Say Uncle

by Benjamin Laskin

  I had seen such mystification many times in my life—if not with Doreen, then with another of my affectionate sisters. Sometimes I enjoyed my part in the illusion, but usually I just felt like an impostor and that I owed the person an apology for messing with the laws of nature. The light changed and Doreen put the truck into first.

  “So what are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Get a job, I guess.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll think of something,” she said. “You don’t have to live at home. You can live with one of us. Colleen would love for you to live with her in Vegas. Don’t worry.”

  She was right. I didn’t have to do anything. My sisters could take care of everything. If I listened to them and did exactly as they said, I would be fine. They loved me, trusted me, believed in me. How could I put my life in the hands of people that naive!

  Margaritaville

  The party having started without us, we were greeted by vacant bowls of chips and salsa and two half-empty pitchers of margaritas.

  Dad was beaming. Five beautiful women surrounded him: my mother and his four daughters. The Andrews were all smart dressers too, except for me. I sported drooping, ripped jeans, a sun-bleached black sweatshirt, and dirty white Converse high-tops.

  Dad said, “I hope someone got Guy some clothes for Christmas.”

  “What did you do with all the nice clothes we got you last year, Guy?” my mother asked.

  “I wear them all the time, just not tonight.”

  Lie. I sold most of them for next to nothing at a second-hand clothing store, took the money to a second hand bookstore, and bought Will and Ariel Durant’s eleven-volume The Story of Civilization.

  Colleen raised her glass. “To a great Christmas, an outstanding new year, and my loving family!”

  We clinked glasses and drank. I downed my frozen margarita in three big gulps, which for ten long seconds turned my brain into a snowball.

  “Guy,” my mother said, “tomorrow all your aunts are flying into town. Would you be a doll and pick them up at the airport?”

  I had four sisters and my mother had four sisters. No brothers. Like me she was the youngest sibling.

  “Sure, Mom. What time?” I looked around the table at my sisters and thought, and why can’t one of them do it?

  My mother pulled out her iPhone from her purse and checked her calendar. “Well,” she began, “your Aunt Paula comes in on JetBlue at 9:46. Aunt Jeannie at 11:18, United. Aunt Sylvia and Aunt Fran, Southwest, 2:52. Then there’s your cousins…”

  Damn, the whole day spent going back and forth to the stupid airport. Four aunts and six cousins—all women. And, they were going to stay for a week. No doubt dad would hide out on the golf course, leaving me alone in the roost of flibbertigibbets. I saw him practicing his golf swing under the table.

  I hadn’t seen my cousins in maybe four years. They were all around the same ages as my sisters. I never could remember which was which or who was who. No doubt they would all ask me about school, about what I wanted to do, if I had a girlfriend, and countless other humiliating questions that were none of their damn business, forcing me to lie, lie, lie.

  Nobody likes a liar and I hated to lie. If only I had some truth that I could be proud of! Mainly I told little white lies, fibs, but so many of them over the years that my life had become blindingly white. Arctic white. Frozen margarita white.

  Good idea, I thought. I tossed down another, waited for my brain to thaw, and refilled my glass.

  If I hadn’t been depressed the chauffeuring thing wouldn’t have bothered me so much. But I was depressed, and tense, and it was all I could do not to bite through my margarita glass. Under the table my leg bounced wildly as it always did when I was anxious. I didn’t know it was going like a piston until Doreen set a reassuring hand on my knee. I gazed broodingly into my long-stemmed goblet, and then subjected my brain to a third, mind-numbing blizzard.

  “How did finals go, Guy?” my father asked.

  “No sweat,” I answered, the same trickling from my armpits.

  “Are you coming away with any A’s this semester?”

  “Will,” my mother said, “don’t pressure Guy like that. B’s and C’s would be perfectly okay. You know he has a learning disability.”

  My mother was convinced, contrary to all medical evidence, that I suffered from some rare but certain learning malfunction. She had had me tested early on, and more than a few times, for everything from dyslexia to brain damage. The results always came back negative. Yet, I was a lousy student and excelled at nothing. Undaunted, my mother latched on to the idea that I suffered from some peculiar allergy that impeded my mental faculties. To test her theory, I was forced to submit to numerous humiliating experiments throughout my grade school and high school years. The only thing that became certain was my reputation as a nerd.

  Luckily, the food arrived, changing the subject. Plans for the week were discussed: shopping, tennis, day trips, restaurants, Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. The girls and I were responsible for showing our cousins a good time. My mother would handle her sisters.

  I decided that there was really no point in bringing up my bad news until the week was over. Why spoil everyone else’s fun, right? Heck, I could even wait two or three weeks. What was the big hurry anyway?

  Just like that, my spirits began to soar. I dove into my chimichanga and polished off another margarita. My worries having vanished, swept aside by the good news of the postponement of my bad news, my wit came out of hiding into the sunny dispositions of my loving family. They laughed easily and freely, and when the fried ice cream came, it occurred to me what a terrific time I was having. I thought: Wow, this is my family. I love these people!

  Hunks

  When my sisters and I were about to leave we ran into two guys I knew from high school. I hated running into people from high school because I felt that the high school Guy Andrews had little in common with the collegiate Guy Andrews. In high school, my friends were not really friends at all. In college I had no friends; something I considered a marked improvement in my powers of discernment.

  Craig Wilkinson and Jim Fielding were two such high school acquaintances. They were jocks from wealthy families who thought they were really cool, and who had convinced most of the gullible turkeys at school that they were cool too. I didn’t like or trust them, especially when it came to my sister, Doreen, who was a year behind them. She was the one hot girl at school they never violated, thanks in part to my tireless interference.

  Wilkinson and Fielding were big guys, a head taller than me and built like Hugh Jackman. They were also good looking as hell and star athletes. Craig Wilkinson was dirt dumb, but because he paid smart kids to do his schoolwork, the low expectations of teachers, and cheating, he slid through with a B average. Jim Fielding was the real deal. He took accelerated classes and graduated at number one. His all-around excellence earned him a full ride at Yale. Fielding was charming as a prince, and every bit as Machiavellian.

  “Hey, Guy,” Fielding said. “How’s it going? Long time no see.”

  I stepped away from my sisters to provide a buffer between them and the two bucks.

  “Hello, Jim…Craig…” I offered my hand, which they shook without even looking at me. They smiled and nodded at the girls.

  “Your sisters get better looking every year,” Fielding said. “How long is Doreen in town for?”

  “Not long,” I answered.

  Wilkinson said, “She got a boyfriend these days?”

  Before I could lie and say yes, Fielding said, “Who cares?” As if a boyfriend, a husband, or a brother was any match for his hard-on. As he made a move to advance, I quickly stepped in front of him.

  “How’s college treating you, Jim? Is Yale as hard as they say?”

  “Piece of cake,” he said. He wanted to swat me like a fly, I could tell. He made another move and again I cut him off. “I’d like to say hel
lo to Doreen.”

  I heard the impatience in his voice, but I was drunk enough not to care.

  “We were just leaving,” I said.

  “So?”

  “So, um, we’re kind of in a hurry.”

  “So I’ll make it quick,” he said, and brushed past me. Wilkinson took the cue and did the same. I turned and pursued, ready to make a scene if I had to.

  As soon as I walked up, Fielding put a patronizing arm around my shoulder and Wilkinson patted my head and messed my hair. My sisters smiled at their phony displays of affection, falling for them hook, line, and stinkers.

  Wasting no time, Fielding invited my sisters to a party he was having the following night. My sisters said that sounded like fun, and for the next five minutes they flirted freely, causing me to nearly retch a perfectly fine and only half-digested chimichanga. Fortunately, the hostess appeared and summoned Wilkinson and Fielding to their table. They left, but not before soliciting a promise from each of my sisters that they would come to the party.

  “They’re nice,” Maureen said.

  “Handsome too,” Kathleen said.

  “Hunks,” Colleen said.

  “Oh, please,” I groaned. “They’re assholes disguised as jerks.”

  “They seemed fond of you, Guy,” Kathleen said.

  “Jeez, you girls are naive. How many times do I have to tell you that men can’t be trusted? They’re scum.”

  “What does that make you then?” Maureen asked.

  “Your conscience.”

  Doreen said, “Maybe you’re just jealous.”

  “Concerned,” I corrected. “What gets me is that girls like you are always falling for guys like them. It amazes me that four such intelligent women could be so easily hustled.”

  “Guy,” Maureen said, “we didn’t do anything.”

  “You were flirting. I saw.”

  Kathleen slipped her arm around my waist and kissed me on the cheek. “Guy worries about us,” she said. “Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Damn right I worry about you. I’m telling you, I know what guys are like!”

  What I meant, of course, was that I knew what I was like. I was a guy. About all I ever thought about was sex. I hated other men because I knew they were all just like me. I didn’t hate myself for it though, which only proved my point.

  It bugged me that my sisters could be so blind. Especially when each one of them had had plenty of proof that what I believed was true. Kathleen married and divorced two years later after learning that her husband, a lawyer at another firm, was diddling one of his clients. Colleen followed her stockbroker husband to Las Vegas. Four months later she caught him in bed with a buxom Caesar’s Palace cocktail waitress. Maureen was luckier. A month before she was to marry a doctor at the hospital she was interning at, the guy was discovered deflowering a candy striper in the janitor’s closet. That was less than a year ago.

  I didn’t have the heart to remind them of these facts, but those were the thoughts that ran through my head. It irked me that they could be so forgetful. I remembered the tantrums, the weeping, the moping. It broke my heart to see them that way.

  Still, what amazed me most was that a man would even think about cheating on one of my sisters. What more could a guy possibly hope for in a woman? Charm, brains, beauty, and big hearts; they had it all. That men could, would, and did cheat on my sisters proved what a hopeless, miserable bunch of vermin we really were.

  The jovial mood I knew ten minutes earlier melted and flattened like a forgotten frozen margarita. Sickened by Wilkinson and Fielding, and disappointed in my sisters, I decided I’d take my tequila buzz elsewhere. I made up a lame excuse, thanked my folks, and split.

  Naughty Santa

  The shopping mall had extended hours before Christmas, so I had two hours to find six gifts. Malls are bad enough, but a mall before Christmas is a place of penitence where procrastinators must go to make amends for having been less than perfect consumers. I was determined to get in and out as fast as I could, only I had no idea what I was looking for. After two hours I came away with a magazine, two books, a new CD by my favorite band, Regina Brodie and the Glitch, and a big, fat nada for my family. I knew that tomorrow I’d be too busy playing chauffeur to go shopping, and then the day after that would be Christmas. Damn, Guy, you let them down again!

  I entered the mall broody; I exited the mall cranky and belligerent. The crowds, monotonous Christmas music, and my frustration at not finding a single decent gift for any member of my family turned my tequila buzz into a rotten headache. The last thing I needed now was to be intercepted by Santa Claus.

  I didn’t remember seeing Claus going in, but he was there now, tinkling his damn bell in my face. In no mood for the jolly fat man, I snatched the bell from his hand and chucked it twenty feet into a trash dumpster.

  “Hey, asshole, what the hell did you do that for?!”

  It had been some years since I was face to face with a Santa, but no Santa that I could recall ever sounded like this one did.

  “Huh?”

  “Go fetch it, you little prick. I want my bell back.”

  I peered into Santa’s eyes. They were green as emeralds, fringed with long lashes, and fiercely…beautiful.

  “What’s your problem? Never seen a bloody Santa before?”

  Not one that I ever wanted to kiss, I thought, and wagged my head, no.

  Santa rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. “That’s it. Enough wankers. I quit!” He whipped off his cap and beard and crammed them into the money pail. He was a she and I was in love. Santa shook loose her long chestnut hair, unzipped and stepped out of her costume, and shoved it into my arms. “Thanks a lot,” she snapped, and marched off.

  I ran after her. “Wait!” I called out. “I’m sorry…” I felt stupid and bad, but not bad enough not to notice her tight-fitting jeans. Santa had a great ass. I caught up to her and placed myself in her way.

  “I warn you,” she said, “I’m an expert in the martial arts. Touch me and you’re dog meat.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry. I’ll get your bell.”

  “Screw the bell. Now move.”

  “No! I mean… I don’t want you to leave like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mad.”

  She shook her head. “You’re a jerk.”

  “…And hating me.”

  That was true. Even though I knew that I would never see her again, I didn’t like the idea of her hating me. She didn’t say anything for a moment. When you confess the truth it always catches people off guard.

  “Fine,” she said. “I don’t hate you. See—” She flashed a big, toothy smile. I noticed a little gap between her top front teeth, which I thought looked very sexy. “Now out of my way.”

  “Let me buy you a beer or a cup of coffee or something.”

  “You are demented, aren’t you? You couldn’t possibly be so ridiculously stupid as to think that I would—”

  “I am that ridiculous, and stupid, yes.”

  She brushed past me and continued marching.

  “Why are you so grumpy?” I said, pulling up beside her, keeping astride her brisk pace. “It’s almost Christmas.”

  “I don’t believe in Christmas.”

  “Then why were you dressed as Santa Claus?”

  “I needed the money.”

  “I thought people volunteer for that kind of thing.”

  “I did.”

  “But you just said you needed the money.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m my own charity. Get it?”

  No, I didn’t get it. Not at first. I was about as cynical as a guy could be, but even I wouldn’t have figured on her purposely ripping people off like that.

  “But that’s unethical.”

  She shrugged, unconcerned.

  Wow, what do we have here? I was intrigued. “You know,” I said, “when I was a kid I once went door to door collecting money for UNICE
F and kept half of it for myself.”

  She stopped walking and faced me. She searched my eyes. “Really?”

  I smiled. “Yep.”

  “That’s sleazy. You would.” She marched off again.

  I was stunned but she was getting away. “Hey,” I said, again at her side, “that’s no worse than what you were doing back there. And besides, I was a dumb kid. I would never do such a thing now.”

  “All I did,” she said, “was stand there and ring my bell. I had no sign and said nothing. If people wanted to toss money into my pail that was up to them.”

  “But come on, it’s Christmas time and you were dressed as Santa Claus. What did you think people were going to think, huh?”

  “I don’t think they were thinking much of anything.”

  “They thought they were helping the less fortunate.”

  “Maybe they were.”

  A smirk at the corner of her mouth revealed the existence of a charming dimple. I also noticed for the first time that she had a slight accent, British or Australian, maybe. I had never been further than California, so her voice alone swept me away to distant shores. That did it. I was a goner.

  “How far away did you park anyway?” I asked. We must have walked half way around the mall already.

  “I didn’t drive,” she said. “I don’t believe in cars.”

  “Oh really? And what do you call that?” I pointed at a Buick that happened to be cruising past.

  “An implement of megadeath.”

  “I see. And what else don’t you believe in, besides cars and Christmas?”

  “Designer clothes, political-science professors, celebrity, the UN, hashtags and social media—”