“You mean Twitter!” Helen says triumphantly.
Now Big John looks wounded. “What’d I say?”
I could correct him but I’m just relieved to realize he was making sense, even if we didn’t know what he was talking about for a while there. When he was waving his fingers around in empty space like that, I thought he was having a fit.
But wait a second here…
“Aunt Alfresca tweets?” I hate using that word. I’m a grown man. If I use the word ‘tweets’ it should only be in relation to birds.
“So you do know what I’m talking about,” he says.
“I know what Twitter is,” I admit, “but I’ve never used it.”
Which is true. I never bother with any of that tuff. I did have a Facebook account, for about five minutes, but then all these obscure people from high school I hadn’t talked to in over a dozen years started friending me and I canceled it. Hey, if I wanted to keep in touch with any of them, I’d have picked up my phone and given the old rotary dial a spin. I wonder if Helen has a Facebook account—funny, I’ve never thought to ask.
“Well,” Big John says, “your aunt does. And she uses it…and uses it…and uses it. Your aunt, I’m afraid, has discovered social media. I can’t get her off the damn thing!” He looks at Helen. “She’s in the den, honey. Maybe you can get her to come out?”
Helen graciously complies, first setting down her small package on the kitchen table.
“Here.” Big John chin nods at the large package I’m still holding. “You put that down too and help me with lunch. Your aunt was going to cook but she got caught up in her tweeting.”
I put the package down as he rolls over to the fridge and opens the door.
“What’re we having?” I ask.
“We’re grilling,” he says, handing me a platter with hamburger patties on it. I take whatever else he hands me and follow him outside.
“So what does Aunt Alfresca,” I resent having to say this word more than once in a single day, “tweet about?”
“I don’t know,” he says in a regular voice. Then he makes a come-closer gesture with his hand, and when I do, he whispers, “One time, I snuck up behind her while she was so absorbed she didn’t notice I was there, which isn’t easy to do. And get this: I’m pretty sure she’s mostly tweeting about us.”
My eyebrows shoot up so high, I think I just injured my hairline.
“Us? What could she possibly say about us?”
“You don’t want to know, but it almost always rhymes. Mostly, it looks like all kinds of funny shit.”
“But I thought Aunt Alfresca hated humor. She always says it’s too subjective.”
“Oh, that’s just other people’s senses of humor. Her, she thinks she’s very funny.”
I digest this as he fires up the grill.
“She thinks she’s going to get a book deal out of all this,” he says.
“A book deal?” There is, literally, no longer anywhere further for my eyebrows to rise.
“Yeah, you know, like that stupid-shit guy. You know that guy?”
“I have no clue.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone knows that guy. You know, the stupid-shit guy! He tweeted about obnoxious stuff his dad said, people thought it was funny, he got a book deal, then they made a TV show with William Shatner only I don’t think that lasted very long.” He looks at me closely. “None of this ringing any bells?”
I shrug, shake my head. “I can tell you what’s going on on GH.”
He waves a dismissive hand at me. “Anyway,” he says, “your aunt says that guy’s a loser. She says he wasn’t even using his own material—he was using his dad’s! She says that her way is much better because hers is all authentically shit she says.”
“Sounds like she’s been saying a lot.”
“Don’t I know it.” He tosses some patties on the grill. “I forgot the barbecue sauce,” he says. “Can you go back inside and get that, and grab the salad from the fridge while you’re at it? It’s in a big bowl, lots of green stuff and shit inside—you’ll know it when you see it.”
By the time I return, Big John is through with Twitter for the time being and on to something else.
“So, how’s married life treating you?” he asks.
He just asked me this two days ago, at the Friday night poker game, but I guess he feels the need to take my marital temperature again already, like maybe something’s changed in that amount of time.
“Good,” I say, “fantastic. But what about you? After all, you and Aunt Alfresca are still newlyweds too.”
“Oh, you know,” he says, “marriage.”
But I don’t know.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It’s just that, your mother and me were married so long ago. And really, we were only married for a fairly short time before you were born. And well, you know what happened after that.”
Right. She died.
As is our custom, we share a moment of silence for my dead mother.
“I guess I’d forgotten about all the compromises that go into a marriage,” Big John says after we lift our heads.
Now I really don’t know what he’s talking about.
“Compromises?” I echo.
“Yes, compromises,” he re-echoes. “You know, all the little…accommodations that go into making a marriage work. She does things one way, you do things another way…And don’t get me started on toilet paper!”
“Toilet paper?”
He sighs. “It’s like this. If I’m in the toilet and I use the last sheet, I make sure to change the roll so she doesn’t get stranded. That’s considerate, right? But then, she always gets mad anyway. She says I don’t put it on the right way. She says the paper should come out in a certain way for it to be right. Over? Under? Who cares? It’s toilet paper!”
Well, actually, the over-under debate is not to be taken lightly and as far as I’m concerned there is a clear winner, but from the look on his face, I realize that this is not the time to offer my two Charmin cents.
He sighs again. “I guess I’d just forgotten how it’s the little things that can trip you up. Gotta stay on top of that stuff,” he says as he flips burgers onto buns, “gotta stay on top.”
“What are we staying on top of now?” Aunt Alfresca says as she and Helen enter. But before we can answer—or, you know, come up with a good lie—Aunt Alfresca looks at me with a big smile and goes, “Boots! Boots is here! Hey, how did those amusing boots work out for you last night?”
I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously. “You knew what they were really called all along, didn’t you?”
“Pish-tosh.” She waves a dismissive hand. “They loved it on Twitter.”
Wait a second. She really has been tweeting about me?
The food is spread out on the table on the back deck and we’re all gathered around. The wine has been poured. We drink a toast to the birthday girl before digging in.
“Ah, grappa,” Big John says, smacking his lips together.
“Get a load of your father.” Aunt Alfresca waves her salad fork. “You’d think he’s an Italian, he acts like such a goombah sometimes, but I’m the Italian here!”
“So I like Jersey Shore,” he says, a peculiar mix of embarrassed and defensive.
“He likes that Snooki,” Aunt Alfresca informs me and Helen with a knowing smirk.
“Hey,” Big John says, and now it’s pure defensive, “Snooki’s just misunderstood!”
Maybe this is another little something else they bicker about, like the toilet paper, so I seek to change the subject.
“So, Aunt Alfresca, I hear you have a Twitter—” I’m about to say obsession, but even I know enough to stop in time because that would be a mistake, so I finish with: “-ing?”
“I don’t have a twittering.” Aunt Alfresca rolls her eyes. “I have a Twitter account,” she recites, “on which I tweet to the Twitterverse and that activity is called tweeting. There is no twittering or at least not
like that. If you’re going to try to sound cool, you should at least get the terminology down first.” Then she smiles. “Hey, Johnny said twittering—I think I can find a tweet in that!”
I shudder to think what the Twitterverse will be saying about me next.
“So how’s that Twitter thing working out for you?” I ask.
“It’s great,” she says. “I’ve got over a hundred thousand followers.”
A hundred thou…
I feel the grappa go up my nose as I choke.
Helen pats me on the back, which is helpful; she’s been so quiet, I forgot she was here.
“You know what pisses me off, though?” Aunt Alfresca says. Without waiting for an answer she goes on. “Big shots,” she says. “I follow Nick Mangold from the Jets, I follow Sylvester Stallone. I advise Nick on wines because everyone knows he’s a fan of wine, I tell Sly he still looks good, but do they ever tweet back? No! They won’t even follow back!”
Can you imagine that?
“But don’t worry,” she says, “I’ll get them.”
Wait, is she threatening a three-hundred-pound NFL center and Rambo?
“I’m very funny,” she says with a sly smile, “hysterically so. Eventually, everyone will be following me. Hey, did your father tell you about my plans to overtake that stupid-shit guy?”
Lunch has been eaten, wine has been drunk, cake has been had. I wish I’d thought to count the candles because Big John knowing Aunt Alfresca’s penchant for exactness like he does, he probably put the right number on plus one to grow on. And, you know, the top of that cake was crowded.
Now, it’s time for presents.
“I already gave her mine,” Big John says.
“What’d you get her?” I ask.
“My own laptop,” she says. “Now I don’t have to sit in front of the computer all day and hurt my back. I can carry my laptop from room to room when I tweet. So thoughtful.”
Big John blushes and waves a hand as she kisses him on the cheek.
Enabler, I think. If Nick Mangold eventually learns all our family secrets, it’s on Big John’s head.
I retrieve our presents from the kitchen, set them down on the table. Helen chin nods that I should give Aunt Alfresca mine first.
“This is from, uh, me,” I say as I nervously finger the red laser in my pocket, just in case.
Aunt Alfresca rips through the crumpled paper and then just stares at the picture on the box.
More nervous fingering of the red laser. Then:
“A Snuggie!” Aunt Alfresca clasps her hands together. “I’ve always wanted one, but I never thought to buy one for myself!”
I smile at Helen. Do I know what women want or what?
“Quick, someone hand me a knife,” Aunt Alfresca says.
Big John wipes off the cake knife, hands it to her, and she slices through the sides of that box like some kind of a professional, I don’t know, knife person.
She removes the garment from its packaging and slides her arms into the blue fleece.
“Look!” she says excitedly. “It fits!”
Well, not exactly.
Aunt Alfresca, for all her loud energy, is a fairly diminutive person so she is swamped by that giant body blanket.
“I’m going to use it right away,” she says happily, sitting back down in her chair.
I am inordinately pleased with myself. This is the most excitement she’s shown about any present from me ever.
“But won’t you be hot in that thing?” Helen says. “It must be nearly a hundred degrees out today, Aunt A.”
“Aunt A?” My aunt no longer looks happy. Rather, she looks fairly pissed off. “Please, dear,” she says, “don’t ever call me that again. I do not want my name reduced to an initial like that old Auntie Em from that stupid Wizard of Oz thing with all those flying monkeys.”
I’m tempted to point out, in my wife’s defense, that it’s Auntie Em, not Auntie M, so it’s hardly the same thing, but I can see that already Helen is taking this outburst in stride.
“Gotcha,” she says calmly, “no more initials for you. How about a present from me instead?” She pushes the wrapped collection of rectangular-shaped chocolate bars across the table as an offering.
Aunt Alfresca eagerly tears through the paper but when she sees what’s inside, her expression darkens.
“Lindt? You brought me Lindt? Swiss chocolate. Feh. Feh.” She makes a spitting sound. Then she gets up from the table. She nearly trips over the Snuggie as she starts to walk but catches herself in time and pulls up the hem. Then she heads off to the kitchen with her offending chocolate present, probably intending to smash it into little bits with a hammer before throwing it all away.
“She doesn’t like Swiss chocolate?” Helen asks bewilderedly after the blue Snuggie has completely disappeared from view. “But I thought she knew food.”
“Yes,” I say, “but she’s completely unreasonable on the subject of the Swiss. I tried to warn you back at Super Stop & Shop. She hates them. Hates them.”
She’s even more bewildered now. “What kind of person hates the Swiss?”
“Aunt Alfresca. She can’t stand that they’re neutral. She thinks they should take sides, just make up their minds already.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Maybe. Whatever you do, though, just don’t get her started on Roger Federer.” Something suddenly occurs to me and I smile. “But this is great.”
“How is this great? Your aunt hates my present. She thinks I’m some kind of stupid…Swiss-sympathizer.”
“Maybe so. But she’s finally treating you like crap. You’re one of the family now!”
Five minutes later, we’re still sitting there—“I’m pretty sure those Lindt bars were manufactured in New Hampshire,” Helen says; “I know, Stratham, to be exact,” I say, “and I’ve tried explaining that to her before, but trust me, it’s a nonstarter”—when Aunt Alfresca returns to the table and sits down as if nothing’s happened.
“Well, this has been pleasant,” she says, taking Big John’s hand.
“It really has,” he says. The sun is starting to lower over his shoulder and a wistful expression tinges his face. “You know, I’ve always dreamed of this. When I was growing up, we always went to my grandparents’ house—my father’s parents—every Sunday for dinner. Then, when your mother and me got married, we went every Sunday to my parents’ house for dinner. I always dreamed that someday I’d be the father hosting dinner every Sunday.”
He’s never told me this before.
“You’ve never told me this before,” I say. “How come you never said anything?”
“You were single,” he says. “A single guy, going to his dad’s house for dinner every Sunday—how loserish is that? But now…”
He leaves the sentence open but his meaning, his desire is clear: He would like Helen and me to come to this house every Sunday for dinner.
I look at him sitting in his wheelchair, looking a little smaller than he did even just two days ago. He won’t come straight out and ask for what he wants, but he wants it.
We can give him that, can’t we?
“Sure,” I say without asking Helen first, “we can do that.”
It’s after midnight when the phone rings and both Helen and I are asleep; we’ve got work the next day.
“Hello?” I say groggily into the mouthpiece.
“I was tweeting while watching the Masterpiece Theatre I DVRed and when I got up to go to the bathroom, I tripped,” comes Aunt Alfresca’s voice at me at full volume. “This present you gave me is a death trap!”
Next Time, On GH
It’s Monday morning, I’m hurrying to get off to work, I’ve said goodbye to the wife already, I’m at the front door ready to head out, and suddenly the cat starts weaving in and out of my legs nearly causing me to trip over him.
“What?” I say, regaining my balance.
Fluffy starts trotting toward the kitchen, stops, looks over his shoulder to s
ee if I’m following.
“What?” I say again. “I filled your food and water this morning already. I know I did.”
Again with the trot, stop, look.
“I’m going to be late for Sam,” I tell the cat. “You know how she hates that.”
Fluffy doesn’t seem to care about that as he trots again, stops, looks.
So, what choice do I have?
I follow the cat.
Fluffy leads me into the kitchen, where he trots over to the refrigerator, and then he settles down into a sitting position on his back haunches, just staring at the door.
“What?” I rarely let myself get exasperated with the cat, but honestly. “What is it you want?” Does he not realize I’m on some loose semblance of a schedule here? Still, when he keeps staring at the refrigerator, if only to appease him, I fling open the door.
“I get it,” I say, finally getting it. “You want a treat. But it’s not time for a treat.” Still, I grab the canister labeled “Indoor Adventures” and wave it at him. “Is this what you wanted?”
I expect him to get all excited like he does whenever I shake that canister, preparing to chase after the tasty chicken-flavored morsel, but instead, he just keeps sitting there and gives me this look like, “No. It’s not time for a treat, you idiot.”
“What then?” I say, replacing the canister on the top shelf in the fridge.
And that’s when I see it.
On the bottom of the mostly empty refrigerator—mostly empty except for lots of beer, a half-drunk bottle of leftover wine, the canister of Indoor Adventures, eggs and a tomato; what am I going to cook for dinner tonight?—is the gallon jug of water that I filled up last night and put in there.
Even though a large portion of the work Sam and I do is interiors, you never know what might come up. Plus, it’s shaping up to be a brutally hot summer. Driving around with the sun beating through the windows, going out to get stuff from the vehicle, just generally working too hard—it’s a real challenge for a painter to stay hydrated enough in a summer like this.
Isn't It Bro-Mantic? Page 14
