home is burning

Greg and I were talking about living in Salt Lake City as two young twenty-somethings, one gay the other an alcoholic.

Me: God, Utah is so fucking boring. No wonder everyone gets married and has kids. There’s nothing else to do.

Greg: Yeah, it’s sort of a sleepy town, especially in the winter. That’s why I watch so many TV shows on DVD.

Me: I mean, sure Dad was dying last year, and that certainly sucked, but at least we had something to do, some sort of purpose.

Greg: Yeah, it was never dull.

Me: I sort of wish Dad was dying again so I wasn’t so bored.

Greg: You want to watch Six Feet Under?

My brother, Greg, and I got talking about butt sex, as is usually the case.

Greg: I don’t know. It’s just so rough and unpleasant.

Me: Yeah, I can only imagine.

Greg: I mean, guys are gross. They’re pretty dirty and disgusting.

Me: Then why are you gay?

Greg: Because I love the Wizard of OZ.

Me: That’s right.

Greg: Women are just so delicate.

Me: One time I asked a girl for butt sex and she agreed. She said, “Okay, but I’m a delicate little flower.” And then I said, “Yeah, a delicate little flower that going to get fucked in the ass.” The butt sex was then canceled.

Greg: Yeah, there’s just so delicate. They’re so fragile. I don’t think I could do it because it would just seem like I’m hurting them. I mean, to me sex with a woman seems like performing eye surgery on a butterfly.

Me: To me it more like finally eating a meal after a month of hiding from the Nazi’s in a secret compartment in a secret closet as everyone around you is some how feasting on some of the finest, best looking food in the world.

Greg: I think eye surgery on a butterfly works better.  

Me: So, are you thinking about having sex with a woman or something?

Greg: No, I’m no surgeon. 

Every third Tuesday, my Mom goes up to the Huntsman Cancer Institute to get intravenous immunoglobulin (IVIG) to help her pussy as shit immune system battle the battles. I got assigned the task of picking her up on Tuesday. I usually go early because I think that maybe being in an infusion room with a bunch of bald cancer patients will help me kick some of my cancer-causing bad habits and live a healthier, more rewarding existence. Plus, they have free tea and a little snack tray they bring around and that snack tray has pretzels. Double plus, my Mom’s friend, Daryl, works up there and is to date the only black man I have beaten in basketball.  I remind him of it every time we meet.

Me: How’s it going Daryl?

Daryl: What’s up my man. Good to see you.

Me: You got to come over to the house.

Daryl: Yeah, it would be good to catch up.

Me: It would also be good to kick the shit out of you in basketball again.

Daryl: [Laughing] I let you win.

Me [Wanted to say]: Oh bull shit Daryl. You have no interior defense and a sloppy jump shot. Plus, you spend most of the time giggling, probably at the fact that a white boy from Utah is kicking your ass at basketball.

Me [Actually said]: Yeah probably.

Daryl is great. One of the nicest and happiest people I know. He is a shot of positive energy. Perfect for cancer patients and down and out 26-year olds addicted to Del Taco and incest porn. (Just kidding about the incest porn, it’s just such a funny concept and I can’t believe that people use it to get off. What’s wrong with big-titted porn stars?)

I arrived to pick my Mom up. It’s hard sitting next to a cancer patient. What do you say? What do you do? The key is to distract them so they don’t think, “Fuck, I have cancer. If that isn’t a diarrhea dump on the head I don’t know what is.” My Mom and I are good at distracting each other. We sat talking about small things: my graduate school applications, my sister Michelle’s new baby and strange marriage to a 37-year old Mormon soccer coach, Greg’s homosexuality, Tiff’s thirst for the finer things in life like wine and lawyer boyfriends with big dicks, Chelsea’s goofiness and future, the death of her husband and my father.

As we talked, I stared at all the patients, having various types on chemicals pumped into their bodies. There is always a loved one by their side, holding their hand, reading from magazines, making small talk, encouraging them to fight on instead of give up. I often wonder if I could do it, if I could stand getting chemotherapy, if I enjoy my life enough to go through all the pain.

Mom: …So that’s why I think Rob might be a polygamist.

Me: [Popping pretzel in mouth] Yeah, it wouldn’t surprise me at this point. Nothing really would. Unless I got laid again.

I know for a fact that I could get cancer. It’s not hard these days. It seems as easy to get as milk from a cow or grocery store. Plus, there is a genetic element to it and I was dealt a pair of cards they might as well say, “You’re going to get cancer,” instead of those numbers and silly shapes. But could I go through all this or am I too big of a pussy?

Mom: Tiff just got back from Maine. She was visiting Rob. I hope they get married.

Me: [Popping pretzel in mouth] Did they fuck?

Mom: Probably. He has a big penis.

These people can. They sit distracted and hope for the best as cheerful middle-aged nurses and Daryl buzz around them, doing it all for more than the pay check. The patients don’t want to have to do this, but they know that they have to. They are positive. They think, “I’m going to beat this mother fucker,” though they probably don’t say “mother fucker,” because of religious beliefs, or maybe they just don’t like the phrase. I don’t know. I do know that they made the decision and sit hoping for the best.

Mom: …I just don’t know about Chelsea. I mean, how the fuck is she going to go off to college when she can’t even drive her own ass to dance class?

Me: [Popping pretzel in mouth] We’ll find a small liberal arts college somewhere in a state no one thinks about, like Oregon, and she’ll be okay. She’s capable when pushed.

I wonder how they found out, when they decided that something wasn’t quite right, that they should head to the doctor. I wonder if they thought, “I bet its cancer,” on their drive in. I wonder what their faces looked like as they awaited the test results. I wonder how the doctor told them the news and if he or she said the words, “fuck”, and “shitty”, and “ass cum”.

Mom: …Greg is a slob. I thought gay men were supposed to be all neat and tidy.

Me: [Popping pretzel in mouth] I think that only applies to their ass holes.

I’m guessing they didn’t say “ass cum”, but I know if I was told I had cancer, I would enjoy hearing the words “ass cum” shortly after. If I was told I had cancer I would probably want to be on a roller coaster right before the big drop, the doctor at my side. “You have cancer,” he or she would say. “AAAAAAAAAAAAH,” I would scream, enjoying the fuck out of the feeling the drop produced, my hands in the air, the wind forcing a smile. I would probably want to go eat a big meal right after and not talk, just focus on the meal, enjoying every bite. When someone would talk to me about the diagnosis, I would look up with pasta sauce all over my face, point down at the food with my fork, and say, “This veal parm is fucking delicish.” By the way, I would start abbreviating all my words. People would ask, “Has he always done that?” “Ever since the cancer,” someone else would say. “I’m going to grab some din,” I would shout as I walked out the door. 

Mom: When do you hear back from schools?

Me: [Popping pretzel in mouth] March or April. I’m hoping the admission committee has a proclivity for cock jokes and “My father’s dead and I’m a hero” rants, because that’s all I sent them. Otherwise, they’ll simply think I’m bat-shit crazy and post my writing on the wall under a banner that reads, “Examples of rejected materials from ass holes with small dicks”.

Mom: You’ll get in somewhere.

I wonder how they told loved ones. I bet it was a slow conversation and they both stopped everything, that they felt like the whole world stopped. “I…well…this is shitty news. Well…I…you know… well the doctor’s think…I have cancer.” I wonder if the loved ones hugged them and said it would be okay, or if they asked a series of questions, “What kind?” “Will it kill you?” “Will you get chemotherapy?” “Will you need surgery?” “How could god do this to you? It probably has something to the fact that he doesn’t exist and we are all but parasites on this planet, creating things like cancer because of our bad habits.” I’m sure some people think but don’t say, “Well that’s your problem,” or “Glad it’s not me,” or, “Karma’s a bitch.”

Mom: I still can’t believe your Dad is dead. I mean, look at me. I’m a tired old cancer patient with a body all cut up from the various surgeries. I was supposed to die first. I wish I would have.

Me: Don’t say that. That’s not true. Things aren’t that bad. And they’ll only get better. Minus the cancer and your train wreck of a family, life is pretty good for you. You can remarry, or just travel with friends. You’re a rich bitch. Start acting like it.

Mom: I don’t know anything about money. And who’s going to date me? And don’t call me a bitch.

Me: It was just a phrase not meant to hurt you. Some desperate old man with a fetish for the dying will swoop you up. Maybe you should start going to necrophilia meetings.

Mom: What’s necrophilia?

Me: [Popping pretzel in mouth] When people fuck the dead.

Mom: Oh. Maybe I’ll try that.  

I wonder when they decided to be treated. Does everybody decide to fight or are there some people that say fuck it and let the cancer have at them? Would I be one of those? “He got cancer,” one would say. “Is he being treated?” another would ask. “No, he’s on some roller coaster in Europe coughing up blood.” People would urge me on and say, “Come on. Go get treated.” “I would but I’m just starting Season Two of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Plus, I’m not that strong,” I would reply. It takes some balls to take on cancer. The needles. The surgeries. Hanging in hospitals. I admire all that do it.

Mom: [Looking up at IV rack to see an empty bag] Looks like I’m finished for the day.

Me: [Popping pretzel in mouth] Thank god. I’m getting depressed, and they’re out of pretzels.

The last of the immunoglobulin trickled through the IV and entered my mom’s body, hopefully helping. The nurse came over and unhooked her from the pole the sack of shit hung from. My mom and the nurse made some small talk and agreed that they would go out to get their hair cut together. They had the same hair cut. Maybe they always went to the barber together and the nurse pointed over to my Mom and said, “Um, that looks good. I’ll have what she’s having.” Do people still call it the barber or is that just me?

We walked out of the infusion room, my Mom a proud champion of the shit, and I glad to leave. The rest of the world isn’t as calm and resolute as the infusion room, but it’s a nice distraction until I get cancer.

“I’m proud of you Mom. Fifteen years you’re had cancer and you’re still trucking. My lord,” I said.

She looked at me glad that she had gone through the fight. All the pain. All the needles. All the bullshit. It was all worth it. She had done it all and we were both proud of her. She didn’t know what to say so she said, “So, do you think Michelle’s Rob is gay,” as the elevator door dinged and we prepared to enter the real world.  

Throwing fruit, particularly oranges, is a great stress reliever. Something about watching that orange ball crush against a hard object, spraying juice everywhere, makes me feel better, like life isn’t wall-to-wall shit. At home, we have a large dish full of fruit that works more as an argument starter than a source of nutrition, given all the fruit flies that usually swarm it.

Me: This is fucking gross. We shouldn’t have a dish full of rotting fruit.

Mom: Please, Dan, can you just shut the fuck up about the fruit. There are hardly any flies.

Me: [Shaking bowl to rile up the flies] Look at all of them.

Mom: I like them.

This week, I picked up on orange, palming it, noticing how great it would be to throw this against something. The fridge perhaps. Maybe the wall. Fuck, the fireplace would be perfect. After looking around, I decided that it would be best if I threw it against the backyard fence as hard as I could. As I was heading out the door, my Mom objected.

“Dan, put the orange down,” she said.

“Come on Mom. I’ll give you twenty bucks if I can throw it against the fence,” I pleaded, completely convinced that this orange’s purpose in life was to be thrown against the aforementioned wall, even in these tough economic times.

“No, absolutely not.”

“Please.”

“No, you should care more about this house.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.  

“I’m going to be dead soon, and this house is going to be worth nothing if you keep throwing fruit all over the place. How the fuck are we going to sell it if there’s swashed fruit everywhere and if everything is sticky? No one’s going to buy it and you’ll be left with no money. So, yeah, go ahead. Throw the fruit because you’re only throwing away your future wealth.”

I set the piece of fruit back in the dish, exciting the swarm of fruit flies my Mom is apparently friends with. 

My Dad’s ashes sit on a shelf to the left of our main-floor television. That’s right, our family has multiple floors and a television (No big deal). His urn is pear-shaped and is decorated with clouds. I haven’t spent enough time looking at the clouds to joke what they look like, but for comedy’s sake, let’s say they all look like a bunch of floating, ambidextrous circus penises juggling sacks full of vaginas (Note: I too don’t know what a “circus penis” is). It weighs about ten pounds or so, apparently all that’s left of the man.

I usually come over to my Mom’s house about once a week to lie around, eat pistachios that I complain are “too salty” and watch HBO On demand. While I’m lounging around, making my father and other dead relative proud, I’m sure, thinking, “At least I’m not masturbating, dead relatives,” unless, of course I am multi-tasking and both eating pistachios and masturbating, my Mom will enter the room and rearrange the couch cushions, a sign that she still has both energy and ADD. Some habits die hard. To bad my Dad wasn’t a habit. My Mom is usually tired and alone. She slightly resents my Father for electing to go off the respirator, claiming that, “That son of a bitch left us all alone to fend for ourselves,” even though he left us a glimmer of man he once was, unable to do anything but request we place his cock in a urinal, turn him in bed, or suction shit out of his lungs. 

Recently, post couch cushion arrangement, my Mom stopped in front of my Dad’s urn. She stared at it for a moment and said, “Fuck, you know what?”

“What?” I asked.

“I fucked up.”

“How so?”

“I should have had your Dad’s ashes put into a dildo. Then he could continue to fuck me in a different way.”

She looked at me with a smile that would imply that she wasn’t completely kidding and walked out of the room.  

Valentine’s Day is not the best holiday in the world. In fact, some, like me, might argue that Valentine’s Day is one of the worst holidays in the world. Some, like me, might take it a step further even and say that Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be classified as a holiday at all, but rather, a cock-sucking faggot.

This year’s V-day was a touch tougher. No amount of red balloons, bouquets of roses or chocolates could make this day more tolerable. In the last year, I lost a Father and a girlfriend, the former to Lou Gehrig’s disease and the latter to a profoundly ugly San Francisco banker/yuppie. I thought both would play significantly different roles in my wedding, but roles nonetheless. But, fuck, shit didn’t work out. A respirator and my charming personality, sense of humor, and sexual ability, which has been described as determined and fast, couldn’t save either. So, this year I wasn’t very pleased to be forced to celebrate love when I had lost so much of it, hence my proclamation that Valentine’s Day is a cock sucking faggot.

I went over to my Mom’s house on VD. Love is still there. So is Greg, my gay as a colorful parade brother. My Mom had it worse than me; the death of my father has left her more alone than any of us. I still, after all, have Internet porn and a loft which one visitor noted, “Should be a pussy magnet if I have any game.” I don’t so it isn’t. My gay brother is gay in Utah, which makes finding love as challenging as finding a clown car without a bottle of whisky clinking against the gas peddle. The three of us are all single. Loveless. Hopeless.

To make matters worse, Chelsea, my 17-year-old  premature-baby sister turned socially awkward book-nerd, had a date lined up for the day of love. This was a shock. My friend Jay once said of Chelsea, “D, I don’t think Chelsea will get her pussy touched any time soon.” I told him that that was a weird observation but that I agreed.

When I came over, my Mom broke the news.

“Dan, sweetie, hi,” my Mom said. “I have some, well, some weird news.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“Chelsea has a date for tonight,” she said.

“Wow, that’s pretty cool. I didn’t think that was going to happen anytime soon. In fact, Jay once said, ‘D, I don’t think Chelsea will her pussy touched any time soon.’”

“Jay said that?”

“Yeah.”

Greg walked into the kitchen.

“Did you hear Chelsea has a date?” I asked Greg.

“Yeah, that’s pretty fucked up,” he retorted.

My mom walked over and grabbed Greg and I, forming a small huddle, taking control of this family.

“Listen, the three of us have to get our shit together. Chelsea has a date. Let’s quit being dumb asses and get it together. Let’s get out there and get laid tonight. We can’t just sit around for the rest of our lives. We’ve got to get back out there, like Chelsea.”

We broke the huddle with a, “Let’s get laid,” chant and set off to celebrate the day of love. 

Robert Luke Horne arrived via my sister’s vagina on Monday February 2, 2009. Some quick facts: 

–He weighs 5 lbs, 3 ozs.

–He has Michelle’s nose and Rob’s penis.

–He is white, which was a sigh of relief for some. 

–His name, Luke, was stolen from me via my sister’s vagina. I don’t mind though. The “Lu” part of “Luke” only reminds me that my Father recently died via Lou Gehrig’s disease, so it is hers to keep.

–Our Mother was not present at the birth, nor has she been reachable via cell for a week. We don’t know where she is but are thinking/hoping, she made a run for it.

–Luke has brown eyes.

–His hair, fluffy and full, resembles that of Michelle’s when she was a little tyke.

–He will not be given up for adoption, but we are all preparing to sit him down to tell him that his mother was adopted, and that it only shows that we care about her even more.

–Michelle has only referred to him as a puppy once, a good sign since we were all hoping that she wouldn’t show the same enthusiasm then neglected that she has displayed for our various animals over the years.

–I have heard people say, “Luke I am your father,” nine times so far. I hope that this trend continues throughout his life, but is never uttered years from now on a weatherworn doorstep by his Father, Rob. 

–Greg wants to be referred to as “Unks”. Tiffany quickly shot that idea down and said, “You will be referred to as the gay uncle.”

–Tiffany, upon seeing Luke, said, “God, I don’t want anything coming out of my vagina. What great birth control,” making that the first time Luke was viewed as birth control.  

–Chelsea, who elected to go to dance instead of being there for the delivery, is yet to see Luke, claiming that, “It’s just not my thing. I just really don’t like kids.” 

I wish Luke, Michelle and Rob the best of luck as they push forward in this, the world.   

Our cleaning lady, Stana, picked up her broom and looked at me. 

“Danny, you is ‘Uncle Danny’ yet?”

“No, not yet. Soon though. Michelle’s in the hospital. They have induced labor.”

Stana stood shamefully shaking her head as though she was staring down a troubled teen in court for stealing. 

“I is tellin’ Michelle that havin’ baby be, how called, painful, but she is say, ‘I no listen Stana. I go have pregnancy with baby anyway.’ Stana is no believe. Michelle is son of a bitch.” 

“Well, she appears to be ready for it. So we can only hope everything goes well.”

Stana looked at me with a gaze that would suggest that she felt sorry for me that I was not as enlightened as her. “Danny, Michelle is too, how called, young and immature for baby. Stana is no believin’ son of a bitch baby already be here.”

Chelsea seems to have reached a new level in her dedication to her dance hobby. Our sister, Michelle, is currently in labor. I, thinking I should probably try to at least act a touch interested in the significant, life-defining and life-changing events in my sibling’s lives regardless of actual interest, decided that I should be there for this event, if only to gather material to further exploit my odd-as-a-cock-on-a-forehead family.

I grabbed my coat and asked Chelsea, who had just arrived home from school, if she wanted to come to the hospital.

She looked at me for a second with a conflicted face.

Chelsea: Well, I have dance tonight, so….

Me: Well Michelle’s having a baby tonight, so….

Chelsea: Is she actually having it tonight?

Me: Yeah, according to doctors and medicine and science, she’s actually having it tonight.

Chelsea: Well I have dance.

Me: Can’t you miss dance this one time, you selfish little fuck?

Chelsea: Well, the problem is that I’ve been looking forward to dance all weekend and it’s the one thing that I really enjoy, that I do for myself, so I’m going to go.  

She grabbed her dance bag and skipped out of the house.