FireVaney's

I walked right past Ma and handed the gift to StepDude. “Happy Father’s Day,” I said. He almost opened it. No one else in the room found it funny, save for me. Ma corrected my error, of course, and I said, “Oops.” I snatched the wrapped box from StepDude and delivered it to Ma. “Thank you for bringing me into the world,” I lied. After that, I drove them, along with Pop and Betty, out to La Grange for lunch with everybody else in the semi-immediate fam. That whole day anybody who didn’t know Betty wished her a Happy Mother’s Day. She certainly looks like somebody’s mother. It didn’t affect her, not outwardly, but nothing ever does. Everything is always A-okay with Betty; she doesn’t question and she doesn’t correct. It wouldn’t be in her nature to reply to “Happy Mother’s Day,” with, “Thank you, but I’m barren.” I spent much of the meal teasing little Keira. I would, for example, say that some random thing on the table was mine—a fork, a salt shaker, a bread stick—and she would promptly...

I’ll go and I’ll see her and I’ll feel all that anguish all over again and for weeks thereafter. So much anguish over someone I know all wrong. She’ll be there—at some point she’ll be there—and she’ll go wild and I won’t be able to wait to want to leave. But because she’s far away, and busy, maybe she’ll be late. And if she’s late, it won’t be so bad for me to leave. I’d feel bad if I had to leave early. Like Bio-Dud often liked to say, “Firey, you need to suffer more,” unless it was, “Firey, you haven’t suffered enough.” So I do my best. I do the best a “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” as Step-Dude likes to say, can do. And it’s true, as a confirmed “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” I do do a lousy job of suffering. If I really, really, really, wanted to suffer, I’d join the military and fight in Afghanistan—and not only because “war is hell.” Setting aside the war, Afghanistan is hot, and I can’t take the heat. Anyway, everything is too late. Why can’t I ever be on time for anything? I don’t mean...

You could, if you wanted to, live here, where I live, in this community, blissfully ignorant of what goes on anywhere else. One of my high school history teachers compared the Village of Knotydart to a cocoon. That same history teacher wore leather boots, blue jeans, and a jean jacket to class nearly every day of the week. He tossed the word “groovy” around quite a bit. When we studied the Roman Empire, he rolled a TV with a VCR into the classroom and showed us Jesus Christ Superstar. That was his first year, when he did all of that. He’d moved back to Knotydart from Tinseltown. He’d given up on the pipe dream of becoming the next Frances Ford Coppola. (Incidentally, he studied screenwriting with StepDude at Tinseltown College, but that was many moons ago.) After Mister Argh’s first year of teaching at Knotydart High, he started wearing khaki pants and a professor’s elbow-padded wool sport jacket, a button down shirt, and a tie. He traded his boots for brown oxfords. He shaved off his...

Ma, Stepdude, and I drove up to Lake Geneva, WI for Mother’s Day.  Before we got there we stopped in Antioch, where Ma and Stepdude mused over the possible purchase of a lot in one of those Redacted Homes developments. Turns out there were too many hidden costs. That, and Ma brings home the bacon these days. Stepdude? He brings home the bupkis. And besides, Antioch is too far from where Ma works. Upon reaching picturesque Lake Geneva, we stopped for a bite at—of all places—Subway. After that, it rained. But the rain passed quickly. We wandered around the old business district, which was very much alive with tourists.  The Copper Mountain Toy Co. & Train Land Of Lake Geneva * sells, among a great many other trinkets, historical action figures of Jesus, of Moses, and of Shakespeare “with Removable Quill Pen & Book!” They also had an action figure of a coffee barista. On impulse, I purchased the three remaining Shakespeares: one as a future gift to one of my many theatri...

Every time Ma or Stepdude flushed the toilet, their, um, deposits wound up on the floor of the basement. The plumber they called in sent a root grinding “rod” through the sewer pipe that ran beneath the front lawn. Somewhere on the other side of the street, the rod got stuck and the plumber couldn’t reel the thing back. To Ma, I said, over the phone, “Sounds like the hook of a monster movie.” The plumber told Ma and Stepdude that the rod wouldn’t budge until the city dug up the street for it. This was particularly bad news for Stepdude, as the bathroom was his favorite room in the house—and the toilet, his favorite seat. So he, Ma, and their bear-sized shaggy dog had to spend a week in a hotel room. When a city crew finally got around to digging up the street (a major suburban artery) in front of their house, they discovered that they’d gouged out the wrong patch of earth. Meaning: They’d have to fill the cavity they’d made, repair the street and the grassy parkway, and start all over...

Ma and Stepdude traded in their new SUV for a newer SUV. Ma swears this one will be the last one. But that’s what she said about the last one and the one before that. Seems like Ma and Stepdude jones for a new SUV every time the Earth tilts. Doesn’t help that they’re both hooked on TV, that the TV’s always on, and that Stepdude’s a lifetime subscriber to Car & Driver magazine. It’s a game they play, dreaming up the rationale to trade in whatever new car they own. The last one gave Ma a rash. (Supposedly.)  Ma goes, Dust mites.  I go, That what the doctor said?  Ma goes, He’d say, “Don’t bug me about dust mites.”  So I go, Second opinion?  Ma waves me off. Then scratches her leg.  So I go, You fix the Electrolux?  And Stepdude, he goes, I think we tossed it.  Ok. So. How ‘bout a new one?  A new car ?  A new Electrolux . Or a Hoover.  Pshaw! Maybe when we pay off the Hummer.  (Ok, maybe not “ Pshaw! ” But that was the in...

I woke up in my childhood bed. I didn’t question how or why. I threw off the covers, stood, and staggered to the bathroom. It was exactly where I’d left it, fifteen-odd years later. But then bathrooms don’t tend to move, do they? Particularly when they’re one of seven rooms in a single-story house. The bathroom’s sink and tub were overflowing. On the bright side, they were overflowing with water. So, it could’ve been worse. StepDude didn’t give a damn. He’d left the water to fill and overflow. In fact, all of the sinks in the house were overflowing—with water—which, at least to the eye, seemed clean. Thank God. There’s always a bright side. If your house must  flood, better if it’s flooded with clean water—as opposed to rusty colored water, or saltwater, or sewage. But I hadn’t realized something. Since I’d moved out, fifteen-odd years ago, StepDude inexplicably had sinks installed in every room and also in the hallway. That makes nine sinks—nine sinks and faucets * —if you coun...