by Alex Wellen
Inside, the party is hobbling. The median age is about sixty-five, but this is a lively group. In the dining area there are good cold cuts from Concord’s Deli. Balloons are taped at various heights in arbitrary spots along the light blue walls of the living room. Whether it’s because Sid was feeling lazy or maybe Cookie decided the decorations were high enough, partygoers are forced to duck underneath a crisscross of purple streamers located at eye level.
We’ve been transported to the early 1930s. The turntable inside the antique console blares “Ain’t Misbehavin’” by the incomparable Louis Armstrong. Mounted above the hi-fi console are two shelves of recordings that go back to the mid-1920s. For Sid’s eighty-third birthday, I bought him the remastered CD box set of Armstrong’s 1931 performances with the New Cotton Club Orchestra. Sid appreciated the gesture, but promptly returned the gift: You can’t listen to Louis on anything but vinyl, he insisted. We used the cash to buy him some 78s on eBay. (I still feel a tinge of guilt for introducing Sid to the online auction world. His ob session with eBay got so bad at one point that Sid spent an entire Social Security check on an original scat recording of Armstrong’s platinum hit “Heebie Jeebies.” Cookie went berserk and has since cut him off.)
Competing with the virtuosity of Armstrong’s trumpet playing is the unmistakably gravelly voice of the play-by-play TV announcer for the Oakland As. Gregory and Sid are on the couch. When the Kansas City Royals score a run, the two of them slowly tip away from each other like bowling pins. Above Sid is that sepia-colored photograph immortalizing the perfect marriage proposal.
The picture calls out to me. It takes me to task.
I spot Paige in the corner. The warmth in her face lights up the room. She, too, feeds off the energy and attention. The back of her black dress plunges low and she manages to exude both grace and sensuality. In between swatting away streamers, Paige chats politely with the only other two members of Cookie’s book club: Mildred, a seventy-six-year-old, thrice divorced, bespectacled spitfire with a new hip and walker, and Beatrice, a tall, big-boned blue hair with nothing to contribute to a conversation besides repeating whatever Mildred just told you. Both are frequent patrons of Day’s Pharmacy.
Over by the vegetable dip, our cashier, Belinda, is here with her film school boyfriend, Cleat. (Cleat’s very particular about his nickname. One time, I mistakenly called him “Pete.” You’d think I’d burned down his house and called his mother a whore. I love it that his real name is Albert.) The two twenty-something twigs seem totally out of place with their tattoos and piercings, and yet somehow they’ve settled in comfortably. I’m surprised to see Belinda here. She and Paige are acquaintances at best, but I suppose Belinda wants to earn some points with her boss. It would seem everyone wants Gregory’s blessing.
Cookie, cane in hand, swipes the hors d’oeuvres plate from the young couple. I can read Cookie’s lips from across the room. These are for the guests, she scolds them. Belinda laughs, and Cleat snaps up one more pig in a blanket before Cookie whisks the tray away.
Paige is excited to see me. She waves hello and excuses herself from her conversation to run over and take the eating utensils from Lara. Seeing Lara and me anywhere near each other makes her uneasy.
Paige has a secret to tell us: “Did you know that Mildred is big into online dating? Last week she went on two dates: a seventy-two-year-old retired prison guard and a seventy-five-year-old limo driver. And yes, if you’re wondering, both can drive at night. Apparently that makes you quite the catch in the senior scene.”
“Andrew, why don’t you tell Paige what you bought her,” Lara pries.
“And ruin the surprise?” Paige complains, taking my present and placing it on the end table with the other gifts.
“Daddy, what can I get you to drink?” Paige asks, giving him attention.
The game goes to commercial.
“A beer, thank you, sweetheart,” he says, reaching down and gently petting the Brewster schnoodle, Loki.
“Let me get it for you, Dad,” Lara insists.
No, I want Paige to get it, Gregory seems to suggest, shaking his head.
“One-two-three,” he tells Paige. This is Gregory’s equivalent of “ILY.”
Paige bends over and Gregory gives her a quick peck on the lips.
Ick.
“Why don’t I get you that beer?” I say as if we’re competing for whose kidney he’ll take. Paige is delighted by my offer. Before I can react, she whips around and kisses me right on the mouth.
Great. I basically just kissed Gregory. Gregory isn’t thrilled, either.
“I’ll come with,” Sid says as he jumps up.
The fact that Gregory has his two adoring daughters by his side should be enough, but he doesn’t appreciate Sid leaving him for me.
To counter any hurt feelings, Sid informs his pharmacist, “If we’re having dessert, I need to take my meds.”
Once the kitchen door swings closed behind us, Sid’s all up in my face.
“You’re killing me here. I thought you asked him for his blessing already,” he screams in whispers.
“Were you just eating M&Ms?” I confront him.
He knows that chocolate is a no-no.
“Yes,” he confesses sheepishly.
There is a brief pause before he goes back to yelling at me. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you? You were supposed to ask him yesterday. The man walks into my house this afternoon and I cry, ‘Congratulations,’ he says, ‘On what?’ and then I spend the next ten minutes complimenting his shirt and celebrating his military record,” Sid says rubbing his head. “I felt like a complete imbecile.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sorry about that.”
“Get with the program, kid. If you really plan to propose in the next couple of weeks, then you need to get his permission now.”
“I’m doing it tonight,” I promise. “Trust me, I’ve got a plan,” I say, tapping the mental flowchart seared into my frontal lobe.
I make myself a strong gin and tonic.
“Limes?”
“In the Frigidaire,” Sid says.
“You’re making me nervous,” he continues. “This may be a formality to you, but you have to understand …” Sid’s always telling me that I “have to understand.” You have to understand, back in the fifties, there were no socks. You have to understand, in those early skyscrapers, you couldn’t take oxygen for granted. You have to understand, in my day, we treated most medical disorders with a stick of butter and bed rest.
“You have to understand,” Sid says, “Gregory needs to feel like you legitimately need … no, you legitimately want his approval.”
In walks Lara. How much has she heard?
“I need to do the cake,” Lara says, all business.
Gregory’s ordered Paige’s favorite—midnight chocolate with fresh strawberries.
I gulp down my drink, make another, and grab Gregory’s beer from the icebox.
“I need you to run interference tonight,” I inform Sid.
The shock washes over Sid. I don’t know who’s more nervous. Bug-eyed, he agrees. Lara can barely hide her curiosity.
In the living room, I hand Gregory his beer.
“Finally,” Gregory says, taking it from me.
“Daddy, say thank you,” Paige commands.
“I just did,” he says.
Sid asks Paige to help him clear the table for dessert, and as she gets up, she lovingly brushes my shoulder with her hand and I take a seat beside Gregory. In a single move, Sid’s put me one move from checkmate.
I wait for a commercial before speaking.
“Oakland is having a decent season,” I try.
Gregory and I have never talked sports before. He looks at me like I’m asking for a raise. Then he quietly takes a swig from his bottle. Where are we in my flowchart? What was my opening line again? Something like “work was good, don’t you think?” But that doesn’t rhyme. What rhymes with “good”?
The ball game’s back on
.
“The A’s are getting clobbered tonight,” Gregory complains.
“Hey, I was thinking. Tomorrow is Memorial Day. Would you mind if I helped hand out those Red Rocket candy rings?”
“Already did it,” he says flatly, eyes trained on the screen.
“Really? You did it early?”
“I did it when I always do … a couple of days beforehand. You were off that day.” He sips his beer. “I’ll handle the last few myself on Monday.”
The screen to the front door violently flies open and in walks a six-foot fluffy white teddy bear. The door smacks the wood-paneled wall with such force it literally causes the needle to dig a deep scratch across the album.
“Louis!” Sid squeals, holding both hands out in desperation.
I quickly scan the room to confirm everyone else, too, sees Big Foot outside its natural habitat. Gregory slowly places his beer on the coffee table. Everyone else is frozen in place except for Mildred, who loses her balance. Thankfully Paige is there to catch her and her new hip.
This teddy bear is Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade big. Someone has gone to great lengths to fit Teddy in a tiny red T-shirt that says “Happy Birthday.” The dancing bear has Beatrice in his sights. She is speechless, overcome with this sort of big-teddy-bear-in-the-headlights look in her eyes.
From my proximity, I can see that someone is behind the bear operating its stubby white arms. The ventriloquist’s first two words come in Marilyn Monroe slow motion. “Hap-py Birth-day” he says all cuddly and creepy at once. “To—you!” he adds with two quick, darting ninja steps forward.
Crash go the birthday gifts as Teddy takes out the leg of the end table.
Beatrice screams bloody murder.
“Cheese and rice!” Cookie yells. “Beatrice, can it!” she demands. “Emmanuel, put down the bear!”
Manny Milken slowly lowers the tender animal to the ground. Seeing them side by side, the resemblance is uncanny: Manny and Teddy are both furry, doughy white, chubby creatures with the same vacant look in their eyes and stuffing for brains.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Brewster,” Manny pleads, getting down on one knee to pick up the birthday gifts scattered across the floor.
Bent over, Manny’s loose-fitting jeans give the room quite a view.
Mildred begins wheezing.
“For heaven’s sake,” Cookie says, poking Manny in the small of his back with the rubber end of her cane. “Pick up your pants.”
Manny quickly complies and I walk over to inspect the end table.
“He ruined it, and it’s part of a matching set!” Cookie laments, pointing to the other end table near Gregory.
“It looks salvageable,” I tell her with a doctor’s bedside manner.
Sid dashes to the garage to get some tools.
Lifting the snapped-off leg from the floor, I lean over and whisper in Manny’s ear: “Another thirty seconds and I would have put you down with a tranquilizer gun.”
“You’re so hilarious,” he fires back.
“I can’t believe you broke Cookie’s beautiful table,” I tell him.
“Manny, you’re such a sweetheart!” Paige says, running over to give him a hug. “I can’t believe you got me this,” she coos, patting Teddy on the head.
“Sorry to break up the party, Mr. Day,” Manny says, embarrassed.
“Most excitement we’ve had all night,” he says, getting up from the couch to pat Manny on the back.
Lara flips off the lights and orders everyone into the dining room for cake. I sidle up to Gregory.
“Why so many candles?” I whisper to Lara.
Paige contemplates her wish.
“I bought two boxes and just used them all,” she mutters.
“I count … forty.”
“Ten for good luck!” Lara explains.
Paige glares at her sister and then smiles lovingly at Gregory, or me, or both of us. Then she blows out all forty.
Everyone is having chocolate cake except Sid. Cookie tells the room that Sid’s bad cholesterol is too bad and his good isn’t good enough. It’s so unfair. Half this room is on anticholesterol medication, including Cookie. Sid puts down his toolbox, and I slip him a serving, encouraging him to devour it in the privacy of the laundry room.
Gregory is in the corner inhaling his slice. Both of us have a decent alcohol-sugar buzz going. I can finally visualize my get-Gregory’s-blessing flowchart. Okay, Andy, it’s time for Plan B: Mock Cookie. Then butter him up.
“Man, she sure loves cake,” I observe of Cookie.
Cookie seems to be competing in some sort of secret cake-eating contest.
“Who doesn’t?” Gregory says, polishing off his.
“No, but she really loves cake,” I say.
Cookie picks some crumbs from her lap and pops them in her mouth.
“How’s your mom feeling?” Gregory yells across the table to Manny.
Manny interprets this as I love you. You’re an interesting person.
Manny’s mother, Margaret, suffers from Parkinson’s. Manny speaks quickly; he’s nervous that Gregory might lose interest at any moment.
Standing there like a schmuck, I eventually excuse myself for the gift giving.
In the living room, Sid is now on the floor next to the bad end table. He’s flipped it upside-down and is trying to distinguish between two different-sized wrenches. Annoyed, he waves off my help. Nearby, Belinda and Cleat have found a cozy spot on the floor and are huddled together so they can share one heaping portion of chocolate cake. As we gather around, Paige agrees to open my gift last.
Mildred and Beatrice have chipped in and bought Paige a crystal vase.
“That gift calls for a crocheted doily,” Lara goads.
“It would be my pleasure!” Mildred cries.
Paige politely squeezes Mildred’s hand.
Gregory and Manny rejoin the party and Manny reminds everyone that he gave Paige the teddy bear, as if anyone could forget. Gregory’s gift is the party. Belinda and Cleat bought Paige a massive aromatherapy candle and Paige insists on everyone smelling it. Cookie’s gift is next. The gift-wrapped lump contains a ghastly, hand-knit, light blue sweater. Mildred finds it stunning. Beatrice finds it stunning. When Cookie’s not looking, Sid slips Paige a savings bond.
As Paige unwraps each present, she expresses gratitude and remarks on the beauty of each gift, kissing each gift giver.
It’s Lara’s turn and she’s chock-full of gag gifts. A mug that says “Look Who’s 30!” An “Over the Hill” parking hangtag. Even a gaudy greeting card celebrating “The Big 3-Ow.”
“This next one’s from Andy,” Paige brags, reaching for the box.
“It’s a puppy!” she concludes, rattling the tightly wrapped gift.
Beatrice doesn’t think that’s funny at all.
I’ve wrapped Paige’s gift in a Nine West shoebox. Paige opens it and is thrilled to find a pair of strappy cream-colored high heels.
“I love them, but I think I have a pair just like these already,” she says, inspecting them.
“No, those are your shoes,” I tell her, “but I’ve redesigned them so they’re adjustable. Now you can change the height of the heels to fit any occasion.”
I dramatically present one of the shoes to the room like a card trick.
“You just pop this off,” I say, tucking the base under one armpit, wrestling to separate the heel. I’m perspiring. “And a different heel can snap into place. You see, different male parts slip smoothly into the female keyholes.”
The room is silent.
Gregory stopped listening a while ago. He’s back to his ball game.
“Genius,” Paige tells the room.
“It really is,” Beatrice agrees, confirming her decision is okay by Mildred.
I dump the remaining heels on the floor. There are three complete sets. I begin handing out the wooden blocks to partygoers. Sid studies his; Cookie and Gregory politely pass. I snap the five-inch set in place. Paige
straps them on and I help steady her to her feet. While Paige gingerly models the pair, parading around the room, I launch into the details of the design.
“The heels snap in and away from the toe to create a differential force in the opposite direction. With each step, Paige locks the heel more tightly in place.”
“I have a question,” Sid says, raising his hand.
“Yes, to your question, I do think we should PMP it,” I say, anticipating his next words.
“Actually, my query is more one of stability,” he says.
But before he can finish, Loki darts in front of Paige. Paige shifts her weight to get out of the way and one of the wooden heels snaps. There is a collective, audible gasp as we watch Paige tumble forward. In that split second, Gregory’s paternal instincts kick in. With all his might he punts the gigantic white teddy bear toward her. Paige and Teddy embrace in midair and the good end table breaks their fall. Once again, Cookie has a matching set.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Cookie hollers.
Her head buried in Teddy’s furry chest, I can hear Paige laughing hysterically. I run over to her.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Tell me you’re okay,” I beg, trying to get her to lift her head. “Say something,” I plead. I turn her face toward me and I privately realize that these are not tears of joy. She’s holding her ankle; it’s starting to swell. “Oh man, you’re hurt. Is it broken?” I whisper.
“Sprained,” she assures me.
I offer to bring her ice, but she wants to come with me to the kitchen.
“Just Andy,” she says, kindly fending off advances from everyone.
“I can’t believe you broke Cookie’s table,” Manny says with a shit-eating grin.
“Just as I suspected, the screw split the wood,” Sid says, inspecting the broken heel.
I throw Paige’s arm around my neck and we slowly limp off the field. In the freezer, Cookie and Sid are stocked to the gills with ice packs. Gently applying the cold compress to her bruised ankle, I keep my head down out of humiliation.
“I’m such a jerk. I ruined your party,” I mumble.
