For
all her faults, Kelli with an aye has some frightfully good insight when it
comes to practical matters, and I, being the tragically impractical sort,
benefit from her input. She’s also impeccably honest, if a bit brash. Which is
refreshing, frankly. For someone to look you in the eyes while telling you the
truth (even if it sometimes means your temporary discomfort) is a welcome act
of kindness in a world of white lies, damned lies, and devious deception.
When
invited to break bread with her recently, I anticipated a lively discussion
laced with Kelli’s contempt for society’s foibles and petty obsessions. I had
no idea the lunch was a pretense for an intervention. I was practically
ambushed. The appointment (or platonic date) made me rethink my priorities.
We’d
already ordered our food at least twenty minutes beforehand, and while we
waited for it to arrive, I lost count of the single malts I’d consumed (four or
five, not sure). I must’ve been nervous, since I’d also forgotten to wrap my
watch round my wrist before leaving my place. Eventually, our hors D’oeuvres
arrived, after which I would’ve sworn our waiter had decided to punch out and
go parasailing.
Kelli
with an aye, a Nigerian with lips as lush as an amaryllis, has long,
straightened hair dyed neon blue to lapis. Pair that with skin the rich color
of coffee with a splash of crème brulée and you have a recipe for an exotic
whose beauty is unparalleled this side of the equator.
Having
immigrated with her folks to Great Britain when she was but a child and
enrolling in Catholic school shortly thereafter, she’s a fascination in
contrast – a playful yet prudish woman, highly educated, worldly but
religiously devout, who’s taken up abode in the American south of all places
and at the moment drinking that nasty stuff she has adopted from Texans which
I, hailing from the windy city, never acquired a taste for – bags of dried
leaves from some God-forsaken plant brewed in boiling water poured over gobs of
ice.
After
teasing her about her handbag resembling a parachute, I asked, “So what’s with
the discolored ice water, Kelli with an aye? Have you given up the spirits?”
Kelli
froze for a second, perhaps for dramatic effect. Then she shook her head like a
poodle might after escaping a near death experience with a bath, thereby not
tossing her blue tresses so much as causing them to sway and shimmer. Her heavy
sigh animated the napkin to her right. “Firstly, I thought you knew me,
stranger.” She leaned over the table and whispered. “I never drink before noon.
You know this. Unless, of course, it’s wine. And I have plenty of wine at home
better than what they serve here. Secondly, thirdly, and everything else lea, have
I not asked you to stop calling me that?”
“Have
you?”
She
took a cartographic reading of my face, as if measuring my sincerity. “How
about simply Kelli?”
“Like
the singer Simply Red?”
Leaning
back in her booth, she offered me one of those frowns that tells me my attempt
at humor landed with a splat. “It’s not my fault. My parents named me. I would
have preferred something hinting at my African roots. Ironic that they shared
the sentiments of your bloody Kardashians. At least they didn’t name me Porsche
or North or Psalm. Had a friend back in Catholic school named Hosanna. Means
things like savior and rescue and even help. I liked it,
but probably because it wasn’t my name. She was always talking about legally
changing it. Of course, she’d already been christened. Poor girl.”
“Should
I give you a nickname?”
“You
have, you idiot. It’s Kelli with an eye, and I hate it. Sounds as if I wear an
eye patch or something. I should never have allowed you to see my credit card
that time I paid for lunch. How about Miss Scrimshaw?”
“Your
patronym isn’t Scrimshaw.”
“No,
but you’ll inevitably post this little exchange on your blog, and I don’t want
my real name used.”
“Is
Scrimshaw a pun then?”
Miss
Scrimshaw glared at me. “Look at you. You’ve officially destroyed enough brain
cells to miss my playful train. How boorish.”
I
squinted. “Let me see.”
“This
ought to be good. Watching you fumble in the dark for the caboose.”
“Eye
patch. Pirates. Am I close? They presumably had access to whalebone and shells.
Not sure pirates were the sort to whittle, though. Too busy swabbing decks and
hoisting sails, I imagine. Still. Scrimshaw. Clever.”
“Can’t
get anything past you, old boy. Even if I must wait an eternity for your cogs
to churn.” She glanced over my shoulder. “Look.” Visibly distressed, she nodded
in the direction behind me. “Have you Americans no class? Look already.”
“Not
unless you have a mirror in your purse. I’m not about do a one-eighty. Too
conspicuous. Besides. What’s with the fuss about class? This isn’t a Michelin
star restaurant. People in this city shop at Walmart in their yoga pants.”
“And
parade in public in their track suits and sweats.”
I
nodded. “And wear jeans to church.”
“Why
does everyone fuss about looking at these embarrassing fashion choices? Perhaps
that’s what the fool needs, Mark. Everyone turning, gasping. You know, public
shaming.”
“Noblesse oblige, my dear. Public shaming
extends to only excessively noisy people nowadays. Too much gray area with
regards to fashion. Any other embarrassment, such as airline arguments or
public fisticuffs or bad driving, is simply filmed on camera phones. Besides,
he might be the sort to feed off the attention. Describe him. What am I
missing?”
She
continued to stare. “Oh, only another one of your country’s Philistines.”
“My
country? You’re a U.S. citizen now. And do you not own a hand mirror?”
“Not
a citizen of your country at heart, frontiersman.”
“Ah.
How about I call you émigré Kelli then?”
“Can’t
pin that moniker on me. I’m apolitical.” She lowered her voice. “Go over there
and tell that brute to take off that ghastly baseball cap.” She glanced over my
shoulder and frowned. “The heathen.”
I
knew enough now not to bother turning around. “Show more tolerance. Perhaps
he’s going bald and wants to postpone the big reveal.”
“But
we’re indoors. Only low-brows wear hats at table.” She offered me a wry grin.
“Probably the same sort who wears their boots to bed. You don’t wear your boots
to bed, do you?”
“Wouldn’t
you like to know. In Japan they remove their shoes when crossing the threshold.
Entering the home, for example. Some businesses, even.”
Miss
Scrimshaw made a sour face. “That imaginary diploma from the University of
Autodidacticism has really paid off for you, has it?” She watched me take a sip
from my glass. “Ease up on that liquor you’re inhaling as if you’re trying to
put out a fire.”
“I
can liquor my handle.”
Miss
Scrimshaw didn’t smile. “Are you quite sure? Your speech is already slurred.”
“You’re
confusing my southern drawl for inebriation.”
“Miraculously,
you don’t have a southern drawl. Don’t get me started on that audible nightmare.
Like fingernails down a chalkboard. Look, I don’t want to have to knock you
over the head in a public place, take your keys, and drive you home myself.
Besides, I don’t have a blunt instrument handy, and I refuse to draw blood.”
“Such
compassion. What would I do without you, old girl?”
“Probably
talk to yourself. Now listen. I know how obsessive you can be. Fixating on
projects. I’m one of the few who keeps up with your blog. But you need to end
it. Okay? It’s a farce.”
I
feigned surprise. “It’s as though you see right through me. Incidentally, I
love the way you pronounce the word ‘farce’”
“Don’t
mock my heritage.”
“Mock?
More like fawn over.”
“I
know my tees are still too sharp, and my letter ahs are still too soft.”
“I
wouldn’t have you any other way.”
“I
understand you assume alternate attitudes and write in different voices. Bully
for you. But for what? For the exercise? Your own amusement? Aren’t you just pounding
your chest? Trying to convince the few people unfortunate enough to chance upon
your blog that you’re awesome? For the record, you’re certainly not ordinary.
But awesome might be stretching it.”
“If
I may, and I say this with all due humility, we both know I’m awesome. Still. I
realize saying so doesn’t exactly engender –”
“Here’s
my advice, Mark. Stop.”
“Stop?”
“Stop
devoting your free time to a project no one gives an elephant’s ivory about.”
I
smiled. “I love it when you’re angry.”
“I’m
not angry. I’m annoyed. Don’t speak in primary colors. Use the many hues the
good Lord has given us. It’s been, what? Three years since I’ve read your first
manuscript. Where’s your sequel? I’ve forgotten half of what happens in the
first story. You’ll never complete your trilogy at this rate. Why’s it taking
you so long anyway? You’re unattached. No children. Your carrier job consumes
only a few afternoon hours per day. You don’t plow or plant or tend your own
vegetable garden. You don’t breed horses or –”
“Steady,
Marmalade. This is starting to sting. Listing what I have yet to achieve
requires a weekend retreat. We have only this lunch.”
“You
hardly have a social life. Have you decided to compose the sequel in Latin?”
“That’s
the thing. I –”
Kelli
raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re teaching yourself Latin.”
“No,
but that’s not a bad idea. Latin fathered the Romance languages, right? French,
Italian, Spanish. Oh! And Romanian, of course. And another one which escapes me
今すぐ.”
“Portuguese.
Wait, what did you just –”
“Portuguese.
That’s it.”
“Hold
on. ‘Emah sugu?’ What does –”
“‘今すぐ’ means right now.
Didn’t I tell you I was studying the Japanese language?”
“Yes,
you did, and it was all I could do not to laugh in your face. We live in Texas,
for the love of God. If you’re going to subdivide your free time for Rosetta
Stone and the like, then –”
“Don’t
forget Memrise dot com or the YouTube instructional videos uploaded by real
native speakers and instructors. Japanese pod one oh one dot com and –”
“Yes,
yes. All right.”
“And
an armada of other apps, Duolingo being my favorite at the –”
“Enough
already.”
“Nan
demo ii.”
“Did
you just curse me out in Japanese?”
“Of
course not. Hardly in the repertoire. Japanese people are more likely to
apologize profusely. Their default mode is one of obligation and humility.
Which is ironic considering we Westerners, particularly those of us who
identify as Christians, are more about righteous indignation than anything
else. Hardly Christ-like, eh? No. Nan demo ii is Japanese for whatever.”
“Show
off.”
“At
worst I was being dismissive.”
“As
I was saying, Spanish would be the more practical second language to learn, not
Japanese. Especially if you still plan to become a Catholic. What is it with
you, Mark? Addicted to hentai or something? You bachelors are all alike.
Incidentally, that’s going to be one hell of a first confession at your
conversion ceremony.”
“That’s
not fair. I hardly know what hentai is.”
“Sure,
you don’t.”
“And,
no. Not a fan. Besides, ten months into Japanese, I’ve now added Spanish to my
list. Been at it for about a month now. So much easier for a Westerner to learn
than Japanese, by the way. Also started learning French. Smuggest sounding
language ever, and I love it.”
“Figures.”
“Shares
some similarities with Spanish, too. Cognates, for example, and the whole
masculine feminine articles thang. Though you know I don’t like to boast,
unless I’m blogging, of course.”
“Of
course.”
“Here’s
the thing. I’m not a one-project-at-a-time kind of guy anymore, Matilda.”
Kelli
growled. “Just who the hell’s Matilda?”
“Do
you not know that joke about the woman with the flying hairpins?”
“I’m
not wearing a hairpin, bub, flying or otherwise. What is that? An internet meme?
Yet another juvenile SNL sketch passing itself off as adult humor? Is this yet another
one of your many private jokes no one else in the world understands?”
I
shrugged. “Hey, if I can’t join an exclusive club, I might as well invent one
of my own.”
“If
it weren’t such a cliché, I’d release a sigh of exasperation right about now.
But to be a fly on the wall at one of those exclusive gentleman’s clubs.”
“Chotto
matte, Kelli-san. Let’s be clear. I’m imagining a trip into the past. Bertie
Wooster’s Drones Club or some such. Not a modern burlesque show of women with
grotesque piercings, covered in tatts, stripping to the dulcet tones of …” I
scrambled to recall a modern American pop idol.
“Ariana
Grande?”
“Thank
you. And insisting they’re enrolling in college next semester.”
“You
and your Wodehouse references.”
“Thank
you. Or merci beaucoup, as the French would say.”
“You’re
right; that does sound smug. But I can see it now. Single malt scotch. Vivaldi
playing in the background.”
“Actually,
I was thinking either Babymetal or Band Maid. Maid in Japan, you know.”
“Let
me get this straight. Billiards and wainscoting and J-pop? This is what you’re
imagining? And Matilda and her flying hairpins, no doubt.”
“That
would fill a niche out there somewhere. Location would be the deciding factor
in its success, though.”
“Or
the Human Rights Commission looking the other way. So long as you showcase
Matilda and her flying hairpins as the draw.”
“You
forgot to mention we’re all dressed in three-piece suits, and we arrived at the
club on vintage motorcycles, smoking tobacco pipes.”
“Can’t
imagine why you’re still single.”
“I’m
not only teaching myself foreign languages. I’m still working on the Malison
sequel. It’s just a matter of getting the words right, to quote from Hemingway,
a writer I never really cared for.”
“Ah,
yes. The Importance of Being Earnest. Hemingway, that is.”
“What
a Wilde reference! I’m also trying to stay fit. Going to the gym.”
“Look
at yourself. A paragon for aging men.”
“And
growing out my hair.”
“Like
a potted fern on Miracle-Gro, it would appear. I meant to ask you about that.”
Miss Scrimshaw glared at my scalp. “Surely that doesn’t qualify as a project.”
“Well,
maybe a little. I mean, the knots and tangles you ladies contend with. What’s
this lunch all about anyway?”
“Streamlining.
The trappings of multitasking.”
I
leaned back in my booth, old fashioned glass in hand. “Well, Miss Scrimshaw.
May I call you Marmalade?”
“You
most certainly may not.”
“Fine,
Kelli with an –”
“I
swear to God!”
“Okay,
okay. Miss Scrimshaw then. Mine is a simple life. I return from work, eat, and
read until bedtime.”
“Quite
the socialite.”
“In
the morning, I rise early, occasionally go to the gym, come home and shower,
brew a pot of coffee, then I write – either manuscript or blog – before heading
to work.”
“I
see the problem already.”
“Granted,
now that I’m studying foreign languages for kicks, I’m devoting an hour or so a
day to that.”
“You
never were a juggler. That’s why I asked you to sup with me.”
“You
asked me to what with you?”
“Don’t
play coy, old boy.” She offered one of those winning smiles of hers (she has at
least a dozen to choose from) while she fiddled with her tall glass of watery
tea. “I understand your need to keep busy. You hate television so you read.
You’re creative so you write. You’re whimsical so you bounce from one project
to another. You hardly socialize because you seek intellectual stimulation in a
world gone mad, and your parents and siblings or stepsiblings or potheads or
adulterers or whatever the hell those moral reprobates beyond redemption who’ve
ostracized you from their pathetic lives happen to –”
“Actually,
can we not invoke that dysfunctional lot?”
“I
realize that’s a sore spot for you. But I miss my soaps, not to mention your
narrative. And your relatives are absolutely bonkers. Humor me.”
“But
you’ve heard it all before, haven’t you?”
“That’s
what friends are for.”
“Perhaps,
but sharing slights made against me can read like bitter ramblings, literary
shutter stock of an estranged family in moral disarray.”
“Or
like purging. Look at it this way. We’re to forgive those who’ve wronged us.
But decades after they’ve still refused to own up to their wrongdoings and
insist on treating us like lepers, the ban is lifted, and we’re free to warn
others of their character.”
“I
never got that memo. Was that the eleventh commandment? It’s a bit wordy. Not
particularly Catholic, either.”
“Okay,
Mr. Goodie Two-boots.” Kelli raised her tea glass and gestured for me to mimic
her. “Repeat after me. ‘May those who love us, love us. For those who hate us,
may God turn their hearts. And if He cannot turn their hearts, may He turn
their ankles so that we might know them by their limping.’”
“A
bit vindictive, methinks. Not my style. Besides, you’ve heard the preamble a
dozen times.”
“Refresh
my memory.”
“I
don’t know. I’ve already forgiven these people for what they’ve done to me. What
they’ve done to themselves is another matter entirely and none of my business.
Between them and God. And I’ve apologized for everything I’ve done that
offended them. I’ve even gone out of my way to atone. The problem is that
they’ve never apologized to me. No one in that family thinks he or she has done
anything wrong. And the only reason that matters is because until they
acknowledge their offenses, they’ll only repeat those offenses. Which they
continued to do right up to the point at which I walked away. It took me forever,
but I eventually decided I couldn’t subject myself to that anymore and remain
sane.”
“Which
offenses are we talking about here?”
“I’ll
get there. I just need to properly set this up. Given my parents’ tenuous ties
to their children – half of whom live out of state, three of whom have criminal
records, all of whom (apart from me and my blood brother) still smoke pot daily
well into their thirties and forties – the last thing any of them wants to do
is deal truthfully with themselves and one another and thereby risk the entire
house of cards tumbling round their ears.”
“Sounds
tragic.”
“It
gets worse. Living a lie means you’re constantly having to defend yourself
against truth. Hence, best to renounce the eldest sibling, yours truly, since I’m
the only honest ass among the lot. I annoyed the hell out of them because I called
them out. I refused to play their games.”
“Anecdote,
please?”
“Let
me first point out that I’ve already forgiven the stepsibling in question. As I
say, I’ve forgiven that entire lot. I wish I didn’t occasionally miss my aberrant
mother and my bitter brother, but I do. They’re blood, after all. The
stepsibling in question, in contrast, is one of those unfortunate souls.”
“That
could mean anything. Poor conversationalist? Indistinguishable from the hoi
polloi?”
“Those
two shortcomings for starters. Plus, she hates my guts.”
“Her
loss.”
“Thank
you. This was some years ago, but it serves to highlight the passive aggressive
behavior rampant in that family. Early November, I get an email from this stepsibling.
Been years since I’d had any communication with her. We simply led different
lives. She invites me to her home out of town for Thanksgiving. I politely
decline, partly because we have nothing in common. Another reason is that braving
the drive from here to Austin during the Thanksgiving holidays is something I
wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”
“You
guys couldn’t have been close. Even I know you avoid crowds and holidays. Not
to mention nightmare traffic.”
“Precisely.
By the way, this same stepsibling had a run-in with my blood brother over this very
habit of hers roughly a decade before. Both lived in the same town. Yet, again,
radio silence for ages. She never once tried to contact him. Then one day she accidentally
bumps into him at a restaurant. She gushes as if she’s recently escaped an
abductor’s basement. Gives him a huge hug. ‘Oh, my God!’ she says. ‘So great to
see you! Missed you so much!’
“My
blood brother, who despises pretense, says, ‘You’re kidding, right? You’ve had
my number. You know where I live. You could’ve contacted me at any point over
these years. And now you act like one of us has escaped the Bermuda Triangle?
Give me a break.’
“A
contrite sib might’ve said, ‘You’re right. I’m acting as if I’d spent the last six
years in a convent with vows to shun the outside world. I’m being entirely
insincere. I’m sorry.’ But no. His words only pissed her off.”
Miss
Scrimshaw grinned. “Well, why should she swallow her pride and apologize when righteous
indignation is an option?”
“In
keeping with that spirit of hostility, in response to my polite declining of
her holiday invitation, despite me thanking her anyway and wishing her the
best, she plays that righteous indignation card. How dare I, she says. She
takes the opportunity to list all my iniquities, accuses me of privilege
undeserved, and punctuates her thesis with what she might’ve regarded as the
ultimate burn – she hadn’t wanted to invite me anyway. Turns out my mother and
stepfather had put her up to it.”
“Hold
on. Your parents secretly asked one of your stepsiblings to invite you to her
place for Thanksgiving?”
“Meanwhile,
once she admits to our folks’ influence, I kindly explain to her why she should
then be pleased that I declined her invitation, not angry, since apparently
neither one of us wanted me to spend Thanksgiving at her home. But no. She uses
a public Facebook feed to chew me out. It’s the most she’s communicated to me
in a decade. The hostility coating her poor grammar would’ve convinced you I’d burned
down her house or something. She closes her diatribe by renouncing me entirely.”
“Aren’t
grudges great? Pent up rage, maybe. Speaks of insecurities and envy. Ultimately
unhappiness, lack of fulfillment.”
“Perhaps.
But don’t tell her that. She’ll curse your name, with dangling participles to
boot. But no. I’d evidently said or done something to offend her prior to this
event, something she never brought to my attention, something about which I’m
entirely ignorant. My polite refusal of her holiday invitation was apparently
the proverbial last straw that broke the dromedary’s back. That’s the passive
aggressive element I’m talking about. Typical of an unhealthy psyche.”
“Telltale
signs of an emotionally unstable adult.”
“Four
or five years later she and her husband divorce. Her second divorce. She moves to town. Gets an apartment. Refuses
to have anything to do with me. Despite her being in the wrong, despite me
asking my folks to relay my genuine regret and condolences over her divorce, she
instructs them that I mustn’t appear in any family get-together involving her.
To my chagrin, parents honor her request. It became satirical. Whatever event they
scheduled together, I was either disinvited from or told I couldn’t attend.”
“Your
parents are clearly complicit. Whether it’s inspired by indifference, apathy,
ignorance, or moral turpitude, their role is an endorsement of her contempt for
you. Only perpetuates it, a cycle of hostility, ad nauseum. If your parents had
a grain of wisdom, they’d tell her they can’t support her decision to reject
you without cause. She can’t simultaneously condemn one of their sons while expecting
their emotional support. Don’t they realize that?”
“I
think my parents just want a relationship with as many of their children and
grandchildren as possible. They’re thinking only in practical terms. Truth, honor,
integrity, morality – irrelevant. No. Offspring hates Mark and insists Mark be
ostracized. Check. Comply with offspring’s wishes. No more complicated than
that.”
“So
they took a secret vote and you were shipped to Siberia.”
“I
drew the short straw, I guess. I’m the least likable. To ostracize me, to exclude
me from anything involving the other offspring, thereby grants parents continued
access to the remaining offspring and grandchildren.”
“Pure
efficiency. Like the Germans during World War Two.”
“That’s
a bit harsh, Kelli with an –”
Kelli
frowned. “Would you settle for Machiavellian? Didn’t you tell me your brother
cut you out of his life many years ago and that your folks took him in as a
reward?”
“Over
a decade ago. He and I shared a house. Three bedrooms, two baths. We each
invested thousands of dollars into remodeling the place – sprinkler system for
the yard, new roof, new kitchen and bathroom tile, carpet, curtains, paint,
appliances. Split the costs down the middle. Again, thousands of dollars each.
“Then
one day nearly a year in he tells me that despite his hopes, he recognizes he
prefers to live alone. He doesn’t move out, however. Nor does he ask me to move
out. Instead, he insists I keep my bedroom door closed at all times to spare
him the visual reminder that I live there when he walks down the hall.”
“You’re
kidding!”
“Tells
me to enter the kitchen only when he’s not using it, etc. I considered moving
out, but I’d already invested so much money into the home. For weeks I didn’t
want to believe it. Told myself he wasn’t serious. Eventually, however, I began
to grow resentful. I didn’t realize it at the time, of course, but in hindsight
I’m convinced I’d decided to retaliate.
“Since
he made all the rules and refused to abide by a single request I made, four
years into this abominable experiment, I decided to make him pay for everything
else – utilities, property taxes, etc. Not my finest hour.”
“Revenge
usually hurts both parties.”
“When
the property taxes came due, my brother packed a suitcase and moved out. I’ve
since apologized and done everything I could to atone for forcing him to pay my
share of the costs so long as he metaphorically consigned me to the basement. But
not only has he refused to accept my apology. He’s never apologized. He’s convinced
he never did anything wrong.”
“And
your folks took him in. Fifty years old and he lives with his mother and stepfather.
Do they not recognize that by allowing him to live with them they endorse his hostility
toward you? Do they not realize or care whether that alliance hurts you?”
“That’s
the passive aggression I’m talking about. Imagine I say or do something that offends
you, whether deliberately or not. You’re emotionally healthy, so you call the
offense to my attention, tell me the thing I did or said hurt, right? If I’m likewise
emotionally healthy, I apologize, refrain from repeating the offense and do
what I can to atone for the wrong. That’s the ideal, anyway.
“Now
imagine I’m like any parent or sibling in my family and hence emotionally
immature. You say or do something to offend me. I don’t bring it up. I don’t
breach the subject. Instead, I keep it to myself. I brood, let it build, grow
to resent and even punish you in passive aggressive ways.
“That’s
that entire family. To this day. It accounts for the strange behavior.
Outbursts which on the surface appear disproportionate to the offense. For
example, politely declining a stepsibling’s invitation to spend Thanksgiving
with her family and, in response, that stepsibling telling me to go die in a
fire.
“The
corollary is more immediate. Suppose I say or do something that offends you and
you point it out to me. If I’m like one of my parents or siblings, hence emotionally
immature, likewise lacking empathy, I dismiss your hurt feelings and insist you’re
blowing things out of proportion, that it’s all in your head. Which,
incidentally, is what my brother and my mother have done with me. My brother imposed
47 rules on our living arrangement. When I objected, he doubled down, told me my
objections were absurd, further offending me for being offended. I could’ve cut
my losses, moved out, started afresh. Instead, the younger, more foolish
version of me decided to retaliate via passive aggression by refusing to pay my
share of the expenses. Yes. I was just like them back then.”
“I’m
reminded of Shakespeare’s ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’ Like a form of
gaslighting only not necessarily deliberate.”
“Precisely.
And since my brother hates me and is welcome to live with my parents, he would
instruct them that I wasn’t allowed to visit them when he was there. My parents
honored his request, thereby acting as proxy for his continued hostility toward
me. When I explained how insulting that was, they’d dismiss my concern.”
“Further
compounding the offense. They should’ve insisted long ago that he get his own
place. But they won’t because deep down, maybe even unbeknownst to them, they
bear a grudge against you. Maybe they’re not even aware that they side with him.
At least that’s your suspicion. Whatever the cause, that’s weapons grade squirrely.”
“Squirrely
and degrading.”
“You
don’t deserve that. No one deserves that. Why did you put up with it for so
long?”
“I
think I can distill it this way. The younger version of me, raised that way,
grew to believe he deserved such treatment. Years of such conditioning produced
insecurities, invariably resulting in an unhealthy desire to be loved and to
satisfy everyone. Looking back at my former self, it’s hard to believe that was
me. Due to my spiritual awakening, prayer, and a few insightful books on the
subject, I’ve changed so much since then.”
“I’d
call it an intellectual overhaul, what philosophers and metaphysicians call the
existential trauma, the psychological trial by fire and subsequent
transformation. In fact, I must admit, your recent renaissance and personal
enlightenment over these past five years is not only rare for anyone to embark
upon. It’s staggering.
“The
whole Socrates’ directive to examine one’s life, renounce your vices, embrace
the virtues, find a faith, read the Catechism, teach yourself foreign languages,
not to mention the more surface stuff – adopt an exercise routine, grow out
your hair like John the Baptist, invest in slightly nicer clothes. Commendable,
frankly. And it makes these circumstances only more tragic in a way. I mean, for
whatever reasons, your mother and stepfather have clearly given everyone else
in the family a pass while punishing you. And yet you’re the only one who
should be pardoned. What precisely did you do to offend them so deeply anyway?”
“I
can answer that question with an anecdote.”
“Do
they serve popcorn here as an appetizer?”
“I
know this’ll sound like the equivalent of that whole ‘my greatest weakness is
my strength’ routine, but, in all seriousness, my fundamental crime is telling
the truth. As a result, I’m the least agreeable. And that’s all that matters to
them. Not who’s right or wrong or honest or truthful.”
“This
ought to be good.”
“When
visiting my parents’ apartment years ago, my stepfather told me a story about
my brother while my brother was out with friends. Keep in mind that my brother
is a serious chess player. He competed in chess tournaments.
“The
story goes like this. One day my brother asks our stepfather to play him a game
of chess. Stepfather doesn’t want to play a game of chess, but he doesn’t tell
my brother that. Instead, stepfather pretends to happily consent.
“Stepfather
loses game of chess to my brother. Brother then hands a chess book to
stepfather. Tells stepfather the book will improve his game. Stepfather smiles
and promises my brother he’ll read it.
“Take
note that this is merely three links in a chain of lies over the course of an
afternoon. Imagine the breadth of these woven webs of deceit over the course of
a relationship, say, thirty years.
“Here’s
my stepfather, confiding in me things he refused to say, for whatever reason,
to my brother, his stepson, who shares the apartment with him. Stepfather goes
on to assure me he couldn’t care less about improving his chess game, didn’t
want to play in the first place, and, no, he’s not about to read the book.
“Damn.
Everything about that story is a case study in duplicity on your stepfather’s
part.”
“Dysfunctional
interaction at its most concentrated.”
Kelli
shook her head in bewilderment. “A kind of microcosmic family cat and mouse
cloak and dagger snafu.”
“Consider
the ramifications of this practice on a global scale. This so-called diplomacy,
however well intentioned, this absurd effort to postpone war, if you will, invariably
leads to bloodshed. Consider the tens of millions murdered in the past century,
deaths predicated on a series of little lies, of telling people what they
wanted to hear rather than what they needed to hear or what the authorities
believed they were entitled to hear and so on.
“Why,
I wonder, does my stepfather choose to interact with so-called loved ones in
this way?”
Kelli
spread her forearms. “Why not just be honest? Why does he betray himself, his
own identity? Pretending something he’s not?”
“And
why would he betray my brother’s trust? Especially over something so trivial as
a board game? Answer? Because it’s ingrained in his psyche. It’s his default
mode. Diplomacy at all costs. Even if it means outright treachery and betrayal
of another’s trust.”
“What
a knave.”
“But
that’s essentially the difference. They won’t risk offending. Instead, they
engage in things far worse – gossip, deception, pretense, dishonesty, duplicity.
Whereas I’m honest. Unlike the rest of the family, I tell the truth. And it
annoys them all. And that’s primarily why my parents are willing to ignore
everyone else’s faults but renounce me.
“In
fact, I told my stepfather point blank that it’s not up to me to determine what
information a friend or relative is entitled to know. Instead, it’s my
responsibility to tell the truth. It’s up to them to decide what to do with
that truth. I looked him right in the eye when I said it. He only swallowed and
looked away. He knew I was referring to him.
“And,
Kelli, if I might anticipate your cries of hypocrisy, I’m talking about them
behind their backs now only after having exhausted all other avenues – face to
face conversations, emails, text messages. Indeed, I’ve talked to them about
these things to their faces until all the oxygen has left the room, and they’ve
refused to acknowledge its validity or value.”
“Which
one of your stepsiblings would call you only when she was both drunk and high?”
“And
only to talk about herself? Until I politely told her I didn’t appreciate it?
The pothead in Kansas. At which point her calls abruptly stopped. Which,
incidentally, is a perfect example of that family dynamic at play. Stepsibling
is getting drunk and high repeatedly. She’s married. Has children. She clearly
has issues no one else in the family will address. Oh, they’ll all talk about
her behind her back. But they won’t discuss it with her. But I will. And what
happens? Stepsibling calls the parents, distraught, telling them what a mean
brother I am. And what do they do? They console her, tell her it’s okay. Mark
is just a meanie. Allowing the pattern to continue.”
“Or
the one who pretended she was into the same things you were into?”
“Only
because she was lonely and needed someone to talk to and knew I wouldn’t waste
my time with someone I had nothing in common with? That was the youngest.”
“Was
that the one who told you she was leaving her husband and moving to Texas?”
“Among
six dozen other things that turned out to be a lie. I won’t even tell you how
much money I sent her for moving. Not only did she have no intention of ever
leaving her husband, she kept the money and told the other siblings she could
now afford to buy everyone something for Christmas that year.”
“How
did you discover she was lying to you?”
“For
starters, this was some time ago, back when I was still in communication with
my parents. Ironically, they warned me that she was manipulative and deceitful.
One of the few times they were honest with me, and I didn’t believe them.”
“That’s
only natural, really. Catch someone in just one lie, and everything else they
say thereafter is rendered suspect.”
“Then
she flew down and spent a few weeks here over the summer under the pretext of
first finding a place to live before packing all her things and driving down. I
suspected nothing. At first. We’d hang out, listen to music, sip scotch. But
gradually, as the alcohol loosened her tongue, she’d confess that nearly
everything she’d told me had been to curry favor with me. That she’d wanted to
only win my approval. I just listened in horror. Shame it took her being drunk
to tell the truth. When I’d quiz her about it the following day, she’d only dig
herself a deeper hole. It was pitiable.
“After
she returned home, she backtracked on nearly everything she’d said prior to
coming down as well as what she’d said while here. I felt like such a fool. Over
the phone, I asked her about the dozen or so lies she’d gotten caught telling.
I assured her even the parents had warned me about her beforehand. She feigned
indignation, denied everything and told me I was crazy. Then she called the
parents to verify whether they’d told me she was deceitful. They insisted they
hadn’t, that I was clearly wrong, that I’d misheard them, etc.”
“But
aren’t your folks Christians?”
“In
name only.”
“Hardly
Christ-like. What horrid people. Your folks shun the only son who apologizes
for causing strife, the only son who makes every effort to atone for his
wrongdoing. You go out of your way to demonstrate your sincerity, and your
folks dismiss all of that in favor of maintaining ties with unrepentant liars, drunks,
drug users, and adulterers in order to occasionally see their grandchildren.
You don’t consider that shameful if not outright wicked?”
I
gazed at my empty glass of whisky. I couldn’t remember having finished it off.
“You’re
better off without them. Let’s change the subject. I’m going to be brutal. You
ready?”
“I
hope so. I’m sitting down after all.”
“Very
well. End the blog. It had a good run. What was it, a decade?”
“I
began it eight years ago. November of 2011. A little over a hundred posts.”
Miss
Scrimshaw glanced at the ceiling. She may’ve been counting. “So roughly a dozen
posts a year on average. That’s about one post a month. Fine. Now take that
blog out back and shoot it in the face. Pour that creativity into your fiction
instead. Exclusively. You feel me?”
“Is
that an invitation?”
“Men!”
Kelli rolled her eyes and sighed. “Look. I abhor buttering up anybody, but the
secret’s out. I already told you I enjoyed book one of your trilogy. I want to
find out what happens next. Meanwhile, your blog’s a wash. Some good posts here
and there. A few keepers, actually. But it was an experiment, was it not?
Taking on voices. Testing the readers’ patience. Trying to amuse while
condemning society at large. Very Fran Lebowitz-like. All well and good for an
insomniac.”
“I’m
flattered by the Lebowitz comparison.”
“Don’t
be.”
“But
an insomniac? To whom are you referring? Me or the read –”
“Both.
Think of the purpose of storytelling. Consider the value. The truth within the
fiction. That’s a paradox worth pursuing. Regardless whether you ever publish
or sell a single copy of your stuff, when the authorities find your decomposing
corpse, wouldn’t you like to have a stack of manuscripts in the bottom drawer
of your desk? That’s the treasure, the – Don’t you dare order another glass of
Laphroaig. I swear I’ll quit this dining experience and leave you with the tab.
I’m casting my pearls here, Mark. Don’t play the swine.”
“Fair
enough. I’ll sip this ice-cold water on tap instead.”
“At
least it’ll quench your thirst after eight doubles of something that smells
faintly of bogs and iodine.”
“Point
out another beverage that tastes like an experience rather than a mere flavor.”
“The
fact that it’s room temp is probably the reason you’re still parched. What you need
is the cold stuff.” She took a sip of her tea as if she were relishing the
gods’ nectar. When she set down her glass again, she gave me one of her
signature stares. “Louis L’Amore wrote more novels than years you and I’ve been
on this planet combined. And that’s saying something; you’re old. That’s
essentially one book for every one of your blog posts. Translated into ten
different languages. Yet does anyone remember his blog?”
I
tried not to smile. “Not a one.”
“Precisely.
So tell thy blog to walk ye olde plank or something, matey.”
“I
detect a Treasure Island theme here.”
“Sheer
luck, Sherlock. Focus, Mark. Focus on the art of the story. The prose. The
unforgettable characters. The pivotal moments. The twists and surprises.
Evoking emotions in the reader. That’s what it’s all about. Only books have
spines. Those words out there in the ether can’t compare. Even E.L. James had
to get a book deal and turn her fan fic tripe into a novel before the widows
and single ladies with no discriminating taste took notice.”
“You’re
referring to Fifty Shades of Shit?”
“Incidentally,
I’m told she managed to piss off the BDSM crowd with her sophomoric approach.”
“That
crowd shouldn’t mind, though. They’re famous for enjoying pain.”
“Don’t
dodge and parry.”
“Fair
enough. So you advise I walk away from my darling?”
“Is
your blog your darling? Then in the words of Faulkner, ‘Kill your darling.’ Or
at least let it drown out there on the nebulous cyber waves or whatever. Or use
it to perpetuate your fiction. Try posting weekly drafts of your sequel one
scene at a time. That would keep me coming back for more. Otherwise, don’t
visit. Don’t write. See what I did there?”
“You’re
a credit to your sex.”
“Slow
down, Romeo. Ours is a platonic relationship.”
“Pity.
But I take your point. Plus, it would never work out. I’m smitten by the
British accent. I’d end up putting you on a pedestal, romanticizing you as an
ideal like the chivalrous knights of your merry ole England would have done
back in the day of standing water and cholera.”
“Chivalrous
knights? My merry ole England? Surely you jest. My Nigerian homeland is closer
to the beautiful Queen Dido’s ancient Carthage than to your fabled King
Author’s roundtable. Standing water, though. Nice euphemism for urine. You know,
despite your rugged good looks and fine taste in sophisticated women, apart
from that obese trollop half your age who took you for the proverbial ride, I can’t
get tied down to an artist without a future.”
“Ouch!
And she wasn’t half my age.”
“Intellectually,
she was a child.”
Our
food arrived and we spent the remainder of our time talking about Miss
Scrimshaw. I’m sworn to secrecy about her fascinating private life, so I’ll
abruptly end my last blog post here.
真久