Imperfect Solo

by Steven Boykey Sidley

  “Don’t answer. Thanks for the water. Thanks for busting me out. You’re OK, Meyer. I’ll watch for a while. Maybe come back next week, buy you a drink. Maybe we talk some more. Maybe your shit is as bad as mine. It’s all relative. Go play. Make me weep.”

  CHAPTER 44

  THE THING ABOUT Thanksgiving is, shit, it is such a fucking cliché. We are supposed to give thanks, supposedly catalyzed by some complete bullshit about Pilgrims and Injuns breaking bread, presumably a short while before the raping and pillaging began.

  So you gather your nearest and dearest to your breast and cook a huge traditional meal and watch football, and then wake up, do the Christmas shopping, and wait for winter. Which doesn’t really happen out here in LA.

  Given my learned cynicism about all things ritual, it is shiny irony that I love Thanksgiving so much. More than the Fourth of July. More than the Jewish holiday with the apple and honey. More than Valentine’s Day. As a youngster, it made me feel American, even though I was anyway. It diluted the whole loyalty confusion that we Jews felt. It made me proud. The weather was always just so. We never fought, unlike all those Thanksgiving movie plots. We just pigged out, the elders got a bit drunk, and then someone would say a toe-curling homily of a speech that was sure to dampen our collective eyes. Then we watched the games with requisite but transient passion. Then we hugged and kissed at the door and fell into an early sleep, at one with our great land.

  Which is why I have made a big deal about doing it at my house this year, my first hosting ever. Everyone is coming. I expected at least some weaseling, but even Krystal has accepted (after extracting from me a guarantee that I wasn’t seeing someone else, after which she extracted a guarantee from me that I had not fucked anyone since she left, which is true—I expect she will arrive with some high-tech medical kit to test my claims). Only Innocent declines, happy to send good thoughts from Africa where he will have no one to celebrate with. It breaks my heart. I would prefer a cokehead son here than a healthy one there. No, actually that’s not true at all.

  I experience a great deal of cognitive dissonance on the whole buy-versus-build question. I cook as well as any other single man who grew up in a traditional patriarchal home. Which means a small selection of life-sustaining necessities—sandwiches and eggs and the occasional barbecue. The scale of the Thanksgiving meal prickles my dread response. So many fucking moving parts. Like my life. You need just one small blooper and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down. I have unwisely waved away offers of help from all and sundry, convincing myself that an act as selfless and courageous as cooking and presenting the whole damn thing will absolve me from all forms of vaguely defined guilts and culpabilities, protect me from looming tribulations and calamities, and cause me to be born anew. This is, of course, errant nonsense, but it pleases me to raise the effort to the plateau of some religious awakening.

  I furiously browse Google and am immediately swamped with all manner of well-intended advice. I search for the “for dummies” advice and am rewarded with a large swath of step-by-step tactics for the culinarily challenged. I try to go simpler, typing in “thanksgiving meals for the dread-infected-bewildered-recently-bereaved-fool,” but alas. Nothing specifically for “people-who-think-cooking-a-thanksgiving-dinner-will-reinvent-their-lives.” But I find enough to spend a few hours immersed in a riveting but somewhat alarming craft, which reminds me somewhat of childhood chemistry manuals with their strange ingredients and measures. As soon as I get to the part where I am supposed to produce a hitherto unknown implement called a cooking thermometer to monitor internal turkey body temperature, I start to lose heart. I was sort of hoping that it would be a simple matter of “buy a turkey, put it in a hot oven, take it out two hours later” sort of affair.

  Uh-huh. I try to avert my eyes from the non-turkey items, assuming that the bird, the main event, is also the pinnacle of cooking complexity, and the rest is just simple frilling. But the side dishes, garnishes, accessories, extras, traditions, and spares are like sirens. I must read their preparations and, yes, they will kill me. To wit—a herd of ham preparations, a parliament of other poultry options, a convocation of cranberries and chutneys and gravies, a squabble of salads, a pod of potato inventions, a gaggle of green-bean thingamajigs, a sedge of stuffings, a quorum of casseroles, a dole of desserts, a murmuration of mustards and spices. You get the picture. A collective of collectives, alliterated to DEFCON 4.

  My surrender is swift and shameful.

  “Bunny. Help.”

  “What have you done now, Meyer?”

  “I may have taken on too much for Thanksgiving.”

  “Uh huh. What do you need?”

  “I need you to cook the turkey.”

  “You can’t host Thanksgiving and not cook the turkey.”

  “I will do lots of other stuff. It’ll be our little secret.”

  “Meyer?”

  “Yes?”

  “You are a miserable failure at all the important things.”

  “That I am. Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  “You are paying for turkey.”

  “Is what’s-his-name coming?”

  “His name is Daniel. And no, he is away with his parents in Branson.”

  “Where?”

  “Branson. Missouri.”

  “Branson, Missouri.”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t marry him.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not right. He may take Isobel on a visit to Branson and then she’ll have to listen to country music. She could die.”

  “Your turkey is hanging by a thread, Meyer.”

  “OK, I retract that. Thanks, Bunny.”

  One down.

  “Krystal. Help.”

  “What’s up, Meyer?”

  “Can you make cranberry sauce and gravy and shit? You know. Wet goods. Sauces and stuff.”

  “Yes. Are you sure you haven’t fucked anyone?”

  “And stuffing.”

  “Meyer?”

  “No, I haven’t. Have you?”

  “None of your business. Besides, I’m doing the sauces and stuffing, so you don’t get to ask me that.”

  Two down.

  “Farzad. Help.”

  “I did not marry a blonde American princess to have her cook for you, Meyer. She is mine to exploit, not yours.”

  “How the fuck did you know?”

  “I am a psychologist. We know everything about human behavior.”

  “Just a salad and a dessert. Nothing fancy.”

  “OK.”

  “OK.”

  Three down.

  “Van. Help.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re my best friend.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can Marion make a potato casserole or reasonable facsimile?”

  “Marion believes that women cooking for men perpetuates a patriarchal and misogynistic system.”

  “Shit.”

  “I can cook a bit. I have to cook for Marion. I usually have to do it wearing nothing but a Germaine Greer apron. It’s the penance I pay.”

  “For what?”

  “Uh … I’m not sure.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “OK.”

  “And a green-bean thingee?”

  “Fuck, Meyer, you’re taking advantage of my soft nature.”

  “Yes.”

  “OK.”

  I should have taken Jim, the HR guy, seriously and gone into management. This delegation thing is a wondrous tool.

  CHAPTER 45

  I HAVE DONE a creditable job with table-laying and drinks. I have added candles, bought some flowers, done bachelor origami with the napkins. I even prepared a project plan in Excel, outlining every detail, responsibilities, schedules, financial projections, workflows, critical paths.

  There is the familiar fist clench in my stomach as I enumerate the risks of turning my first Thanksgiving dinner into a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. I blot ou
t looming images of alcohol-fueled insults, food poisoning, the long-awaited San Andreas earthquake, an untimely heart attack or stroke or turkey-bone choker. Combustible wood stilt houses. Or the CEO’s henchmen appearing at my door with pliers and tape. So many messengers of disruption and chaos.

  By late afternoon everyone is around the table. Van and Marion. Farzad and Cherry. Bunny and Isobel. Krystal. All seated. I ping my wine glass with a fork.

  “OK. We are gathered here—”

  There is a collective groan.

  “Wait, wait. It’s traditional for the host, who has spent hours over a hot stove …”

  Hoots, jeers.

  “… to give a short Thanksgiving speech to his guests, in order to make them feel grateful about something or other. I forget. However, on this fine afternoon, I have decided to reverse the tradition and say something that will make each one of you feel shitty in your own way.”

  Hoots, jeers again. Except for Krystal, who looks at me nervously.

  “Krystal, this is me trying to be funny in an alarming way.”

  “I’ve never heard of alarming humor,” Krystal comments.

  “That’s why we had relationship problems.”

  Farzad chips in. “Actually, this would be excellent therapy for my little Meyer friend. He would feel better in inverse relationship to how shitty we feel. But he does not have it in him. He wants to be liked too much.”

  “Wait,” I say, “because my daughter is here, you all have to be nice to me, otherwise she might suffer from all sorts of trauma later in life.”

  “Daaaad,” groans Isobel, “I’m already traumatized by you. I’m fourteen, remember?”

  “OK, let’s hear it,” says Bunny.

  So I continue. “As you know, the forces of the universe have conspired to conquer me in greater or lesser degrees over the past while. Most of you have some glancing connection to these events. Which is why I have asked you here today so that we can gang up on the universe and ask it to return my life and demand a guarantee that it never does it again.”

  “Ah,” says Farzad, “I see. It is all about you.”

  Cherry throws Farzad a glance. “C’mon, let him finish.”

  “Pass the bread please.”

  Cherry passes Van the bread.

  “You can’t eat until I’ve finished the speech,” I insist.

  “Why not?” Van asks.

  “I dunno. Seven years’ bad luck?”

  “So talk.”

  “First, a toast to those absent. Innocent, who is excavating new experiences in Zimbabwe, including getting to know his maternal grandparents, who are old and fading. May he provide succor, enrich himself, and return safely.”

  I raise my glass, as do my guests.

  “To Innocent,” I continue, “a fine young man on the cusp.”

  Murmurs of assent.

  “And then there’s Grace. She was buried in Zimbabwe, and nobody has spoken for her here. So I say simply this—she lived up to her name.”

  I stop, fearing loss of control. I take a deep breath. There are many things I would like to say about Grace, but they are not for this audience, around which relationship baggage is liberally scattered.

  “To Grace.”

  There is an awkward silence, as everyone takes a sip.

  “And now to the nub of the matter. Life is like a box of chocolates …”

  Groans, vomiting sounds.

  “OK, OK. Seriously. It seems as though adversity has its own rewards. A bad thing smacks you upside of the head and when your ears have stopping ringing and you’ve had a nice cup of coffee, you get to reflect long and hard on the thing that whumped you and then you try to fit it into the greater scheme of things. Not saying that everything happens for a reason and all that nonsense, it’s more that with hindsight you can sort of integrate the thing into the story of your life so that it makes sense.”

  “Whoa,” Farzad says, “I am the psychologist here.”

  Cherry nudges him, “Farzad, let the man speak.”

  “My incessant pedant Farzad here talks about the threaded life,” I continue without looking at him, “about life being a tapestry woven by the person who lives it, and that it is our responsibility to make it pretty. Nice thought, Herr Doktor, but I am off on a different, uh, thread here, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

  I realize that I am still standing. I sit.

  “The villain is expectations. When life veers off the track of our expectations, we get unhappy. Even though we know that we are really habituated at forming unreasonable expectations. So, in hindsight, we can simply convince ourselves that we should have had more prudent expectations, and voilà, the story of our lives starts to look rational again, if not downright reasonable.”

  “Um …” Bunny pipes up. “Can I object?”

  “Mom! This isn’t court,” Isobel says.

  “Can you change the food rule?” asks Van. “I’m really hungry.”

  Marion looks irritatedly at Van. “No, you can’t change the food rule.”

  “I agree with Van,” says Krystal. “It sounds like we’re settling in for a long exposition here. The no-food rule is hereby overruled. All in favor?”

  All hands go up, expect for Marion, whose face is pinched into an attitude of quiet fury. I expect that she is here under duress. Presumably she’d rather be at home being spanked.

  Everybody climbs in simultaneously. Attention is diluted, hunger ascendant, philosophy of life descendent.

  “And that, folks, is it,” I say.

  “No, I want more,” Farzad insists. “Something good enough for me to steal for professional purposes. You were just on the edge of something there.”

  I am trying to work out if he is being sarcastic.

  “Nah, I’m done. But one more little exercise and then we can gossip viciously about people who are not here. Each person here needs to tell us something that they are thankful for, and something that they are not.”

  “Jesus,” says Bunny. “Why can’t people just have normal get-togethers anymore. All this sharing. It’s pornographic.”

  “I have always been pro-pornography actually,” I respond.

  “Typical male comment,” sighs Marion.

  “Marion, lighten up.” I want to do this. “I’ll start. I am thankful for, uh, rebellious daughters and wandering sons. I am not thankful for car accidents.”

  Cherry’s next. “I’m thankful for plump Iranian husbands and I am not thankful for, um, let me think, yes, most other Iranians.”

  “I am thankful,” Farzad retaliates, “for robust and disobedient American wives, and I am not thankful for psychotropic drugs dispensed by psychiatrists who tell their patients that they will get better when they won’t unless they come and lie on my couch for a few years and talk to me.”

  Nobody else volunteers.

  “Bunny, mother of my child …” I prompt.

  “Not playing.”

  Hoots, jeers, raspberries.

  “Please, Mom. For me?” Isobel’s on my side.

  “You first then,” says Bunny.

  “Thankful for cute boys—”

  “Aaaargh,” I groan.

  “—and not thankful for cute boys,” Isobel continues without breaking her stride. “Who I hate right now, but it’s not any of your business. I will Facebook Innocent about it later.”

  “OK,” volunteers Bunny, “I’m thankful for small mercies, not thankful for large ones.”

  “Oh, that’s cute,” I say.

  “Thankful for women.” Marion’s playing along. “Not thankful for Republicans.”

  Van rolls his eyes.

  “What about Republican women?” I ask.

  “Thankful for trust funds. Not thankful for, uh, hmmm. Let me see. Bad musicians who get famous because of their hair. Or teeth. Or clothes,” says Van.

  “Am I the last?” asks Krystal. “OK. Thankful for our host, who invites ex-girlfriends to Thanksgiving dinner. Even if they are still angry with him. Not tha
nkful for relationships. I am going solo from here on.”

  The sound of spooning and cutting and clinking consumes the table. There is a combinatorial explosion of food-related conversation, which morphs neatly into the pros and cons of diets (with Farzad arguing persuasively for the benefits of gluttony).

  “Eat, be happy, then die.”

  This sort of ends that conversation, given that no one wants to press home the glaring fact of Farzad’s proximity to obesity, but perhaps he is on reasonably solid philosophical ground here. My experience of diet-conscious people is that they are generally boring and brittle and occasionally melancholic. Farzad suffers from none of these maladies.

  This segues nicely into a conversation about the US health system and it’s seemingly inexorable path to unaffordability. The table is immediately divided along party lines, with those leaning to the left (led by the humorless Marion) arguing for a Canadian-style national health system, and those on the right (led by the delectable Cherry) arguing for the supremacy of the market system. The debate is spiced with tangents into the legal system and the insurance system and, inevitably, human rights. Stock-standard stuff, except for Marion’s increasing frustration at not being able to drive home her point of view. The degeneration into ad hominem attacks is rapid.

  “The trouble with you people,” says Marion, refusing to capitulate, “is that you believe that the rich have a God-given right to better health care.”

  “Would be easier to accept your point of view if you weren’t driving a BMW bought for you by a rich boyfriend,” says Cherry, a little harshly.

  “I offered her the Tesla,” says Van, “but she exhibited remarkable self-discipline.”

  Dagger glance from Marion to Van.

  Isobel’s clearly exasperated. “Why are you all fighting?”

  “It’s not fighting, darling. It’s called debating. Reasoned debate. Passionate debate. Which often ends in someone being killed in other countries, but here in the US we seldom take it beyond serious injury.”

  We move swiftly onto safer territory, which here, perched high above the city, is generally celebrity gossip and disgrace. This is Los Angeles terra firma. We snipe and nip at Scientologist superstars and bulimic divas and messy divorces and closeted gender preferences. We dissect illicit affairs, underage scandals, underperforming box-office receipts, drug convictions, crumbling careers, snarky up-and-comers. We gorge ourselves on how the mighty have fallen and who is down and who is out and who has been caught, nabbed, shamed. With each succeeding humiliation our eyes shine brighter, our souls lifted and made whole by stories of misfortune and retribution. And we do it without irony or shame, barely registering the quickening of our hearts and the drool on our chins.