NOTE – April 15th, 2024:

I originally conceived this as the first chapter of a novel with the working title of Mother of God. After a flurry of edits I didn’t really feel the motivation to go any further. I think that’s because I don’t really like any of the characters. Usually my fondness or empathy for a character propels me forward even without much of a plot already envisioned. Here… well, I just don’t know. I don’t feel it. I hope it’s not a sign of writer’s block as I have indeed felt a little empty lately… a little dry. I hope to open up the spigot soon. All the same, I do kind of like the scene created – in the end this little vignette must stand on its own.

Thanksgiving: Elsewhere & Nowhere Else

 “Where is he?”

   “Upstairs, I think… way upstairs. In the attic.”

   Knowing shared glances all about, raised eyebrows… then momentary silence. But somebody clears their throat, someone rattles their dinner ware.

   “Well holy mother of god!..”

   Indeed, earlier, Timothy had told no one in particular that he was heading on up, as usual, to conduct his obligatory “rodent inspection” as it has come to be called, but everybody knew the truth.

   Yes, of course, there may very well be mice up there, there are faint ghostly scamperings heard from time to time, odd scratchings from wall to wall, but that’s not it at all.

   The dude is nuts – the dude is up there hiding out. But you can’t hide from yourself, can you?

   He would prefer it thought as merely getting away for a spell, detaching from reality, phrases which project a little more self-determination and offering perhaps a quiver of acceptable motivation into the equation.

   So why not?

   It wouldn’t hurt you to play along, would it?

   What’s the harm?

   Whatever one chooses to call it, he sure isn’t there with the gathered, he’s presently elsewhere and nowhere else, and that turkey gravy is already starting to mottle. The matriarch can plainly see that.

Old lady Layla, the proud matriarch of the gathered, so full of narcotics and of herself, takes a large silver spoon to the gravy boat. She gives it a quick spirited stirring, an un-mottling of sorts, and then one harsh tap of the spoon upon the rim in hopes of disengaging any stubborn remnants.

   The resulting echoing ring gains everyone’s attention.

   There are no stubborn remnants.

   “Would somebody run up there and fetch the little asshole?”

   So lovely, mother, Vickie thinks as she pours herself a second glass of chilled white. A viognier, French, bestowed upon them by Charlene’s new young boyfriend, a Spaniard of some repute who answers to the name of Eduardo, and an interesting variety at that.

   And despite the affected English a flat-out flirt.

   After all, you don’t flirt with your mouth – you flirt with your wandering eyes and beauty and desire is a shared universal language.

   Vickie stands up without a word and, with full pour in hand, walks over to the staircase and commences the ascent to fetch her lost brother, the aforementioned little asshole.

From the other end of the large thankgivingly table where their father formerly roosted and ruled, Brandt watches his older sister walk away. There she goes again, forever the caretaker, forever the savior in recovery, in her own constant recovery (hell, she can’t even recover herself), and now efforting to recover something else… the baby of the family. The avowed recluse, the isolationist, the brooding loner hiding out yet again upstairs ensnared within the many feathered cobwebs of his never-fading memories and the present unfolding melodrama.

   Brandt glances toward his mother – “C’mon, mom, let’s get this party rolling, shall we? They’ll get down here when they get down here.”

   Quick, before the crows all fly south, before the grey turns to black, before the gravy threatens to re-mottle.

   “But Brandt – the family prayer – you must remember, the thanksgiving family prayer – we say it every year before breaking bread. You do remember, right?”

   Layla, always lying in wait, his esteemed mother, has issued a stark reminder – a proclamation of sorts. But it is, in fact, of questionable repute.

   “Mom, we haven’t said that prayer, or any prayer, in years… since way before dad died.” Brandt turns to his youngest sister. “Isn’t that right, Charlene?”

   Charlene and her young Spanish lover are sitting side by side making crazy eyes at each other, leaning into one another and rubbing shoulders and giggling like silly teenagers, squeezing each other’s things unseen below the table, all the while knocking down large goblets of robust red.

   “What?” she laughs in response, not really paying attention, still all a-giggle, and only now attempting to straighten up a bit. “Something about a family prayer? Well yes, sure, as a matter of fact I do recall such a practice and I do agree it would be wonderful to hear it once again. In its entirety. Verbatim. Today. Right now!”

   Then she’s giggling again but Eduardo is somewhat respectfully now only smiling.

    Brandt looks away in disbelief. Great. Be my guest… but instead.

   “Look, I’m hungry, okay… and after last night my stomach needs something in it. Pronto. Or else.”

   Layla dings the gravy boat once more.

   “WE SHALL WAIT!”  

Meanwhile, way up there in the attic, beneath the shallow light bequeathed from one dangling grime-entombed bulb which wants so badly to abruptly pop and be done with it, there come  murmurings.

   “Listen – I’m having a problem… well, problems I guess, but this one problem is really getting me down. I mean, it’s a goddamn doozy… I just can’t seem to shake it… I can’t stop thinking about it.”

   Here Timothy pauses… here Timothy allows for a moment to let his words soak in. Vickie doesn’t dare speak, not yet, she’s learned to not venture into mere speculation until properly provoked… for now, just let the young man expand.

   In due time all can only be revealed.

   “Of course I’m talking about non-existence. About life here on this planet, after I’m gone, our world going on without me in it. I mean, I just don’t know if I can handle that…. I can’t fathom it… the mere concept.”

   Another pause… a longer pause. Yes… it’s now come time for her to speak.

   “But you won’t have to, Tim… remember? You won’t actually be here… you’ll be dead. So you won’t have to handle anything.”

   Timothy rolls his eyes, shakes his wild mane of hair.

   “You don’t get it. That’s not the problem. The problem is right now. Right fucking here. Right fucking now. I can’t stop thinking about it. Life, all of this (and here he spreads his arms banging into something, a sealed cardboard box, and its dust unsettles and they can both smell the jettisoned motes presently frolicking in the air and Vickie inwardly curses the coming sneeze) – sorry about that – all of this going on just merrily right on without me. Its driving me fucking crazy."

   Vickie shifts her body.

   If only this episode was because the young man was off his meds… but he’s no longer on any meds.

   If only this episode was because the young man had missed his last session… but he’s no longer in therapy.

   Vickie must pivot her approach.

   “Tim, we’re all in the same goddamn boat. We’re all in this… this fucked-up thing together. We are all stuck in this crazy three-dimensional world – you know, the past, the future and the all-too-present present. There’s no other way around it.”

   “Dimensions? Only three? What in the world are you even talking about? There’s at least seven, last time I checked.”

   Tim’s been thinking about and exploring all of those other unknown and even more real and bizarre dimensions for years.

   “Come on Timmy… this is it… this is the hand we’ve all been dealt. It’s called life. Life implies death. I suggest you get over it.”

   Vickie sneezes… she sneezes so violently that dust which had been settled there for decades becomes unhinged cut loose to visit other more remote attic locales. .

   “Bless your fat ass.”

   “Thanks… I guess.”

   “ Well… that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

   Yes!

   A hint of acceptance found in that phrase of rejection!

   Vickie turns her head and coyly smiles at her baby brother offering both of her hands in some kind of hopeful resolution. “No. It doesn’t. And you don’t. You surely don’t like it. And guess what? I don’t either. So what the fuck… it’s wonderful… right? Life? Death? Who cares? Now let’s go on down there and eat us some goddamn turkey.”

These gathered people, collectively and individually, have so much to be thankful for yet upon their ledger there’s always one more box to be checked, one more consumable to be clicked and one more day to be wasted while in the fastidious pursuit of their own fuzzy gold-tipped tails.

“We shall wait!”  

   Vickie and Timothy are half way down the staircase when they hear the gravy boat ding. And they heard the verbal preface prior to the dinging.

   Timothy is compelled to oblige.

   “O Heavenly Father, the Big G-Man with the certified plan, friend of that weird Holy Ghost guy, hallowed be thy name, shallowed be thy shame, thanks for the roasted bird, all the stuffing, the pumpkin pie and minced meat and endless booze, the coming snooze, the Xanax blues, and most of all, the gift of such wonderful embracing company…”

   Oh.

   Imagine that?

   The asshole does speaketh.

   “That’s quite enough out of you young man!” Layla interrupts.

   “But mother, the family prayer… I was just getting started.”

   “Enough!”

Perhaps if there had been a younger generation also gathered around that table, an innocent litter of rag-tag grandchildren to spoil and ignore, then the family dynamics might have been different, somehow softened, with all the parents and the lone grandparent wanting to show by example that there is, in fact, a better, almost happier way to exist.

   But Vickie’s teenage daughter is off with her father’s family (a child born out of wedlock long before the initial intervention) and Charlene is divorced from the old guy (she’s all-career these days) and Brandt and Barabara’s brood have not quite materialized while Timothy is… well, he remains our Timothy.

   So there is no better way… at least not today.

   “That turkey looks delicious,” Eduardo offers in his charming Span-english and Timothy remarks, “I’m a stuffing man, myself.”

   Eduardo looks Timothy deep into those insolent green eyes, searching for something, for anything, and grins.

   “Oh, that too,” Eduardo reassures and Barbara smiles and confirms. “It all looks so delicious… and it smells so good.”

   Barbara wants so bad to be a spring garden in late November, but what she doesn’t understand is that no one wants a spring garden in late November. So save the sing-song for ordering at Starbucks.

   The wafting scent of this holiday ambrosia tries to but cannot quite obfuscate the low, ever-present draft of fine wallowing bullshit.

   Brandt surreptitiously makes a move for the platter of meat in an attempt to get the ball rolling. Vickie goes for the smashed potatoes, Charlene eyeing the smoldering green bean casserole.

   “Some prayer that was,” Layla bemoans, “we are all heading straight into eternal damnation.”

   “Well before the long trek, I’d  like to get a little something on this stomach.”

   Layla glares at Brandt and tightens her grip on the carving knife.

   “By all means, big boy… dig right in!” 

   Yet one more allusion to his expanding weight, such a tiny ding, but tiny dings add up.  

   “If I may… please, in my country we have a little prayer we like to offer on such occasions… so if you don’t mind, perhaps, I might like to share… with you… tonight?”

   Eduardo has decided to step up. Tension, apparently, is also a universally shared feeling that usurps even the most admirable pretensions of any native language. Eduardo, the unknown one, has decided to become a little better known.

I guess it can’t hurt…

Shut the fuck up, Paco…

As long as it’s short and to the point…

Stop hogging the cabernet, stud…

He does have pretty eyes…

A variety of thoughts as simultaneously thought by the closely assembled, all of course unspoken, and who thought what is open to pure speculation.

   And yet there came forth no vocal objections. Brandt even made a grand be my guest gesticulation which was decidedly over-the-top but sadly apropos.

   Yet for some reason Charlene’s easy smile chastened a wee bit… for she knows, oh yes, deep down she must have known what was surely forthcoming.

   Eduardo didn’t stand up, but he did lift his glass.

   “Ayúdame Señor, estas personas son enfermas mentales, son gordas y perezosas, y no merecen una comida tan maravillosa. Aún así, bendícelos, ayúdalos a ver una mejor manera, y que mi amor por esta mujer florezca y se expanda. Amén.”

   Charlene suppresses a choke with a well-placed napkin.

   Yes, they may well all be undeserving and yes, they may well all be fat and lazy, but they’re not all quite as dumb as he thinks.

   “Whatever Ed just said and cheers,” Vickie responds and she raises her glass, and then everyone around the table does as well (even our Timothy), and they all echo “cheers” in not exactly the most joyful of unison. It comes off as flat, insincere, dismissive and motivated solely by the desire to commence immediate mastication.

One thinks of the name Layla and can't help but recall the classic blues-rock ode and then logically thinks but this aint that Layla and then one would be acutely wrong. It is. For all intentions it’s the same gal but she’s just been through a lot of shit. Believe it, she’s had plenty of people on their knees, begging, most of them fully able-bodied men, and if you don’t watch out you’ll soon find yourself right down there beside them.

   Because on top of everything else Layla’s got control of all the money.

   And you got all the time.

   Layla’s got the big stick.

   And you got the soft behind.

   So if she wants you down on your knees then down ya go boy, down on your knees.

   Sit.

   Now beg.

Layla, somewhat amused and even less perturbed, turns to poor Eduardo.

   “Thank you so much for your delightful… your thoughtful native words. Not exactly what I had in mind, of course, but it did mark the occasion with a rather unique… blessing. And oh, por cierto, hablo español con fluidez.”

   Now she smiles back at him but there is no affection in there for him at all.

   For the first time all night that borderline smirk is wiped clean off the handsome Spaniard’s face. The bitch got me, he thinks, she got me but good.

   Layla follows up with one last hard look with penciled eyebrows raised. That’s right, sonny boy, this old bitch got ya damn good.

  And at long last with her own shit-eating grin… “Now everybody… let us feast!”