Author: Al
Posted: 2009-01-03 02:51:20
|
Two Weeks Aboard the Nautilus
“I want him to call me Mammo.” was the demand from my mother. It took her quite a while to come up with this. That was the name I called her mother (at her insistence), and being the third Albert in four generations, I know my family has a weakness for creativity. Some would wonder why a grandmother would be so concerned with how she was addressed by her grandson. Those people haven't met my mother. She's like the majority of women in the south. To her, the only trivialities are the things which aren't for show. If a thing, or action, or idea can be exalted, deplored, or used to elicit pity, or envy, then it is valuable. If it cannot perform any of these functions then it is a waste.
Finally, the time came. My son was a talkative toddler, and my parents were a few days away from a visit. “My mom's coming, her name is Mammo.” He turned his head, much like a dog listens to a high pitched sound and said “Nemo?” “Yes, Nemo.” I laughed myself silly in reply. It took him all of two seconds to claim his birthright over her, and the complexity and beauty of his choice made me pause. Instantly I was transported to childhood, and an old, vague memory of a Disney movie.
Captain Nemo resounds in my mind just like the Gremlins. Had I been a year older when I saw him on T.V., the experience would have left no impact. But as a boy of six or so years, the combination of my naivety and the black and white moral compass of Disney left the captain of the Nautilus forever etched in my mind as a madman. The sort of man who would give odd tests of character to strangers. Should they fail, they would die. He was the sort of man who would let you live only so that he could enjoy your anticipation of death. He would surface his ship in the guise of a monster only to cause death and destruction.
Nemo was the perfect name for my mother. Over the last eight years, we have seen my folks a few times. Each one was so bad that it was to be the “last time.” Then memory fades, and hearts soften, and we give in again. The most recent “last time” was a particularly claustrophobic event. In late October, my beautiful and altruistic wife went into an as of yet unimagined fit of altruism and said in her short and sincere way that my folks are getting old and have never had a Christmas with us. We should have them out this year. “I don't know about that.” was the simple response behind a dozen painful childhood memories. To my knowledge, neither of them has ever had a decent Christmas. They're just not built for it somehow. She only had to broach the subject once or twice more though, and I had given in. That voice that says “It's the right thing to do” is so loud sometimes.
We even went the extra mile and offered to help pay for the tickets. That's the point where things got strange. They acted funny about the offer. We would find tickets at good prices and try to get the ball rolling, and they would find something they didn't like. Some had too many layovers, some went to the wrong cities, some left too late, some were with the wrong airlines. Finally, I had given up, and sat back to admire my good fortune. They were well on their way to waiting too long and not coming out at all. I was the good guy for offering, and I didn't have to deal with an actual visit.
Then, in late November, an email came to my wife. They had bought the tickets themselves and were getting in on the 19th, and leaving the 1st. Quick math said that was two weeks, and the real reason none of our tickets were good enough. In the distance, two lights appeared below the surface of the water, and a swell of sea water began to move towards us.
The days flew by at an astonishing rate. Our daughter's birthday passed. Our wedding anniversary came and went almost unnoticed. A long work trip sat somewhere in the middle of it all. And then, in what seemed like the moment after I asked them to come, they were here. We took their wheelchairs from their attendant, and headed for the elevator amidst grumbles of earaches and other health problems. My father has an adamant way about demanding attention. He waves his hand at you much in the way a Noble would dismiss a servant, only he uses the gesture as a ploy to constantly attract your eyes. “They're going to be wondering what's in that suitcase when they scan it.” He starts, with three quick waves of his right hand. “It's got pecan wood in it. The whole thing is filled up.” I looked back over the starboard side, and could see the wood splinter. The sea came up to meet my falling body with a somehow familiar force.
He told me three times while we waited for the carousel to start moving, how an entire suitcase was packed full of pecan wood for me to use in my smoker. We had spoken about this on the phone. I said I could use an ounce or two of it at some point, if it were splintered or chopped up. In typical fashion, they had taken something that could be a nice little gesture and turned it into an inconvenience. I smiled and said I would like to try it out when I could. At least I might be able to use a piece for driftwood so that I might survive a few days on the open ocean.
We got their bags loaded, and my mother hopped in front with Niki, and I got in the middle seats with my father. With our children chattering away happily, and my father and I settled into an uncomfortable silence, and my wife looking so far away up front, I realized that I had been unconscious and now awoke in my cell aboard the tiny submarine. In truth, our van is quite spacious. Today, however, it seemed claustrophobic. Everyone was in my personal space, except the one person I wanted there. She was stuck driving, and making small talk with Nemo. Nemo demanded a course for home, and we obliged. The Nautilus lurched out of port for open waters.
Home was a twelve hundred square foot island. A modest island by almost any standards. The living room is awkwardly shaped. The dining area is cramped, even when it's just the two adults and two children eating. The kitchen is large, but with no seating. The bedrooms all border each other, and a common head (to use a nautical term). And the floor vents ensure that you can always hear any conversation in any room. Over the summer we turned the garage into a game room. We spend a lot of time out there, and sure enough it would be our fortress of solitude from Nemo during this visit.
The game room stayed just a little on the cool side, and it turns out that Nemo was only able to tolerate the environment in short episodes. She made her way in to snoop around a few times, but was eventually turned away with the shivers. I have recently picked up playing the trombone after a ten year hiatus. This pleased Nemo greatly, but she demanded a public performance. Her wish was granted on Christmas Eve when I had agreed to play at a couple church services. Of course, Nemo had heard me practice three or four times in the week leading up to the performance. She sat with her stern expression while I chipped away at numerous imperfections in my solos.
My practice sessions could not be exhalted, deplored, or used to elicit pity, or envy. Therefore, they had no value. However, before the services. As we drove down icy roads an hour earlier than necessary, Nemo announced to the crew that she would be crying at tonights performance. “I'ma gonna cry when he plays that horn... Both times.” was the exact phrasing if I remember correctly. It was a little non-sequitur, but she knew that we would soon be arriving at the church, and apparently we needed to be briefed about our mission. Tonight Nemo would exact her vengeance on my lost childhood with a thousand tears.
I was playing two of our three services that night. The first service had a shockingly high turnout for such formidable weather. Nemo's tears flowed freely, and many in the crowd were obliged to give her the attention she so richly deserved. Luckily, I was so concerned with not completely botching my performance that I hardly noticed. The middle service is always the lull. That night was particularly sad. There were only a small handful of people in the crowd who did not have a part to play in the evening. This turnout displeased Nemo, and thus she deprived us of her promised performance. Nemo is a stern captain. This inconsistency seems to fit well with the unpredictability I remember from the Disney character. Of course, the real reason behind those dry eyes was that most everyone there had already seen the show. Nemo guessed quite correctly that she wouldn't be as well received the second time around.
My Nemo is as bloodthirsty as the fictitious one. Her bonding ritual consists of a human sacrifice which must be ripped apart slowly and laboriously, until all are exhausted from the effort. Her first attempt to bond with us that week came after church on Sunday. “Did you see that woman in front of us?!? She sat there the whole service and embroidered!” The sacrifice was incredulously brought to the table. That is how it works. Nemo brings out the sacrifice, and tells you where to cut. Then you must make the incision. We would have nothing of it on this visit. This particular sacrifice was just an industrious church goer who happened to posses the remarkable talent of walking and chewing gum at the same time. Something that Nemo has repeatedly said is beyond her grasp.
I think there is something noble about working with your hands while you worship. It reminds me of the Trappiste monks whom I admire so greatly. Besides that, my mind is only fully at rest when I can fidget with something inane. When I am coding, and have to stop to think, I often type a word, or few keys over and over. Why is it that we should deny this nature in some people? At any rate, Nemo was visibly annoyed when we refused to make the ritual incision. She repeated her incantation three times over lunch alone. Finally, she was satisfied that we were uninterested and put the topic away. Whenever she would sit down with new people over the course of the trip, she would bring out that same sacrifice. It came to the point where I would nearly scream “You sat there the whole service and WATCHED a woman embroider. Which do you think will get you to Hell faster?” Alas, I am a coward, and the numinous figure from my childhood stopped me somewhere short of such an outburst.
Strangely, this victim was never actually attacked by anyone other than Nemo during the visit. She had to rely on her old standby of parading victim after victim, until one would strike a common chord with her co-conspirator. You know how it goes. Someone will say something like “Oh, I just hate so, and so. He does such and such.” And it just so happens that such-and-such is your pet peeve. You habitually respond. “Oh, that's just like blankidy blank. He does such and such.” Before you know it, you each turn to your favorite victims and make a display of your hatred so that your new friend can see. I tell you this, watching Nemo parade person after person that she hates before a crowd has made me forgive people that I really didn't know I had it in me to forgive. God willing, and if I have it in me, I will never play party to that particular game again.
The climactic battle came on New Year's Eve. Their last night there. Truthfully, though the battle until then had been hard, Nemo had not gotten the better of us. Although we had never made our ultimate escape, we had stolen moments here and there to be a family, and have a normal Christmas, despite Nemo's demands to the contrary. That day, I had hardly said more than a word to them. There had been a verbal fight that morning between them an my wife and in-laws. Hearing about it, I felt that it was a little on the minor side, but worth making sure Nemo knew I was not going to ignore it. Finally, late in the evening, I was called in to an audience with the captain. She wanted to know if I would row her ashore, or call for a ferry.
Things escalated from there. For the first time in years, I caught my mother in several lies. Even after all of the audacious things she had done over the last two weeks, that she would still lie to my face, when an absolute simpleton would know better took me by surprise. There was yelling, and there was drama in the true southern fashion. Nemo cried and made pitiful faces while her first mate (actually her second) packed and grumbled.
Pappo was supposed to be his name. It went well with Mammo. Connor's poor little ears, always so hard of hearing transformed it, somehow into Tacko. That too was beautifully fitting. Here is a man, who since his mid sixties has been hooked on daytime soap operas. Here is a man with a taste in clothes that reminds you of a gay Jimmy Buffett. Here is a man who has never learned the meaning of appropriate. Here is a man who sent a knife with the image of a naked lady on it to a three year old. Here, friends, is Tacko.
Tacko is an interesting choice as the first mate to an evil genius. He is a kind of chaotic evil that she likes. When he doesn't help her directly, he makes her look more pitiful, and that gets her attention that she craves. Tonight, he had made up his mind to follow through with her bluff. She said she was leaving. We had starved her of attention, and now there would be consequences which would involve hours of giving her attention.
I had two choices. I could get her out of the house, which seemed quite possible at the rate Tacko was packing things up. Or I could sit down and talk it all over and deal with them one more night. If they actually got out the door tonight, I would have it over my head for the rest of their lives. This trip had morphed from an act of altruism on behalf of Niki, to an act of appeasement from me. If it were cut short, then it wouldn't count as such.
I sat down in Nemo's quarters and began her long ritual of atonement. The kind of ritual where everyone apologizes, only Nemo does it only in effort to make you feel bad. Truisms are thrown at you like daggers. If one misses, you are expected to pick it up and stab it somewhere convenient. Nemo was never good with truisms, thus you have to go fetch each mis-hurled quotation and find a home for it in your abdomen. She says that I am exactly like Tacko, so I have to look down and pretend to be reflective. She says that he won't live much longer, so I am supposed to pretend like this is news to me and be reflective. Unfortunately for Nemo, Niki's dad is in the other room yelling at Tacko. It's the saddest thing that I have heard in a long while, for reasons that I will not go into on a public forum. Instead of playing the game, I tell her that we are all going to die. She retorts quickly with the truism that she guesses doesn't bother me. Only, this truism just happens to be true. It doesn't bother me that he might soon die. They've held the thought of it over us for so long, that it seems we've paid our dues for that particular event. Put up or shut up Nemo.
I race into the living room to stop the argument there, but I am too late. My father-in-law, the closest thing I've known to a real father, and a real male friend has stormed out of the door. My father makes sure, one more time, that I have heard that he wants nothing more to do with me. I try to be gracious in this. Honestly, it is something that I want, but I feel guilty over getting it. I hope that my prize does not cost him any more of his soul than he has given up already. Nemo comes out, triumphant, that Niki has asked her to stay (she didn't), and settles the matter early lest we rob her of the moment.
In the end, she won the night handily. I spend several hours on the couch with them, making small talk, fidgeting with my son's new Lego sets. She acted like nothing had happened, and he sat there in silence like a true first mate. The next day they left.
The ride to the airport was mostly silent. Nemo worked up a tear or two as we left, but was dry as they took her away. I don't think that Tacko said a word to us. Maybe to the children. Her hour of drama may have cost him dearly. Both of them work so hard at being miserable. They are careful to never seem content, lest someone forget about them for a moment. With the prospect of a long lost family to pine over to his friends, he may never be forced to grow out of that. That's the funny thing about suffering. When God gives it to us, it has the potential to heal. When we bring it on ourselves, there may be no surer road to Hell. |
|
