and scorn and venom. It was Tomo's fault. It was Ayako's fault. It was Taka's, Junko's, and Momoko's fault. The details are unimportant. Everyone blamed everyone and it was personal and it was nasty. Things were said that could never be taken back and it wasn't long before the attacks expanded beyond those related to the lottery: Tomo never got promoted because he was worthless and incompetent. Ayako's cooking wasn't fit to be served to prison inmates. Taka and Junko were stupid. Momoko was immature. And on and on, and it all happened so fast, within minutes.
New Year's Eve was ruined.
They had dinner together but they didn't talk much, and certainly not about puppy hotels or golf courses or swimming pools. They were too focused on how stupid everyone was to have blown it in previous years.
Shortly after dinner, they gathered around the TV as the winning numbers were announced.
They lost.
In fact, for the first time since they started playing, they failed to get a single number. Silently, they went to bed.
After New Year's, things gradually returned to normal in the Suzuki household. Tomo went back to work, the kids went to school. Apologies were made and they were (more or less) sincere and (generally) accepted.
The next year and each subsequent year, New Year's Eve dinners became more civil, though the tradition of sharing their lottery winnings fantasies never came back. Like before, every year they still bought one ticket, but they never won again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)