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By Stephen Date: 2002 Jul 15 Comment on this Work [[2002.07.15.02.22.4539]] |
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Work was great. I didn't partake in any work. We started slaving into the cheesy magic show when we got a call on the three-com from the stage manager saying the entertainment for the day is canceled due to mass vacancy. The park was a breezy casket of silence and the crew and I didn't even notice. The three hundred and sixty times we performed the show blinded our conceptions of even what day it was. It was Thanksgiving. We wondered who was the genius that thought Bonfate Gardens would attract anyone on turkey day. Probably our brilliant rookie manages, who barely knew the difference between the theme park auditorium show and contemporary theatre; both of which in my opinion, should be closed on Thanksgiving. Either way, we were happy to be let off, even if it meant losing the pay and a half for working on holidays. On the drive home the thought of just going out to eat crossed my mind. I would of hit the drive through for Carl's Junior or Jack in the Box on any normal day after work, but this was Thanksgiving. You don't do fast food on Thanksgiving. Boy, would it of turned me into ice cubes to see my mother's face if I brought home fast food while she was cooking a wonderfully huge turkey dinner. Still, my stomach turned with gut feelings that I should go out to eat with friends at a long sit-down restaurant instead, and just use the fib, "I was still working." I couldn't do that to mom. I can't even bare seeing her maid to the four males in the house. The least I could do is eat her finely fattening dinner and give her the satisfaction of filling her growing boy. Just as I was taking my obese 1986 Pontiac Firebird around the quart at the end of my street, my bigger brother's girlfriend pulls up in a small Geo Metro; taking my parking spot. With a grumble of annoyance I pull my red giant behind her tiny green hobbit. I remember my dad's advice and put my manual shift in first gear to prevent the car from rolling backwards if the parking break gives out. Normally, in any other car I would ignore this paranoid habit, but ever since I bought this "mint condition" hot-rod, everything has been falling apart in sequence to important times of my daily life. I walk to the door to the garage and take a deep breath. I hold in the fresh air and open the door quickly. While closing the door without turning, I see my father, mother, bigger brother and his girlfriend smoking. They all take a quick break from discussing whatever they were discussing and my mom and dad say "hi" to me. I notice my father finishing down the rest of a beer bottle and then placing it next to its friends that have gathered on the computer desk. My mother asks why am I home from work so early, but with my other hand over my mouth, I just wave "talk about it later," as I run with panic through the door to the house. I exhale out and try to take some non-fowl smelling air in. Sunny chirps for me, and I let my yellow parakeet out of his kitchen confinement. I plop my pet onto my shoulders and walk straight to my sanctuary. I close the door to my room behind me, and place my bird on his mirrored perch as I flick on my computer, as my usually lengthy and pleasurable solitude begins. Everyone has at least a few brief instances of privacy everyday. When you go to the bathroom, when you're enwrapped in a book, and when you're asleep; you're generally secluded from the people around you. I'm talented in the skills of seclusion. By shutting away my family life on a constant basis I've learned such seclusions. Though for me, seclusion isn't necessarily a continuous way of life. I have my friends, my outings, and normal social urges, yet I frequently use an anti-social persona when I arrive home. Upon close analysis of my life (soul-searching if you will), I've determined my hermitic behavior is an effect from an obscure developmental flaw in my family or me. It's hard to find any particular event in my memory that has caused this reclusive behavior towards my family, but one thing is for certain; I don't have much in common with most of my family. I can get along with my mother and little brother Joey, but my father and my bigger brother Chris are exactly the same, and exactly not like me. Just as I start up a conversation with a friend online, I hear the discussion moved to the kitchen and is now elevated to heated argument form. I wondered with the familiar connotative evidence before me, how far down the road this fight would go. In all honesty with contrast to these common occurrences, I just don't care. The last thing I hear of the argument before I put on a soothing CD with assorted piano masterpieces, is Chris screaming, "You fuckin' hate her, you assholes; you don have a fuckin' heart, she has nowhere to go," and my dad answering "She's not living here, get over it." Chopin's Berceuse in D Flat Major barely covers the rare mild voices. His beautiful piece sounds fairly better at an extreme volume anyways. I bet all his works are this annoyingly quiet. I've always disliked music without verity. The album makers were quite cruel in organizing Chopin's Minute Waltz as track two. I dive for my stereo's volume control and cut the painful frequency down. I'll be more careful in the future and not jinx piano composers for their quiet playing. Continuing to carry on my lovely conversation with my friend on how awesome it'll be if I got the top of the line nVidia 32-bit video card, I briefly hear Joey squeal between the song changes, "Stop yelling! Stop it!" "You fucking worthless excuse for life! Respect my household!" "Fuckin' respect me! I'm twenty fuckin' years old! I'm not a child!" "You earn respect, Boy!" "It's Thanksgiving...Shut up both of you or I'll take Stephen and Joey out of here! For Gawd's Sake!" Debussy is especially nerve racking with the volume levels in his songs. I finally skip his work entirely to save from making more trips to the stereo. Schubert's Impromptu No. 2 and Liszt's Liebestraume are absolute genius; they blend notes rapidly flying up and down scales filling in every space with plentiful melody. Suddenly I hear a loud crashing sound with more rumblings back and forth. "The graphic card you have right now is just fine for running high end games you don't need another dude." Blankly I stare at my friend's text reply. Why on Thanksgiving? Why do they have to fight now? Dad must be drunk. Chris deserves whatever he's getting right now anyways; he's such a waste of life. I wonder what the neighbors think? The neighbors must be used to this by now. I stand. Beethoven's Fur Elise seems to play in unison as I open my door slowly to the pain and realization that they are really beating on each other. They both roll on the ground, crashing and smashing household things in the process. My little brother crying rivers as my mother tries to pry the rabid dogs apart. I stand there at my door, stone faced in my confused amazement. They break apart for the bell ring in the distance. My little brother has the phone and is dialing away. My mother is standing between the reddened adversaries crying in panic with her arms extended; hands open palmed like stop signs in front of war tanks. They scream hatred at each other in Ebonics over mature resistance like vulgar school children in deep city playgrounds. The next round starts when I see my father lunge at my bigger brother in a drunken stupor. I stare a Medusa's glare in seeing my frail mother knocked toppling aside like a Raggedy-Ann doll. I couldn't believe my eyes. I've never seen my dad hurt my mother; even remotely. I love my mother. I got most of my inheritance genetically from my mother: we both read long novels, we both enjoy socializing online, we both cry exceedingly at cheesy movies and my favorite play, Les Miserables. Joey and my mother is the only people in my family I can really relate to. I snapped. Grabbing whatever it is I could blindly find; I took a swing at the tumbling madness below my feet with the awkward object. I stood back and watched the fight finally fold its eight times to the end. My dad chaotically scrambling on the kitchen floor, freaking out that he was bleeding from his head, as the rest of my family watched me in shocked puzzlement. I dropped the tiny cement planter to the ground, spilling its brown content onto the crimson splattered tile. I looked at the added mosaic on the floor in pale disgust. Everything stopped. Chris ran outside as the first police cars pulled up, like his criminal record was already flagging them in. My mother was caring to my scared drunken father with a towel. Joey was still crying. I fled to my room for shelter. I enclosed myself into the peaceful sanctuary of solitude. Sick with the piano's sound, I turned off my stereo. Chopin was about to play again. I hate Chopin. I sat and stared at my computer screen. "Hey dude, are ya there?" I sighed and performed the PC sin by flicking off my computer without properly shutting down windows. Around this time the police officers came in to talk to me. They explained to me that nobody was pressing charges, and everything will be ok. I looked up at them blankly as they asked me questions about what happened. While giving them only fragmented answers, I felt invaded in my personal space. With paranoid enthusiasm I quickly fed the officer what I could muster to say. There wasn't much. I just wanted him to leave my room, and leave me alone. When finally he did leave, I let myself go. After I cried for unknown period of time, Chris came into my room thanking me for what I did. He said he was sorry about bugging me, and asked if I could please move my car, so his girlfriend could get her car out of the driveway. I felt further disgusted with everything, promptly told him to "fuck off, make sure you leave with her", and grabbed my car keys. To think he has the nerve to thank me for ending a fight he helped start. To think I'm helping this complete waste of life who ruined my Thanksgiving. To think my giant red beast is yielding for this tiny pathetic deathtrap of an automobile. After a little bit I came out of my room noticing everything was silent except for the sound of a television. I walked grimly to the living room almost gagging on the scent of sweat, struggle, and brute force. When I turned the corner I saw my little brother Joey watching Nickelodeon. I asked him where mom was, and he said without staring away from the screen that she went with dad in the ambulance. I asked if dad was all right, and he said the paramedics say he's only going to need some stitches, and everything will be fine because, he doesn't remember anything from being so drunk. On the way back to my room after pulling out my car, I thought about all the times I distracted myself from the world around me whenever mom and dad fought. How being enwrapped in entertainment technology helps you ignore the bad things in life, for better or for worse. How it puts you into a different world of understanding and perception; placing you into synthetic environments that normally never exists. Out the worst Thanksgiving and the worst holiday I've ever had, I've truly learned that displacing current problems does not solve them. The negative tension builds up and eventually needs to be vented and released. I didn't feel like eating any of turkey dinner my mother undoubtedly prepared and now left out for the flies. I felt sick and dizzy. To get over the mood, I contradictorily flicked on my computer, and almost played a game to get my mind off the domestic disturbance. I stopped myself and left my room. I went to the living room again and asked Joey if he would like to play some Hockey in the garage. |