cultivated drawl: “The Objective Biography is a very interesting read, very interesting. Of course, it’s been a unique experience to grow up in our family, and I’ve never before seen, or heard, or read such a fair’nbalanced, informative account of our family’s long history of service to The Homelan. It’s not without its criticisms, but it’s fair. Everything that I know has been recounted accurately, and it even filled in a few blank spots I’ve had. Some things make sense to me now in a way that they never have.”
That moment right before someone goes bananas in which they know they’re about to go bananas, like in Edgar Allan Poe movies, that was me.
Under my own repugnant reflection dim on the surface of ze Tube, Junior, my own flesh and blood, said in summary: “I endorse this book entirely as, finally, the ultimate biography of my family’s long history of service to our great nation.”
The Personality, in closing, asked Junior—the army reserves deserter, the State of Grace survivor, the high chandelier smasher—pleasant and small-talky: “And what’s up with your youngest brother? Haven’t heard much from him lately.”
Junior smirked pleasantly, as if defecating.
And then, The Personality clarified: “Your brother I’m asking about is not The Future-Gov we all know, nor the famous businessman banker with The Kingdom that occasionally pops up in the news. I’m asking about your youngest brother.”
“That’s right.”
“Who many of our viewers may not even realize is part of The Family.”
“Yes.”
“And how is he?”
“My youngest brother?” Junior jostled and cleared his throat.
“Yes, what’s he up to these days?”
“Well actually, you know my youngest brother died.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. The Tragedy.” “Yes.”
“But there is another brother who is now the youngest.”
“Oh, he’s good,” Junior said, keeping in line with The Family’s official comment re: me. “He’s good. Happy and healthy.”
“OK, well good then,” The Personality said, pleased with himself for having asked the tough question.
“Well,” The Personality followed as an afterthought, “we have to have our producers contact him. It’ll be interesting to get his thoughts on the issues this eleccion season.”
Le 24-Hour-News Channel had so much time to fill that suddenly even I became worth interviewing.
I did very much consider it finally time to bite down on my cyanide capsule.
CHAPTER 2 Bringing Barbarians to Box Seats
At first, the big variable that night was that my ChapStick had melted in the dryer, and I spun its spine up the middle of an empty plastic tube.
O’Malley and The Greek and me had The Other Greek Place to ourselves when six or seven dusty Barbarians in ill- fitting camouflage and patterned face paint moseyed in.
With big voices intended to be overheard, they spoke of escape to a silent seaside town, its tall walls bricked with irregular stones.
I gnawed mutely on my dry cut of steak and worked my focus with purpose to make out the shape of one particular Barbarian’s jawline under his face paint.
He never said a word.
Intently, he watched the others.
His jagged face paint covered the shallow slope of a soft chin.
His worried eyes—terrified—lasered on what the other men said.
They all cut each other off and dared each other to one up each other’s bad taste.
And this one that I watched closely, he always laughed first and loud and awk to demonstrate approval.
None of his friends noticed him, like they saw him only as their necessary audience, like a guy that asks everyone else what they’re wearing before he ever leaves the house.
He began to squirm, and I got bold, fixed my stare and stopped glancing away for even a second.
I cut thru my tough steak.
He peeked at me quick and stood up straighter, laughed louder, and drew tighter to his friends.
That Mike leaned toward me from behind the bar and stared at me.
Digging a finger up deep into my cheek, I pulled out a wad of chewed gristle and dropped it on the plate.
I wadded up my napkin.
I got up, pulled on my coat, and announced that I’d be retiring punctually.
O’Malley and The Greek protested.
“Don’t you want to dance with Diana?”
“Eh, Diana, eh? We know how you love Diana.”
My Diana.
O’Malley and The Greek wanted to dance.
And of course That Mike said, But you guys only just got here cuz there went his tips.
Accepting my seriousness, O’Malley and The Greek both ordered tall double shots, needing to reach a particular spiritual apex they’d assumed they’d have more time to creep toward.
Then, it just happened like it does when I’m explaining one of my ideas for a movie, the words popped out of my mouth before I knew I’d even had the idea.
I insisted I’d take everyone to The Game, my treat, box seats.
O’Malley cheered, and The Greek slapped my back.
I approached The Barbarians in their camouflage and face paint, looking only at the slopey-chinned quiet one who could only nod along, I addressed them, good sirs, mayhaps I request the honor of their esteemed company.
I said: “Duh, unga-bunga.”
A couple of them hemmed and hawed, didn’t think their wives would let them stay out that late.
The others mocked them, and it was all agreed: the big bunch of us—everyone that happened to be at The Other Greek Place that night—would all head over to The Game together, my treat, box seats.
I spun to move toward the door and one Barbarian nodded toward Aaron and asked, “Hey, what about Secret Agent Man over there? You inviting him?”
Behind the bar, wiping a glass, That Mike smirked.
Our reunion at the stadium gates was awk.
