Deliriously Happy (4 page)

—So, what do you guys think? Mom asked. Doesn't your father look nice in that robe?

—It's a pretty robe, Mommy, Moll said.

Mom was standing behind me, with her fingers rubbing the top part of my chest, making little circles.

—What do
you
think, Stephan?

I said the only thing I could think of: He smells funny.

—That's just the potpourri, honey. It won't be so strong in a couple days. So, you kids, want to order a pizza?

—Yay! Molly said.

—We had a lot to eat at Grandma's, I said. I'm not hungry. I have an algebra test tomorrow. I better go study.

I actually didn't eat much at all at Grandma's—which Grandma made a big deal about, taking my temperature all the time—but I did have an algebra test. I didn't study for it, though. I kept trying to think of everything, but none of it would sit still in my head; I couldn't even get it in the right order. I just lay in my bed, staring, getting hungrier and hungrier.

I felt sick the next morning and I didn't want to go to school, but I didn't want to stay home either, so I went. I felt dizzy all day, probably on account of the fact that I didn't eat any breakfast, and also everything that happened. I wanted to tell my friend Gregory all about it, but I figured he wouldn't understand and I couldn't explain it to him either. Whenever my parents used to do something weird like this, they always said I'd understand when I got older, but I'll bet that won't happen in this case. I'm sure everybody thought I was acting weird.

When I got home, Moll was there with some of her friends, playing in the TV room with Dad, which I didn't think was a good idea but she said Mom said it was okay, which, at that point, sounded like something Mom would say. They were all in the TV room, all giggles and squeals, taking turns sitting on Dad, and I couldn't deal with that so I went up to my room. Well, before not too long, I heard all this shrieking and so I came back down. What happened was they were horsing around on Dad and tipped him out of his chair, knocking some of the stuffing out of him. I sent them all home, and that night Emily Barton woke up shrieking and the next morning the police came and took Dad away.

The police asked me where my mom was and I said she was at work, and they asked me where she worked and I wouldn't tell them, but they found her anyway.

Uncle Tim came to stay with us while Mom talked things over with the police. It turned out that they had to let her go after forty-eight hours, since they couldn't find any major crimes to charge her with. The TV made a lot of jokes about that, and not just on the local shows. One famous talk-show guy told a joke about how the police finally decided the only crime they could charge my mom with was practicing taxidermy without a license. Uncle Tim wouldn't tell me what taxidermy was, so I looked it up in the dictionary. It was an okay joke, I guess. Another guy made a joke about how they weren't going to charge my mom, but they decided to arrest my dad for impersonating a congressman. I didn't get it. Uncle Tim laughed, but then he saw me and stopped.

I told him he didn't have to not laugh, but he turned off the TV and came over and put his hand on my shoulder, like Dad used to when he had something he thought was important to tell me. Uncle Tim told me that sometimes people laugh when things are so horrible they can't cry, which is something Mom told me once too, so maybe it's sort of a family saying.

Anyway, after keeping my mom for forty-eight hours and not having any crimes to arrest her for, the police had to let her go. I watched it on TV. Mom was walking out of the police station with our lawyer, Uncle Chuck (he's not a real uncle), when she was surrounded by all these reporters who were shoving microphones and things at her. One of the reporters kept yelling out,
Why'd you do it? Why'd you do it?
Finally my mom quit trying to push through them and stopped in middle of all the microphones.

—Can you tell us why you did it? the reporter asked again.

That kind of partway smile came on Mom's face again. She said: I think it's important to have a man in the house.

When Mom got home, she went right to bed and took Moll with her.

Uncle Tim says I'll have to be the man of the house now, because no matter what Mom says, there's no way they're going to give Dad back. I don't know about that. Later that night I snuck down to the TV room to see if we made the eleven o'clock news, and it was like Dad was still there, sitting in his chair, as always. His chair still had his dent; it was deep and shaped exactly like him, fresh still, like he had just gotten out of it to go to the bathroom or something, and I was afraid that if I sat in his spot, he'd be back in a few seconds to yell at me to get out. It's like Mom used to say: Dad made a pretty big impression on that chair.

First dates can be an uncomfortable experience for both parties, but here are a few things you can do to make it a fun, interesting experience for all
.

Spit into a handkerchief every fifteen minutes or so.

If your date relates a particularly stiff anecdote, say, “That reminds me of a story,” and proceed to relate the
exact same anecdote
, only substituting yourself for your date in the story.

Don't talk with your mouth full of blood.

Driving home, nervously glance in the rearview mirror and say, “Shit, it's Mom. Hold on tight while I try to lose her.”

At the end of the date, tell your date you had a perfectly wonderful evening, while pressing a dollar bill into his or her hand.

We have several.

For an appetizer, the chef has prepared a slaughter of baby salmon on toast points of nine grains—blue corn, barley, rye, chaff, stover, found rice, horse-rolled oats, balsa, and fermented teff flown in daily from Ethiopia—and fancy assorted nuts, which may contain up to ten percent peanuts. The salmon is very fresh; it was hatched just this morning.

The chef is also offering a personal favorite, his hot spiced rocks. These are igneous and sedimentary varietals, half-washed and heated to nine hundred degrees Fahrenheit, then gleefully sprinkled with international peppers.

For the more adventurous, we have a selection of freshly purchased water crackers spread with unmarked pastes, jellies, and unguents found in our kitchen.

We are also featuring a tasting gavage, in which every appetizer on the menu is wheeled to your table and forced down the gullets of two to four people. The price is twenty-eight dollars per person, plus a nominal service charge. To accompany this course, the chef recommends a bottle of the Pete, which is quite sneaky tonight. It comes in cherry or mixed berry, and is served in brown paper.

Our special soup tonight is Georgian alligator turtle, prepared and presented in its own shell. This soup is served cold and slimy, and, in the traditional manner, with the head and legs attached. We recommend that you not touch the head, as it can snap your finger clean off before you can say, “Hey, this turtle is still alive.”

In addition to our usual salad, our chef has prepared a faux tuna Niçoise, which he is recommending not be eaten by anyone trying to limit their mercury consumption.

We also have an iceberg lettuce leaf, wetted and centered on the plate.

With your soup and salad, the chef suggests two or three cocktails, and not cosmopolitans or candy martinis but real men's drinks. He is recommending a very interesting Thai vodka he managed to get into this country; the “liquor” is chilled into an aspic, spooned into a shot glass, then served between the breasts of Alicia over there.

Before I tell you the entrées, there is one change to the menu: we are out of the pan-fried squirrel brains tonight, as our supplier fell out of a tree this morning.

Our fish is a Blue Happy, which is a euphemism. It is mostly filleted and sunbaked, then disinfected and served with what may or may not be capers. Blowholes can be requested for an additional charge.

The pasta is a single, comically long strand of spaghetti with a surprise at the end. The sauce is of no consequence.

And, finally, tonight we are offering a very special entrée that has been the subject of much debate in the kitchen. It is roast loin of Oliver, a pig that our chef has raised since infancy. Oliver was the runt in a litter of nine, and was, as you can see in this picture, bottle-fed by the chef as a young boy. Oliver grew strong and proud and was soon beating his siblings in their rutting games. Extremely smart, Oliver thrice saved our chef from fires caused by careless smoking. However, in his latter years Oliver has grown bitter and incontinent, and just yesterday he ate the chef's brandnew iPhone.

Once we receive our first order this evening, Oliver will be smothered by a pillow filled with virgin goose down. This may take the chef some time. Oliver will then be hacked to pieces and charbroiled on a specially blessed grill. His loin will then be laid to rest on a bed of tears, with asparagus and a confit of something. The chef would like to serve Oliver to you personally, and deliver a short eulogy. He will remain tableside, drinking steadily as you eat in silence. Because of the singular nature of this dish and its extreme emotional cost, it is priced at eighteen thousand dollars.

Would you like to order now, or do you need a few moments?

I've been to this restaurant before. When was that? Oh my God: embarrassing.
I did a film here
. It was called, I don't know,
Something Somethings Something
. Didn't win any awards. The shoot was totally hot, though. The air conditioning was, like, broken or something. That's why we were so sweaty. Usually they spray it on.