Fiction

Boy This is Fun : A True Story Based On Fiction

Greg Freier

I sat there looking at everyone. I didn’t want to be there, that much was obvious. My wife, whose family it was, didn’t want to be there. I knew both my kids didn’t want to be there, because they had to listen to me complain about how much I didn’t want to be there before we even got there. But there we were, Thanksgiving, a time for being thankful.

I had to admit though, it started out well, as opposed the other years, when I might have been suffering from some form of self inflicted bowel problems or some such malady. Because this year began with an unwanted visual, the kind you never want to see twice. The second, and I mean the exact second we pulled into their driveway, I heard my oldest son blurt out from the back seat, “Hey look, there’s Uncle Roy pissing on the side of the garage.”

My first instinct was to quickly back out of the drive, and go home before anyone had an inkling we were even there. But before such unimaginable and God like luck could render itself plausible, Uncle Roy noticed us. Not only noticed us but gave us a full frontal visual while he continued misspelling his name in the snow. It was at this point that my wife looked at me and shrugged. We were now officially company.

At this point there was nothing I, or anyone else could do. So the four of us, with agglutinated smiles, got out of the car, took a simultaneous, family deep breath, and dejectedly entered the holiday excitement.

The bacchanalia of joy began immediately upon entering. My four-year old nephew, Elmo, who was named after the Muppet due to idiotic parents, decided his proper greeting on this bountiful day was to lambaste my testicles with a marble rolling pin, that as luck would have it, was still covered in flour. I immediately dropped. Five minutes later, with my stomach almost back to normal, I noticed his father, my brother-in-law, Bruce, hovering directly above me with beer dribbling down his chin.

“Bet that hurt,” Bruce joked, spraying his dribble onto the upper portion of my head. “He got me there just before we left. Should have never shown little jerk just how funny that was.” He proceeded to help me up and then point me towards the cooler full of beer. “Might want to get a cold one yourself before all the real fun starts.”

I nodded, refrained from removing his colon via his nostrils, and walked into the living room where the rest of “family” was located. It was the usual gathering of rabble. The type of setting that to an outsider, might give the general appearance of a troglodyte convention, but with a lower IQ and a slightly more cartoonish perception.

There was a quick exchange of hellos, and then the four of us proceed to disband with the distinct notion of finding each other’s comfort zones for the duration. I naturally gravitated towards the alcohol, as it was my only hope for survival. My wife on the other hand, who had these gatherings down to a science, chose a nice corner, one that had the appearance of being social, but just far enough away from everyone else to keep ones sanity intact. And the boys, they just did what came naturally; they instantly sprinted to the basement before anyone could touch them. Because in the reality of the holiday dynamics, that was probably the sanest place to be, for there, in that magnificent space that I was not, were all the luxuries that the male psyche could possibly ever want, a pool table, a big screen television, tons of junk food, and most importantly, there was usually only one adult in attendance. Grandma. A delightful, senile, old bitch of a woman, who for the most part, was usually so far out of it that she spent the majority of her time conversing with a variety children that weren’t actually there. She’d once even gone as far as to give my youngest son, who was four at the time, a journey to the naughty chair for severely beating up an invisible young girl.

But all and all, it was still better than being upstairs.

After my third beer, the first two of which I chugged, I noticed something down in the corner, behind a fake bush, and just visible enough to be seen if you happened to be glancing directly at that particular place. Not wanting to appear too obvious, I squatted down and pretended to tie my sock as my shoes were by the front door. Once in position, it was as if the gods had known my suffering and had made a joint decision to regale me with at least one holiday of partial joy. For there, hidden with the experienced precision of an imbecile, was a bottle of peach schnapps, the one true liquor that not only warmed and promoted tolerance, but also gave one kissing fresh breathe.

Fifteen minutes later, I was all but happy, at least in the context of my surroundings. The annoyance level was decreasing, the assholes seemed more inviting, and I had the jolly facial coloring of Santa Claus. All and all it was becoming a holiday.

“What you got there?” I heard a familiar voice from behind.

“Nothing,” I quickly replied.

“You smell all fruity,” said Bruce.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it that way you asshole. I meant fruity in a drinking way.”

“Thank you again.”

Bruce spied the surroundings, adjusted his rainbow colored suspenders and then spoke in a rather violent tone, “Where’s the schnapps dip wad?”

It was at this point that I began to go over my options. I could “A,” lie, and tell him that I had no idea where the schnapps was. “B,” hand him the schnapps and tell him to go and screw himself. Or “C,” which was in fact, my favorite of all my options, locate an ice pick and drive it completely through this useless heart. But before my options had a chance to play out, I heard my mother-in-law declare martial law.

Dinner was served.

Now over the years, I had developed a system in which to make my dining experience more palatable without appearing to be too anti-social. It was simplistic, logical, and quite frankly, brilliant. Be last in line. For this realm of pure genius created but one final scenario. By the time you were through harvesting your dry, crunchy bounty, onto your cheap, red plastic plate, all the good seats, and by that, I mean all of the seats, even the children’s, would have been taken. And in my world there was nothing wrong with sitting all alone, in a corner, without human contact, but with just enough vision to still be able to still see which ever NFL game happened to be on at the time.

That was the one true meaning of bliss. But it was of course, not to last.

Once the delightful meal, which in this case was an oxymoron of sarcasm, had been masticated and stored in its proper place of residence, my father-in-law, Biff, who still thought of himself as an athlete, bellowed the three words no sane adult ever wanted to hear, especially after forcing six pounds of uneatable crap down ones throat.

“Time for football.”

Now to be quite honest, I was not athletic. I was more along the type of person who got winded breathing. I enjoyed sports. I was good at watching them. But when it came to the aspect of agility, I had the coordination of a hypothetical monkey on acid. And that was on a good day. I had once even managed to break my wrist simply using a urinal. So to someone such as myself, this yearly football game was nothing more than a freakish nightmare that I wish would go back towards the bowels of hell from which it had spread.

But it didn’t. And once again, as with all years, I was designated as one of the two quarterbacks.

Fortunately, it was one of those fall days where the weather was abnormal. It was sunny, in the upper sixties, and the ground had just enough moisture to not completely annihilate your body when you were thrown to it against your will. It was more the type of day that one should savior and enjoy before the frigidity of winter blasted it’s bastard self into one’s world. But it of course was, not to be. For today, I was an athlete. One that to be quite honest, threw like a girl, a very diminutive, uncoordinated young girl, that most likely had no arms.

So there I stood, in the rear quadrant of the yard, with a clueless grin attached to my daydreaming face. What I liked to refer to as my safe haven before the proverbial shit hit the fan, because the next thing I knew, a whistle had blown, my daydream was over and the ball was in the air, and for some reason, it was heading directly towards me. My first instinct was to panic, but as I didn’t view the idea of screaming like a pansy a viable option at this point, I reached up and somehow managed to secure the ball in my arms. It was at this point I realized that a natural athlete let his athleticism take over. Having none of which to speak of, I instead found myself underneath three people, one of which, Roy, was punching me in the kidneys trying to jar the ball loose from my pathetic grip.

But hold on I did.

Upon rising and checking to see if my body parts were still where God intended them to be, I entered our huddle with a manly bravado, an attitude that was most likely attributed to a concussion that I was yet aware of. For there I barked out a play that involved thirteen people, seventeen different pass patterns, and a recipe for apple pie, which I might add, was my favorite. As there were only four of us in the huddle, my youngest son, who excelled at common sense, quickly took over the reigns of the meeting. When it was all said and done, I was to go deep, as I no longer possessed the fortitude to throw the ball, as most of my fingers now seemed to broken as well.

I took my position in the slot, which in my head I was calling the Z position as I thought it sounded cool, and waited for my son to scream hike. Once said, I quickly gave my wife an inside out move and sprinted directly into a large tree. Fortunately, it was a soft tree, and I only ended up with a bloody nose when I came to. The good news however, was that during my minor unconscious period, my son, who had his mother’s athletic ability, had managed to toss a perfect strike to my nephew for a quick score. This naturally infuriated Roy and my father-in-law who took this “fun time” more seriously than life itself.

But as with all fun time, the fun is something that has to end eventually. Because what happened next, was in my opinion, God’s way of saying, “fun is supposed to actually be fun and not something for competitive bastards to whine about.”

For on the ensuing kickoff, which I feel down on even though I was not the one kicking the ball, Roy, who was the apparent lead blocker, after releasing a loud grunt that was meant to intimidate, crumbled to the ground from what was most likely a massive coronary and died, my father-in-law, who had to run into the street to fetch the errant kickoff was then struck by a drunk in a Winnebago who was veering to avoid a large raccoon that had something managed to entangled itself in a large, plastic garbage bag and had no clue as to where it was. I, still in concussion mode, instinctively ran into the street, recovered the fumble and ran it to the house for another touchdown.

And that was our Thanksgiving, two dead, and me scoring the first touchdown of my life.