by Jeff Strand
"I don't think you ever introduced me to her. Oh, God, did she pass away?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, that's terrible! You poor dear! I'm so sorry to hear that! Did she suffer?"
"No, no, she died in her sleep."
"How old was she?"
Somebody who was not freaking out over lying to his boss would give an intelligent answer, such as, perhaps, eighty or eighty-one. Instead, I say: "Sixty."
"Sixty? Oh, that's so young! I had no idea!"
I've just created a scenario in which my grandmother had my mom when she was thirteen, and my mom had me when she was twelve. This is why my career involves typing and not my extemporaneous speaking skills.
"Sorry, I meant sixty-eight. It's been a rough day. I'm not thinking straight."
"Well, of course you're not, you poor thing. Are your parents holding up okay? Was it your mom's mom or your dad's mom?"
"My mom's mom. She's doing all right, I guess. About as well as you can expect under the circumstances." I had no idea that the human body could produce so much perspiration. I wish I'd packed more shirts.
"That's so sad. You'll be in my prayers." She sounds like she's about to cry. I am a crappy, crappy, crappy person. Gigi even lets out a sniffle.
"Thank you," I say. "That means a lot. Anyway, I'm on my way to Rhode Island, so I won't be able to come in tomorrow."
"I didn't know you had family in Rhode Island."
"Just my grandmother."
"Where in Rhode Island?" She asks this as somebody who is legitimately curious, not as an interrogator, but my body finds hidden reserves of sweat to wring out of my pores.
"Providence."
"Oh, I love Providence! I know you'll be busy while you're there, but you'll still have to eat, so make sure you try the lobster rolls."
"I will." If she'd said saugies, I'm sure I would have immediately blurted out a confession and started sobbing and begging for forgiveness.
I hope Amy doesn't cough. She doesn't look like she's going to cough, and she hasn't coughed the entire time I've known her, but I still really hope she doesn't cough.
"Do you have the name of the funeral home? I'll make sure we send flowers from the whole department."
"Oh, no, I don't know it yet, but as soon as I know I'll let you know." I'm surprised I don't end that sentence with "you know?"
"Please do. I'm really sorry about this, Todd. Are you doing all right? Do you want to talk about it? I was absolutely devastated when my own grandmother died, and it really did help to talk about my feelings."
"No, my feelings are okay. Honestly, I was never around her very much." This is true of all four of my grandparents, although their early deaths played a role in that. "It's really more about my mom." I did say that it was my mom's mom, right? Shit. I'm pretty sure I did, but I'm not one hundred percent positive. Shit. I might be messing this up. Shit.
"Okay, well, if it becomes difficult and you want a sympathetic ear, just give me a call. You have my cell number, right?"
"Yes." She hasn't called me out on a continuity error, so, I must have said that it was my mom's mom. I feel like I'm going to vomit. If I don't end this call in the next few moments, I may have to explain it away as grief puke.
"Don't be afraid to use it. Are you driving up alone?"
Unless I've been hiding a local sister, the answer pretty much has to be "yes," so that's what I say. Please don't cough, Amy. Don't cough...don't cough...
"That's a long drive. Why didn't you just fly?"
"Airline tickets were way too expensive."
"Really? Tampa to Providence shouldn't be that bad. With gas prices so high I'd think that the cost of an airline ticket would almost be a wash. How far out of town are you? Do you want me to see what I can find?"
Using as much of the truth as possible was a stupid idea. Why would I drive all the way to frickin' Rhode Island by myself? "It happened last night," I say. "I'm already a few hours into the trip, and I wanted this time to help me work things out."
"Make sure you take lots of breaks."
"I will."
"And take care of yourself."
"I will."
"Call me if you need anything. I'm just here working on some reports that have to be done first thing tomorrow, but again, don't hesitate to use my cell. And let me know which funeral home she's at so we can send the flowers."
"Okay."
"Are you sure you don't want to talk? I can multi-task."
"No, I should probably check on my mom."
"Give her my best and tell her she's in my thoughts. Don't worry about anything here. We'll make sure your desk is covered. Family has to come first."
"Thank you."
"Let me know if you need anything."
"I will."
I hang up.
"Are you okay?" Amy asks.
"I might need you to pull over so I can throw up, but I'm not sure yet. Give me a second."
I sit there, eyes closed, taking deep breaths, counting to ten. By the time I reach ten, I'm fairly confident that I am not going to vomit, so I open my eyes again.
"I'm good," I say.
My phone rings again. It's Gigi.
I don't want to answer, but I probably should. "Hello?"
"Hi, Todd. Sorry to bother you again, but I can't believe I didn't ask what your grandmother died from. That was so thoughtless of me."
"It was a stroke," I say.
"That's awful. I'm sorry again for your loss."
"Thank you."
"The second I hung up I couldn't believe how rude I'd been. You'd think I was the one who just had a family tragedy."
"It's okay."
"Anyway, I'll talk to you soon."
"All right."
I hang up.
"She just wanted to ask what my grandmother died of," I explain.
"Didn't you already say she died in her sleep?"
I frown. Yes, I did. But that's not quite the same as telling her the actual medical cause. I don't think Gigi was trying to catch me in a lie.
"She's just concerned," I say.
Amy looks kind of distressed. "I didn't get you in trouble, did I?"
"No. She's a very caring person. That's what makes her a good boss."
Amy sighs with relief.
"She did ask me to give her the name of the funeral home so she can send flowers. That's not so awesome."
"Hmmm." Amy thinks about that for a moment. "Tell her that in lieu of flowers, your grandmother wanted donations to her favorite charity."
"That's a good idea."
"I'm sorry I led you down the criminal path."
"It's okay."
"Though I have to admit, it's a relief to know that you're such a shitty liar."
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Do you want me to beg?"
"No, Abner, I want you to--actually, yeah, a little begging sounds good. Let's go with that."
--Exit Red, Season 1, Episode 9
Now that the issues with law enforcement, employment, and mutilation have been resolved, the drive begins to go smoothly. We don't talk about anything deep or important, mostly just movies, books, and our shared lack of interest in the Winter Olympics. I'm shocked when we reach our exit--those eighty miles went by in no time.
The next forty miles go equally quickly, despite one missed turn because I wasn't paying enough attention to the GPS on my phone. In the pre-GPS world, it would have taken about seventeen turns and eight thousand words' worth of cursing to get back on course, but modern technology allows us to correct this with very little inconvenience. And then we're on 1-95N, our highway for the next 560.1 miles of our journey.
We've been munching on our film festival rations, but we haven't had lunch yet. I had asked if we should stick with groceries or chain restaurants on the way up, so that we don't diminish the glory of Hunky Dory Dogs, but Amy said no, we should find cool places along the way.
"We should be on the lookout for a really scary barbecue place,"
she says.
"Scary as in, homeless people keep disappearing in the vicinity?"
"Not quite that bad, but the best barbecue places are the ones that look structurally unsound."
"I don't think I've ever eaten at a barbecue place that felt like it was going to collapse on me."
"Then you're missing out. What's the best one you've ever eaten at? Non-chain."
I think about this question for a moment. My answer is kind of pathetic, but I'm done with my web of lies for the day, so I have to be honest. "I'm not sure I've ever eaten at a non-chain barbecue place."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Food-wise, I'm not very adventurous."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-five."
"In thirty-five years, you've never eaten at a skeevy barbecue place?"
"Nope."
"Was your family vegetarian?"
I shake my head. "My parents were carnivores. I just don't vary things much."
"When you eat out, do you always order the same thing?"
"Not all of the time."
"Most of the time?"
"Pretty much most of the time."
"So do you get the salmon with dill cream sauce every time you go to a seafood place?"
"Not always with dill cream sauce. And sometimes I'm in the mood for fried stuff. I shake things up a little; I'm not a robot."
"Well, I'm not going to judge you," Amy says. "But we are going to find a delicious-smelling barbecue joint and get the best pulled pork you've ever had. Or we're going to get food poisoning. One of those. See what you can find on your app."
I take my cell phone out of my pocket and check the restaurant-finder app. A few options pop up. "We're 5.3 miles away from Sandy's BBQ. Next exit, then right."
"Then we're going to Sandy's."
"Average rating is 3.8 stars."
"Don't look at reviews."
"Can I call to make sure they're open on Sunday?"
"Yes, you can do that."
The app has a handy "Call" button, so I touch that. "Hello?" a cheerful female voice answers.
It feels kind of silly to ask if they're open, since somebody answered the phone. "What are your hours today?"
"Noon to around six."
"Thank you." I hang up and put the phone back in my pocket. "They're open. Do you think they'll have a happy pig on their sign?"
"Most likely. Pig cannibalism is a recurring theme in these places."
"Do you think that those mascot pigs actually enjoy eating their own kind, or are they faking it to keep from being eaten themselves?"
Amy furrows her brow in mock intense concentration. "Hmmm. Bacon is pretty delicious, so you can't really blame the pigs. I don't know what human flesh tastes like, but if it tasted like bacon, I mean, come on."
"I hear it tastes like chicken."
"The flavor of chicken isn't enough to make me cross that moral line."
"So what you're saying is that if human flesh tasted like pig flesh, you'd become a cannibal?"
Amy shook her head. "That's not what I'm saying at all. Stop trying to twist my words. We're talking about the pig mascots, not me. You're trying to make me out to be a monster, and I won't have it."
"My bad."
"Do people still say 'my bad'?"
"In this car they do."
"Gotcha. My true opinion is that these poor pigs are horrified by the idea of devouring their own kind. They're haunted by what they've become, and every night their sleep is disturbed by unspeakable nightmares, yet what choice do they have?"
"You know," I say, "I don't think I've ever seen a pig mascot who was actually eating the barbecue. They're licking their chops and smiling as if it looks and smells delicious, but you never see a pig with a rack of ribs in its mouth."
"You're right. Maybe they're forced to endorse the practice but not actually partake of it themselves."
"They're forced to be hypocrites," I say. Then I wish I'd said They're forced into hypocrisy, which might have been slightly funnier.
"That's what I think is going on," says Amy. "Or at least, those are the motives I attribute to cartoon pigs that never existed. Can you imagine if they used a picture of a real pig with a plate of bacon in front of it?"
"You mean if they Photoshopped a smile onto it?"
"Yeah."
"I probably wouldn't eat there."
"Me either, but I don't like Photoshopped pictures of animals in general."
"Yeah, those give me the creeps," I say. "But we're getting derailed from the cannibalism discussion. Have you seen the signs where the pigs aren't happy? I used to drive by one every day where the pig was tied over an open flame. He was scared and sweating like crazy."
"I'd much rather know that my food was okay with the idea of being consumed."
"Absolutely. You'd think they'd want to--sorry, this is our exit."
She takes the exit, and with no wrong turns we pull into the dirt parking lot of the barbecue place. There are a few other cars there. It's always a good sign when other human beings have made the same restaurant choice as you.
Of course, it's not actually a "restaurant," it's more like a tent with an open pit next to it. A jolly guy who looks like he frequently samples his own wares is tending to the pit, while an equally jolly but less rotund woman takes orders. There are about ten people ahead of us, so we take our place in line. The aroma is extremely promising.
There is no pig on the sign. The Q in "Sandy's BBQ" had to be compressed to fit.
The menu is handwritten on a dry-erase board. A couple of items have been rubbed out.
"Do you want to split a combo platter?" Amy asks. "We'd get ribs, pulled pork, beef brisket, and two sides."
"Sounds great."
"Which sides? You pick but I get veto power."
"How about potato salad and coleslaw?"
It's clear from her expression that this would not be her choice, but she doesn't invoke her veto power.
It's a slow moving line, because the lady running the register is also doing several other jobs, as well as chatting with the customers. The man in front of us lets out an annoyed sigh approximately every fifteen seconds. By the time he is four people away from being able to place his order, he has graduated to muttering "C'mon, let's get a move on" and "For Christ's sake, what's taking so long?"
I want to tell him to chill out, but he looks about six-three and has the build of a football player. I am not six-three and do not have the build of a football player. Nor do I have a Japanese symbol tattooed on my neck (I don't know what it means, but I'm guessing it's Japanese for Man Who Believes Japanese Symbol Tattoo Makes Him Look Like Badass). So I settle for rolling my eyes at Amy.
When he finally reaches the front, he orders a full rack of ribs with a side of applesauce.
"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie," the lady says with a friendly smile. "We're out of applesauce."
"You're what?" He steps back and glances over at the menu, as if to find proof that she's a goddamned liar. You can see where applesauce has been rubbed off the dry erase board. "How can you be out of applesauce?"
"It went quick today. It's all homemade, but I'm making a whole new batch tonight."
"Well, that doesn't do me any good now, does it?" He sighs with a cosmic level of annoyance. I wonder if this applesauce was instrumental in a plan to save the world. He mutters something under his breath. "You guys need to plan better."
The lady's smile doesn't waver. "I do apologize. It's just the two of us doing everything, you know?"
"Well, if you can't run a restaurant by yourselves, hire some help. This is bullshit."
Now her smile wavers just a bit. "There's no call for that kind of language, sir. How about our coleslaw? I make it fresh every morning."
"How about not? Just give me..." He steps back and looks at the menu again, taking a surprising amount of time for somebody who was so concerned with the speed of the line. "You know what, just skip the side."
"You sure
, sweetie? We've got baked beans, potato salad, macaroni salad..."
"If you're out of applesauce, I don't want anything."
"I do apologize, sir."
"Yeah, well, that and a nickel will get me..." He trails off, apparently unable to figure out what that and a nickel will get him.
The lady grabs a paper plate and goes to retrieve his ribs. The man looks back at me. "Don't bother trying to order the applesauce," he says.
"I won't," I assure him. "They'd already erased it from the menu."
He stands up straighter and glares at me. I'm pretty sure that the next words out of his mouth will be "What the hell did you just say to me, you little prick?"
But the lady returns with his lunch, and he grudgingly pays her instead of kicking my ass. When she hands him his change, he shoves it into his pocket, then pushes the plate back toward her. "Could you get me different ones?"
"Is there a problem, sir?"
"Look at them. They're nothing but fat."
Though I admittedly don't have ribs every often, they look fine to me. To her credit, the lady does not stab him in the face with one of the rib bones, but instead apologizes and retrieves a new rack.
The man looks at his replacement order and shakes his head. "You know what? Just forget it. Give me my money back."
Amy lets out a very tiny snort of derisive laughter.
"Got a problem?" the man asks her.
"If you're looking for a fat-free food, maybe barbecue ribs aren't the way to go."
"Mind your own business, skank," he says, then extends his palm as the lady refunds his money.
In my life, I have only had two true girlfriends. Also two relationships that I thought were boyfriend/girlfriend but the female may have disagreed. Only one of the relationships lasted more than a year. That's a pretty small part of my life spent in a relationship, but still, I've got some girlfriend experience. So it surprises me that this is the first-ever instance of me needing to defend a woman's honor.
What am I supposed to do? Punch him out? Kick him in the nuts? Ignore his comment and hope that Amy is turned on by guys who fear confrontation?
The answer is clear: ask him to apologize.
