God Hates Us All

With the exception of last Thanks giving — it’s hard to believe that a year has passed since my Long Weekend of Glorious Ingratitude — the Kirschenbaums have provided the setting for most major holidays. My own parents are short on family ties: Mom’s clan of no-nonsense Protestants reside mainly in her native Indiana, while Dad’s relationsto call them lapsed Catholics doesn’t quite capture the length of the fall — always seem to be engaged in some blood feud precluding any possibility of face-to-face contact. Larry Kirschenbaum, who’s thrice defended my father on charges of driving under the influence, is the closest thing Dad has to a friend. Still, my father harbors an abiding suspicion, repeated each time we pile into the car to go, that the invitation allows Larry to write off the cost of the meal.

This year’s table seats thirteen, which for the Kirschenbaums is an intimate affair. No one is sober enough to retrieve dessert. I’m fairly certain that Dottie, Tana’s heavily mascaraed but otherwise remarkably preserved mother, is flirting with me. There really isn’t any other way to make sense of her so far unquenchable interest in my current job, slinging soft-serve at the Carvel on Jerusalem Avenue.

Dottie’s stocking foot, now tracing a line up my leg, confirms my theory. Awkward, as I’m sitting next to her husband. Doubly awkward, as I’m pretty sure Dottie and my father have engaged in carnal gymnastics on more than one occasion. Sure enough, Dad — who’s spent most of the night fixated on Tana’s glorious rack — is glaring at me with a look that might be intimidating if not drowned in scotch. I’m relieved to see that Mom’s too deadeyed to notice, thanks to Dr. Marty Edelman, an orthodontist whose recent vacation to Napa Valley apparently produced no detail too small or insignificant.

While I can imagine worse fates than sinking my Fudgie the Whale into Dottie’s Cookie-Puss, the idea of going where my father’s been strikes me as a little too Oedipal for comfort. I excuse myself and step outside for a cigarette.

Uncle Marvin has beaten me to the stoop. He isn’t my uncle — avuncularly speaking, he belongs to Tana — but he’s as much a fixture at these things as the cloth place mats. A year or two north of sixty, he still sports a full mane of shiny gray hair, less a sign of virility than a cruel reminder. He was one of New York’s Finest during the seventies, until six bullets to the legs and groin led to an early retirement, a permanent limp, and a urinary tract fucked up enough to require a permanent piss bag. Tana claims he’s supplementing his disability pay with part-time work evicting foreclosures — a booming business thanks to the recent savings and loan scandal — but none of that money seems to have found its way to his wardrobe: polyester pants, long-collared shirt, and a black leather jacket that, like Uncle Marvin himself, has seen better days.

“Uncle Marvin,” I say.

Uncle Marvin grunts at me like I’m an idiot. I’m not offended — we’ve had entire conversations that didn’t consist of much more. He watches me bang my pack against the back of my hand for a few seconds before reaching into his jacket for a handrolled cigarette and a book of matches. Then he slips a match between two fingers and lights it directly into his cupped hands, which form a natural shelter from the icy wind. A pretty cool trick, I have to admit. As he puffs his smoke to life, I counter by flicking a Zippo twice across my pants leg — not the only thing I learned during my brief college experience, but definitely the most useful. I light the unfiltered Camel and take a deep drag, suddenly noticing an odor even more exotic than my favored blend of Turkish and American tobaccos.

“That doesn’t smell much like a cigarette,” I say.

“You fucking kids wouldn’t know good grass if it smacked you in the eye.”

“I’ve smoked marijuana before,” I reply, recognizing that I’m in serious danger of being outcooled by a ball-less old man dressed like Serpico.

“Well, my niece sure as shit ain’t.”

“I thought we were supposed to ‘Just say no’?”

“Not advice,” he says, exhaling through clenched teeth, “that would ever come from me.”

He offers me a toke, which I decline. “I’m kind of going through a scotch and cigarettes phase right now,” I tell him.

“Get it in while you can. It’ll all be gone soon enough.”

Conversations with Uncle Marvin tend to be short, given his natural aversion toward anything polite, but I’m not in a hurry to get back inside and more than willing to pick up the slack. “I hear you.

I’m thinking about moving to the city.”

“The city?” His eyes narrow. “Everybody I know is leaving. City’s a goddamn cesspool.”

“Well, that should make it much easier for me to find an apartment.”

“Funny,” he says without smiling.