home is burning

The arrival of my little 19-year old sister, Michelle’s, second child in 11 months was no surprise. She married an aging Mormon man whose remaining purpose on earth seems to be to get my little sister pregnant as often as her weakened body will allow. Michelle buys into it, too. Shortly after she birthed her first kid, Luke, on February 2, 2009, she announced her second pregnancy. We were all taken aback but the rapid turnaround of her vagina, so we greeted the situation by saying things like, “Holy shit. Already?”, or, “Jesus Christ, how many bad decisions is this bitch going to make before she turns twenty?”,  or, “Well, even if she doesn’t work, at least we know her vagina does”.

We got to talking about how many children she was planning on having.

Me: Jesus Mitch, I know I should say congratulations, but I’m more inclined to ask you how many children you plan on having.

Michelle: I think ten.

Me: Ten? Did I hear that right? As in the number of Commandments?

Michelle: What are Condiments?

Me: Something to do with morals and religion.

Michelle: Oh. Well. Yeah. Ten. I think.

If she stays on her current pace (one child per 11 months), and my math is correct, she should have something like one million children by the time she’s 26.

Michelle’s pregnancy was induced on Saturday January 2, 2010. She was due around January 21^st. I was slightly upset by the selected induction date because I wanted to spend New Years in Las Vegas to test whether or not my old heart could handle another night of intense drinking, or if it would just explode into a million little, alcohol-filled pieces. But I stuck around and spent a lame New Years in the party capital of the world, Salt Lake City, Utah, so I could be there on the 2^nd and present myself as a loving, caring brother.

But, I wasn’t that into this one. I wasn’t too thrilled to catch all the gory details: the afterbirth, the blood, the sewing up of my sister’s vagina. I sort of wanted to skip this one and take a, “Well, I’ll catch the next one,” approach, given the looming ten number.

The whole situation is a difficult one because of the strange grudge we all hold towards Michelle’s husband, Rob. He was, after all, her soccer coach since she was 12-years old. He has done his best to redeem himself. He’s a fairly nice guy and some of his intensions appear to be good, but, when it comes down to it, he’s still a 38-year old fucking and impregnating a 19-year old. So, for me, it’s hard to go and hug him and shake his hand and say, “Oh, congratulations on getting my little sister pregnant and stealing her youth from her. I wish you two the best. What a special day.”

Everyone thinks every child’s birth is a miracle, but the only miracle I see in this situation is that someone from our family hasn’t beaten the shit out of him. My bully older sister, Tiffany, did toss him up against our garage on their wedding night, threatening to murder him, saying something like, “Say away from our little sister or I’ll murder you!!!” But that was alcohol induced, so I think we all chalked that one up to the “Tiffany is so silly and drunk” column. But we all feel that something was stolen from Michelle when she decided to marry Rob, drop out of school, and start having kids. Youth is, after all, one of the most valuable resources we have. Why waste it being married and giving birth? Since his name is Rob I often joke with Michelle, asking her questions like, “Do you feel like you were ROBBED of your childhood?”, or, “Do you feel like your vagina and birth eggs were ROBBED?” Shit like that that may or may not be funny to anyone but me, but I went ahead and wrote it because fuck you.

So, I went into his birth-giving with some reluctance and stubbornness. At one point my Mom sent me a text message saying that Michelle was going into labor. My response was, “Who cares?” But she was my sister and I did care, so I went. Plus, hospitals are sort of my stomping ground. I feel at home in them. Their bathrooms are clean places to take shits, and I feel that if something like a heart attack happens to me at least I won’t have to pay the expensive ambulance fee to get me to the hospital. The kicker in this deal was the fact that this particular hospital has a free soda machine on the second level. It’s great because they also have the smaller, crushed ice. You know, the kind that looks like little ice pellets and is super crunchy? Anyways, I find this particular brand of ice to be particularly delicious, being a fatass and all. I decided go to the hospital, watch a little birth-giving, have a few Cokes, crack a few jokes, crunch down on some of the pellet ice, hug a few pedophiles, and be a happy member of this expanding family.

The whole family was going, or the alive ones at least. The last time we had all been circled around a hospital bed was to watch my Dad slowly be waned off his respirator, after he decided to finally surrender to Lou Gehrig’s awful death-grip that had deflated his lungs and destroyed his muscles. In a way, it was nice to get the whole crew back together and stand around a hospital bed to welcome a new life instead of say goodbye to one.

My gay brother, Greg, and I arrived a few minutes after the delivery. Everyone was all smiles. The baby was wrapped up in blankets and had a little cap on his head, probably to simulate the warmth of a vagina. He was healthy and named, Samuel Lance Marshall-Horn. I grabbed a Coke and sipped it down from the Styrofoam cup, focusing more on the ice than on the liquid it was cooling.

“God, this is thrilling,” I said, acting as though I was thrilled.

“Congratulations, Rob. This is quite the miracle isn’t it?” I said, being a touch sarcastic.

“It sure is,” he said, not knowing that I was being a touch sarcastic.

I always carry a condom on me, as most guys do. If I went to a therapist, which I probably should, he or she would probably tell me that carrying a condom was a good sign, that I still saw the world through the, “I have hope. In fact I might even have sex. In fact, I’m hopeful and prepared for it,” lens, instead of the, “Oh look, my Dad is dead so I’m going to live the rest of my life as a miserable fuck,” lens. As we all stood admiring the new little guy, I reached into my pocket and felt the condom.

“It’s time to be an asshole and ruin this moment,” I thought as my fingers felt the ribbed-ness of the condom through its wrapper.

“Well, what a special day for your two baby makers,” I said. “I got something for you two, a present if you will, to congratulate you for the arrival of Samuel.” I then pulled out the condom. “It’s a condom so this doesn’t happen again.” A few people in the room laughed, including my Mom, who has made a special point of trying to laugh at anything I say to help me like her more.

I handed the condom to Rob. He looked at it with puzzlement, like a caveman would look at a lighter. “Okay, thanks, but you should know that we’re only had sex twice. Once for Luke and once for Samuel.”

“Gross, well then this one should really come in handy,” I said, as Rob slide the condom into his pocket.

The whole thing was a joke, but maybe it will slow them down a little. I ain’t no motherfucking doctor, but I assume it’s probably not healthy for a 19-year old body to be constantly pregnant. Maybe this condom will be used once and delay the next pregnancy a month or two. But it probably won’t, and there’s nothing I can do but show up in 11 months, drink a Coke with the good kind of ice, and act like I’m thrilled.

I lifted the Coke to my mouth, sipping from it in a way that ensured I got some of that crunchy ice. “Fuck, this little kid is cute. I can’t wait for the next one in 11 months.”

As always, my New Year’s Resolution was to stop being such a unhealthy fatass. I assisted in my reaching of this resolution by signing up for a gym membership at Bally’s Total Fitness (I would just say Bally’s, but you might get it confused with the hotel in Las Vegas, so I tacked on the “Total Fitness”).

My Mom sent me a text asking how things were going. I responded by saying, “Everything is going well. I joined a gym. Love you.”

Her response: “God for u! Is it near your house? That will be something you really enjoy, but Dan, u r NOT fat. You’re very good looking and u have intoxicating eyes and a great smile. You r fun, funny and a hoot to be with. I love u soooooo much, Dan, and I expect great things out of you!!!”

It’s good to know that even if I and the rest of the world doesn’t find me to be thin, attractive, or funny, at least my good old Mom does.

As we waited in a room designated specifically for waiting while the nurses and doctors finished sewing back up what was left of my little sister, Michelle’s, vagina after she gave birth to her second child in 11 months, I fucked around with my other little sister, Chelsea, the one who will not only not be giving birth any time soon, but the one who will probably not even be getting laid any time soon, just like me. I made retard jokes. She made fat asshole jokes.

“You’re so retarded you could have a retarded baby with no arms and a dick on the bottom of his left foot,” I said.

“You’re so fat you could have a baby made of poop,” she said.

“Well, we should put you back in mom so your brain can finish developing so maybe you won’t have Aspergers,” I said.

“Well, we should put you back in mom so your brain can finish developing, so maybe you won’t be an asshole,” she said.

In our family, discovery of sex jokes means that we have finally graduated into adulthood. Well, that’s not entirely true or I would have been labeled an adult at the age of 12 when I discovered then subsequently made my first thousand blowjob jokes. But it is a passage into a more developed, less mature adult mindset. I final realized that my little sister, Chelsea, was approaching this more developed state when she noted that she had discovered the second meaning to the Christmas song “Here Comes Santa Claus”.

Chelsea: Hey Danny, I used found out the second meaning in that song “Here Comes Santa Claus”.

Me: [Playing along] What do you mean?

Chelsea: [Making jack-off motion with her hand] You know, cum, like sperm from a penis.

Me: [Patting her on the shoulder] Chelsea, you’re finally a man now.

Chelsea: A man?

Me: I meant woman, well, an adult.

Chelsea: [Singing and making jack-off motion with hands] “Here cums Santa Claus”.

It’s hard for me to give a compliment, unless it’s to myself and about masturbation. Over the last year, my mom has done a wonderful job of rebuilding her life in the face of loss. I’m proud of her. When my Dad died, I thought she was going to be some bumbling lunatic stumbling around our house like a crack-head does around Harlem (Yes, I used the word bumbling and stumbling in the same sentence). But, thanks to a very special lady friend of hers, she’s bounced back. I, however, didn’t want to tell her this because I couldn’t find a mean way to do so. Then, over a lunchtime beer, I came up with this:

“Last year you were a pain-pill-popping psycho bitch, but you’ve really turned it around. Good job.”

She looked at me and said with sober eyes, “Thanks Dan. That means a lot to me.”

I try to jokingly get my little sister, Chelsea, to think and talk about the death of our father. I will ask her things like, “Hey Chels, do you know where Dad is?” or, while showing her a family photo, “Hey Chels, could you help me pick out one person in this picture that isn’t alive any more?” or, “Hey Chels, if you had to pick one thing that Dad is, dead or alive, which one would you pick?”

To get her thinking about old dead Bob Marshall, I gave her a simple task: name five things that you had a year and a half ago that you don’t have now, things that were living that aren’t any more.

She, while holding a banana, said, “Strawberries, bananas, milkshakes, and peaches.”

Using my counting and math skills, I said, “That was only four Chelsea. You still have one more. Think about something that isn’t a fruit or a milkshake, someone that was very important in making you, someone whose name rhymes with sad, mad, tad, rad, or had, as in, “I’m a tad sad and mad because I once had a rad _______.

Chelsea took a bite of a banana and said, “Apples. I don’t have apples any more.”

I recently pitched a hypothetical situation to Chelsea. I figure, at her age, with college on the horizon, she needs to sharpen that silly, fart-joke-loving brain of hers.

I gave her the hypothetical:

Me: Okay Chelsea, you have a pill in your right hand. If you take it, I die. You have a pill in your left hand. If you take it, Mom dies. You have to take one pill. Which one do you take?

Chelsea: Neither.

Me: No, Chels, you have to take one. Didn’t you listen to the rules, you stupid little fuck who has no self-confidence? The point of this whole thing is for you to make a decision about who you love and want to live on more: me or that shit-eater Mom.

Chelsea: Umm. Well, I would take half of each.

Me: What would happen then?

Chelsea: Have of you would die, and the other half would live.

Me: Could I pick which half died and which half lived?

Chelsea: Yeah, I guess.

Me: Well, I would pick the bottom half because my dick’s there.

Chelsea: But you use your mind more than your dick.

Me: Well, my dick and my mind are pretty much the same thing.

Chelsea: Oh, I never knew that. Then I would take the pill that kills you.

When I first came home to visit after leaving for college years ago, I excitedly approached our racist, Holocaust surviving Polish cleaning lady, Stana, hoping for a warm hug and a pat on the ass, maybe even a, “Wow, it’s so great to see you, Dan. Home isn’t the same without you.”

Instead, Stana took one look at me and said, “Oh, Danny, your face is so fat. You leavin’ for college and you is comin’ home with fat face.”

The grin faded from my fat face as I was slapped with the first comment that implied that I was getting older and more irresponsible with my body and health. I had been called many things throughout my life, mainly complimentary, things like, “Awesome,” or, “bad ass,” or, “Big Dick Dan,” or, “Awesome, bad ass, Big Dick Dan,” but I had never been called, “fat.”

Those simple words created what psychologist would call a complex. I now saw myself as owning a fat face. It soon became a part of my identity. I would say things like, “I have such a fat, fucking face,” and would assume everyone saw me as, “That fat ass with an even fatter face.” I tried exercising, but found it hard to lose weight in just my face. I tried sucking in my cheeks, but that seems to build cheek muscles that made my face even fatter.

I was finally able to grow a scrappy beard, that I currently sport.  I figured that people would mistake the fatness in my face for the fluffiness of my beard. Additionally, it seemed to give my face a thinner shape. 

I came home from graduate school sporting the aforementioned beard. I woke up and walked up stairs to Stana’s pleasant humming. I expected her to say, “Danny, you is lookin’ so good. Stana is bettin’ that you is gettin’ at sort of, how called, pussy in Los Angeles.”

Instead she said, “Oh Danny, you is need to get yourself together. You is lookin’, how called, homeless. You is need pull self, how called, together. You is shavin’ beard, and cuttin’ hair, and maybe one day, you is be a handsome boy again.”

So, in the eyes of Stana, either I shave my beard and have a fat face, or keep it and look like shit. Either way, Stana is no, how called, approvin’.

Mel Brooks

Mel Brooks is coming to speak to the writing program I’m in at USC. It’s really not a big deal, just one of the most famous, legendary names in entertainment coming to speak at one of the world’s best writing programs that I’m in. I told my Mom.

Me: Mel Brooks is coming to talk in a couple of weeks.

Mom: [Silence]

Me: Mom. Do you know who Mel Brooks is?

Mom: I’m not fucking retarded.

Me: Sorry, you just hesitated so I was thinking maybe your age mixed with the chemo…

Mom: Do I know who Mel Brooks is? I should be asking you that. 

The Lou Gehrig’s storm hit our family with the ferociousness of a hurricane made only of machine guns and the most poisonous of the poisonous jellyfish, all of which were also experts at shitting on our faces. The storm killed my Father, weakened my Mother, left our house an un-kept junkyard, and planted the old I-have-a-chip-on-my-shoulder-because-my-Father-is-dead on my siblings and I.

Despite all the loss, we did end up in the green in one area: Funeral Wine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Note, when speaking about alcohol, if a writer uses ten or more exclamation points, he or she is an alcoholic]

My Mom, always being sort of a dumb ass, shit fucker when it came to math, vastly over-estimated the amount of wine we needed for the funeral’s after-party. I’m not sure that it is actually called an after-party. I think most people use words like “Reception” or “Open House” or “Last Remembrance” or “Let’s let the shittiness continue as we all stand around in hot clothes taking about how great a dead person was and how much it sucks to be here talking about him or her in the past tense.”

To me though, it was the after party. It was the end of what was and hopefully will be the most difficult year of all the living I’ve done and will do. It was the closing of a chapter, and the beginning of forgetting about hard times. Nothing helps me forget names, faces, proper word pronunciations, societal rules, and anxiety provoking events like wine. It has a nice warmness that let’s me think in more peaceful, happy terms. God I sound like an alcoholic.

After the after party was over, after we had awkwardly thanked everyone for coming and agreed with strangers about what a great man my father was, my sister, Tiffany, and I huddled together to help collect up all the things we had brought: all the pictures of my dad, all of his running medals, all of the flowers, the leftover programs with a picture of his pre-Lou Gehrig’s face. Much to our surprise, we ended up with four full cases of wine.

Me: Holy fucking lord. Tiff, check out how much wine we have left over.

Tiffany: Shit.

Me: [Slightly drunk and thus slightly miscalculating] This will last us forever.

Tiffany: [Less drunk and better at math] I bet this lasts a year.

Me: [Bringing to light the fact that my little sister Michelle is an adopted Native American who, despite my best efforts to dethrone her, remains to be the most wild and reckless drinker in our family] Yeah, as long as Michelle doesn’t get to it. [Holding up hand for a high-five that Tiffany decided not to participate in]

It was a blessing, a pure, unadulterated blessing from God, whoever and where ever he or she is, if anywhere at all. I figured maybe my Dad had something to do with this over-estimation, that he knew we would need the wine to help us mourn his loss. I’m sure my Mom came to him and asked how much wine we should purchase for his funeral after-party. I’m sure he had a small, more reasonable number that he plugged into some formula:

Reasonable # of bottles of wine for a funeral after-party X # of years with Lou Gehrig’s disease X # of caretakers that actually wiped my ass at some point X 14 = # of bottles of wine for funeral after-party

I pictured him in bed having the conversation with my Mom. 

Mom: Bob, how much wine do we need for your funeral after-party.

Dad: [Taking a second to realize how strange it feels to be part of the planning committee of his oh funeral, having always assumed that someone else, everyone else would plan such an event, that dying meant your work was over, that the living had the responsibility]

Mom: Answer me god damn it. I can’t plan this whole fucking funeral by myself. I need your help. It is, after all, your funeral. Do you think 20 is enough?

Dad: [Mouthing the word “More”]

Mom: Thirty?

Dad: [Mouthing the word “More”]

Mom: Fifty?

Dad: [Mouthing the word “More”]

I imaged my mom writing down the word wine and next to it placing the number 100.

So the funeral ended and we were up to our balls and pussies in wine. Sure we couldn’t ask our Dad for advice any more. We couldn’t watch another Jazz game with him. We couldn’t go on a walk with him and talk about politics or which pet we liked the most. He wouldn’t be there to see any of us have children. He wouldn’t help us pick out our first home. He wouldn’t be at the table for Thanksgiving dinner. He wouldn’t make plans to visit us over Memorial Day. But, fuck, we had enough wine to not have to think about any of that for awhile.

Tiffany and lifted the boxes from the car and set them down in our elevator (No big deal), the same elevator that we had placed in our house so we could get our dad in and out in his mammoth wheelchair, and sent them to the basement. We unloaded them and set them down around our basement bar.

“Holy fuck, we are set for awhile,” I said looking at the 6 or 7 boxes.

And we were.

Any occasion that popped up we would go to the basement and grab some funeral wine.

Mom: What should we bring for Easter dinner? I don’t feel like cooking.

Me: Well we’re obvious just bringing funeral wine. The read question is white or red?

Or

Me: I’m going to Park City to act like a rich asshole for a couple of day.

Mom: Okay, you got everything.

Me: Yep. Oh wait, I’m going to bring some funeral wine.

Or

Me: [Entering party] I hope everyone likes wine, because I brought two bottles of the shit.

Party-goer: That fucker brings wine everywhere.

Or

Me: [To myself] I think I’m going to get drunk alone tonight.

Me Too: That’s a great idea. Why don’t you go downstairs and pour yourself a glass of funeral wine. Fuck using a wine glass. Use a regular glass so you can hold more. Then you can unwind and take a load off, after all you’re depressed and nothing cures depression like drinking alone in a dark basement while thinking of all you lost.

Me: Great idea. You think I could take down two bottles.

Me Too: Well, you did last night, so I’m not going to bet against you.

I would often catch Tiffany down in the basement.

Me: What are you doing down here?

Tiffany: Just reloading on some funeral wine.

Me: Yeah, I hear ya. I drank two bottles last night.

The supply seemed endless. Every time I thought we were finished, that we would have to find another source for free alcohol, another box would pop up. It wasn’t until my last couple of weeks in Utah, just before my jump to Los Angeles, that we finally ran out. It was sort of an emotional bottle of wine. I got to it before the rest of my siblings, and, like several other bottles before it, I decided to drink it alone on our back porch, an area that my dad considered his favorite part of the house.

As I drank it, I reflected on how everything changed so fast, how we had gone from being a functional, well-adjusted family to a bunch of winos in just two years. We had to rebuild, start over, try to fill the many gap my dad’s absence left. I reminded myself how awful it was watching him die, sitting next to his bed trying to understand the words he forced out of his mouth with all his might. I reminded myself how I dropped the ball a couple of times, like when I started fake vomiting every time he took a shit so I could get out of cleaning it. I reminded myself of how he always wanted the best for us and how he thought going off his respirator was in our best interest as well as his. I reminded myself of how he told me that I would be successful at anything once I decided what I wanted to be successful at. I reminded myself that he loved us and we loved him.

Then, I reminded myself that I still had half a bottle of wine sitting next to my sentimental ass.

I called myself a fag for getting all emotional and filled my cup to the top again. I lifted it to the sky and said, “Cheers Dad. Thanks for everything, especially all this delicious, mother fucking funeral wine.”