by Jeff Strand
It’s only three months, I tell myself. Only three months. Only three long, endless, excruciating months.
4.
We pull into my driveway. For the first time ever, I’m kind of embarrassed by the size of my house. I wish we had a heliport on the roof or something.
I turn off the engine. I’d never noticed it before, but my car takes a while to wind down after it’s shut off. It whirrs and sputters and sounds like it’s desperately trying to cling to precious life, as if it knows in its heart that it may never turn on again.
“Well, we both survived,” says Blake, unfastening his seat belt. “I assumed we would, but there were moments of doubt.”
“Yep,” I say in a lighthearted tone, pretending that I think he’s kidding around. I unfasten my own seat belt and get out of the car.
Blake has not yet opened his door.
I really hope we’re not doing the whole door thing again. If Blake thinks I’m going to open his door for him, he’s whack-a-doodle nuts. That is not the dynamic we’re going to establish here. I will leave him in the car all night before I open that door for him.
“C’mon,” I say, gesturing to my house and hoping it sends the message, Hey, it’s time for you to open the car door—all by yourself—and exit the vehicle.
Blake looks at me expectantly.
Maybe I’ll just open the door a bit and let him push it the rest of the…
No! No, no, no, no! I will not open the door for him. He may be used to that kind of treatment back in Rich McWealthy Goldcash Treasure Land, but he’s our houseguest now. We’re not on a date. In my world, you open your own door. No porter is going to save him this time.
I go to the back of the car and open the trunk. I grab a couple of suitcases and then walk past the passenger side, hoping he’ll notice what’s happening and decide to become a participant.
He’s still sitting there.
If he were busy checking his phone or something, maybe I’d be okay with it. But as far as I can tell, my able-bodied cousin is, indeed, waiting for me to open his door like a chauffeur. Nope. Not gonna happen.
Maybe he’ll give me a tip.
Even then, nope. Nope, nope, nope, nopeity nope. If you don’t have a broken arm, I’m not going to be his door opener. Nope.
I walk up to my house, set down his suitcases, and unlock the front door. I do this slowly, waiting to hear the sound of the car door opening.
I do not hear this sound.
Could he be too dumb to figure out how to work a door handle? I’d happily take a dullard of a cousin over one who thinks I’m his butler.
I open the front door, hoping he’ll see how easy and fun it is and decide to follow my lead. I take his suitcases inside, carry them down the hallway, and put them in my bedroom.
When I walk back outside, Blake is still sitting in the car, staring at me.
What I’d like to do is roll down the window, shove a fire hose in there, and fill the car with water until Blake takes the hint. If I had a box of scorpions, I’d toss them inside as incentive. Unfortunately, I don’t even have one scorpion, much less a whole box. (Lesson: plan ahead.)
I’d call my mom, but that would be tattling. Sixteen-year-old lead vocalists in punk rock bands aren’t tattletales. Instead I try to reason with my cousin.
I casually stroll over to the car. “Everything okay?” I ask, speaking loudly enough to be heard through the window.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Would you like a tour of the house?”
“Seems kind of small to require an actual tour.”
“Would you like a tour of my fist?”
Whoa. I can’t believe I said that. I haven’t offered to punch somebody since I was in third grade and this kid Cody dropped a goldfish down the back of my shirt. (The goldfish was traumatized but survived.) I wouldn’t really hit Blake, of course, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he believes I’m a scary, short-fused stick of TNT-level rage.
Blake narrows his eyes. “Are you threatening me?”
“Nah.”
“That sounded like a threat.”
It suddenly occurs to me that a rich kid like Blake could have a squad of goons at his disposal. I don’t want to wake up in the middle of night to frightening men in face masks standing next to my bed, wielding baseball bats.
No, that’s silly. Still, Mom will be pretty upset if I invited our new houseguest to examine my knuckles at a high velocity.
“It was a joke,” I say. “But you can’t keep insulting my car and house.”
“You’re confusing insults with observations. If I make an observation and you take it as an insult, maybe it’s time to reevaluate your life.”
I sure hope that you’re on my side as you’re reading this. I believe I’ve presented a fair and accurate depiction of the events thus far. So what do you think? Am I wrong for wanting to drag Blake out of my car through the windshield? He’s the worst person ever, right?
Don’t answer that literally. Obviously, there are worse people (Hitler, Stalin, Freddy Krueger, etc.), but he’s terrible!
How would you handle this? Politely? Impolitely? Would you start tearing out your hair? Would you shout “Gaaaahhhhhhh!!!” at the top of your lungs for several minutes? I could really use some guidance.
I settle for giving Blake a dirty look. Then I grab a couple more suitcases, muttering words under my breath that will get the publisher of this book in trouble if I share them here. As I walk past the car, I say, “I’ll meet you inside. Come on in when you’re ready.”
Inside my house, I drop his suitcases in my bedroom and then sit down on the living room couch.
I can’t believe I’m sixteen years old and spending my Saturday afternoon engaged in a battle of wills with my cousin. What’s his deal? Did Aunt Mary and Uncle Clark raise him to be like this, or was there a chemical spill in the hospital where he was born? Was he kicked in the head by a mule? Is he pure evil?
I turn on the television. Some guy with a yappy voice is demonstrating how astonishing a pasta maker can be. The studio audience oohs and aahs in amazement. There’s a close-up of a woman who seems to be almost in tears over how much this pasta maker will change her life. I switch channels.
I stop at Gerbils v. Otters, an animated show that has gotten amazing mileage out of the concept of gerbils fighting otters. I haven’t seen this episode before, so it’s a good way to pass the time until my ridiculous cousin joins me.
The episode ends, and another begins.
Then that episode ends, and another begins.
Then that episode ends, and another begins.
I want to check on Blake, but I don’t want him to see me peeking through the curtains. Instead I go into the kitchen and make myself a sandwich.
Isn’t Blake hungry? Doesn’t he have to go to the bathroom?
He’d better not be using my automobile as a restroom.
Mom will be home from work in a couple of hours. I hope this power struggle is over by then. It will be a difficult situation to explain.
I enjoy my delicious sandwich and a small bag of potato chips while I watch another episode. My weekends are not typically spent sitting on the couch and watching TV, but these are extreme circumstances.
I wonder what Blake would do if I waved my sandwich in front of the window.
(I don’t wave my sandwich in front of the window.)
I’d like to end this war, but if I don’t stand up for myself, it’s going to be an unbearable three months. I mean, it’s clearly going to be an unbearable three months anyway, but it’ll be even worse if I don’t put my foot down.
My phone vibrates. It’s a text message from Audrey: How’s it going with your cousin?
He won’t come out of the car, I text back.
??????, Audrey responds.
I’m s
erious. He expects me to open the door for him.
???????????, Audrey texts since there is no emoji strong enough to convey her bewilderment.
Incoming call from Audrey. Yep, things are so crazy that we’re going to talk instead of text. I tap Accept.
“What do you mean he expects you to open the door for him?” she demands.
“He seriously thinks I should be his chauffeur. The guy is messed up.”
“How long has he been sitting out there?”
“Three and a half episodes of Gerbils v. Otters.”
“What?”
“I know, right? Dude’s peculiar.”
“Shouldn’t you just let him out of the car?” asked Audrey. “What if he suffocates?”
“He’s not going to suffocate,” I say, although I’m suddenly not so sure. Based on the very limited amount of time I’ve spent with him, Cousin Blake may very well be the kind of person who would let himself run out of air simply to teach me a valuable lesson.
I get off the couch and hurry over to the front window. I’m sure there’s plenty of oxygen left in the car, but what if he’s breathing really deeply to purposely use it up?
There’s a knock at the door.
I’m almost positive it’s not our next-door neighbor here to inform me there’s blue kid in my car, but I have a split second of panic anyway.
“I’ve gotta go,” I tell Audrey. I disconnect the call and put the phone in my pocket. Then I open the door.
It is, of course, Blake. His face is redder than usual.
“Where’s your bathroom?” he asks.
I point to the hallway. “First door on the left.”
Blake hurries down the hall. I don’t feel a huge sense of accomplishment since all I did was outwait his bladder, but still, I won this round.
I’m not sure what I’ll do if he goes back to the car after he’s done. Probably let out a primal scream or something.
I decide that it can’t hurt to get a couple more of his suitcases. As I bring them inside, Blake steps out of the bathroom, looking sheepish.
“Nature called,” he explains.
“I figured.”
He takes a deep breath as if composing himself. “I can’t help but feel that it’s possible we may have gotten off to a bad start.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry.”
“You apologized before. A better technique would be to change your behavior.”
“I didn’t apologize before.”
“Yes, you did.”
“That doesn’t sound like me,” Blake says.
“Maybe it wasn’t a sincere, heartfelt apology, but you said sorry a couple of times.”
“Oh,” says Blake. “I don’t remember that. Anyway, I understand why you think you’re too good to open the door for me. We all want to rise above our station. If you’d rather I open my own doors from now on, I’ll respect that decision.”
“Yes, I’d rather you do that,” I say. “I really, really would.”
“It’s a deal then,” says Blake, extending his hand.
It seems weird that I should have to shake his hand to make an agreement that I’m not his servant, but I decide that if he’s (once again) willing to make an effort, I won’t protest. I shake his hand, which is cold and clammy like his soul.
“What are you watching?” he asks.
“Gerbils v. Otters.”
“A cartoon?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“I don’t know many sixteen-year-olds who still watch cartoons.”
“What are you talking about? Everybody under fifty watches cartoons,” I insist.
“I haven’t watched a cartoon since I was seven,” says Blake.
“What an empty life you must have lived.”
“All I’m saying is that one of us exists in the real world and the other doesn’t.”
I shake my head. “Whatever world you think you exist in, it’s not the real world.”
“Very well. Don’t let me stop you from enjoying Gophers v. Dolphins.”
“Gerbils v. Otters.”
Blake glances around. “So do I get the tour? Oh, wait. I conducted it myself by turning my head.”
In a small way, I have to admire his fearlessness. I’m not a muscular guy who juggles barbells, but in a one-on-one weaponless battle, me against Blake, I’d win for sure.
Maybe Blake has weapons.
Nah. I think he’s just nuts.
Blake stretches his arms above his head and yawns. “It was a long flight,” he says. “I’m going to take a nap.”
He walks into my bedroom and closes the door.
There’s still plenty of luggage to carry in plus a whole extra trip back to the airport. I was victorious in the waiting game, but I guess Blake wins this round.
5.
I'm typically not a twitchy person, but I twitch a lot as I carry in the rest of his suitcases and set them in the living room. I can hear Blake snoring through the bedroom door.
Of course he snores. How could it be otherwise?
As I drive back to the airport, I call Audrey and update her on how horrible Blake is. Then I call Mel and tell him how horrible Blake is. Then I call Clarissa and tell her how horrible Blake is. I feel a little better after being able to vent my frustration three times in a row. At least now I don’t want to bash other cars off the highway.
I pick up the rest of Blake’s luggage. I tip the porter, but I assure you I’ll be seeking reimbursement when I get home.
On the way back to my house, I call Audrey, Mel, and Clarissa again just to remind them that I can’t stand my cousin.
It’s hard to imagine that he and I are related. If our life situations were swapped, would I behave like that? The thought chills me to the bone. I don’t think Aunt Mary and Uncle Clark even wanted to go on the cruise. They probably needed three months away from their son to regain their sanity.
When I get home, I pause at the front door.
No way.
I can’t be hearing his snoring from outside the house, can I?
Yep. I sure can.
I open the door. The floors are not actually vibrating, but the noise level coming from my bedroom exceeds anything I thought was physically possible. It’s like he’s in there playing a tuba.
I carry in the rest of his luggage, hoping there’s a CPAP machine in one of these suitcases.
You know what? Maybe Blake isn’t evil. Maybe he was just tired. He had to get up early for a long flight, and his exhaustion could have manifested itself into the reprehensible creature lurking in my bedroom. I’ll bet that when he wakes up from his nap, he’ll be a delight.
Four hours later he’s still snoring away.
Mom looks a bit surprised as she walks inside. “Goodness.”
“Impressive noise level, isn’t it?” I ask.
“How long has he been out?”
“A while.”
“How are you two getting along?”
“It’s like we’re brothers instead of cousins.”
“Well, that’s good.”
The snoring stops.
Mom glances at the large pile of suitcases. “Not a light packer, is he?”
“Nope.”
“Does he know we already have a garage full of his boxes?”
“I’m pretty sure he does.”
My bedroom door opens with a creak. I hadn’t ever noticed the sound, but now that I’m hyperaware of the flaws in my home, it definitely creaks. I’ll have to douse it with WD-40 before Blake can comment on it.
Blake steps into the hallway. His hair is perfect, and his face is much less red. He looks like he had a very relaxing nap. His face lights up as he sees Mom.
“Aunt Conni
e!” he says with a smile. “What a pleasure to see you after all these years!” He walks over and gives her a tight hug.
“Great to see you!” says Mom.
“I apologize for not being awake when you got home. It was a long trip, and I didn’t sleep well last night. Too excited, I guess.”
“Oh, no, that’s totally fine,” says Mom. “How was your flight?”
“Well, the first leg I had a window seat, which isn’t my top choice, but it’s better than a middle seat, right?”
“Definitely,” says Mom. “There’s nothing worse than a middle seat on a plane.”
“Fortunately, in the second leg, I had an aisle seat, and that was the longer of the two flights, so it all worked out. And again, I had no real complaints about the window seat. It’s just not my favorite of the options.”
“I’m a window seat person myself,” says Mom.
“I understand the allure,” says Blake, nodding. “The aisle seat has more freedom of movement. But the window seat obviously gives you a better view, and it’s easier to sleep. You don’t have to worry about getting your elbows bumped by the service cart. It’s all about personal preference. There’s no right or wrong answer. Unless you prefer the middle seat. Anybody who prefers the middle seat is out of their mind.”
Blake laughs. Mom laughs. I stare.
“But yeah, it was a perfectly good flight,” says Blake. “The woman next to me was a chatterbox, but she was going to see her grandchildren for the first time in three years, so can you blame her? I’m sure I did more than my share of talking when I told my friends about visiting you and Rod. They didn’t say anything, but I’d be willing to bet that a few of my buddies were thinking, We get it! You’re excited! Keep it to yourself!”
Blake and Mom laugh again.
“I’m glad you’re settling in,” says Mom.
“Oh, yes. Rodney was a great help with my luggage. Clearly, he’s had excellent parenting.”
Mom smiles. “Thank you. You’re so polite.”
Blake shrugs. “I guess I’ve had excellent parenting too.”
“Well, make yourself at home. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator. Tomorrow we’ll go grocery shopping to make sure we’ve got food that you like.”