About twice a year, Greg and I get guilt-tripped into going to one of Chelsea’s dance performances. Dance is the one consistent activity in her life. Most children who participate in an extra-curricular activity of any kind have illusions that they will somehow be able to turn it into a profession.
For me it was basketball. Despite my height and skin color, I was going to be the next big shit to hit the hardwood. I was going to make John Stockton look like a pubic hair floating in a Diet Coke, whatever that mean. Then I stopped growing up and started filling out. My only hope was to be funnier than John Stockton.
Someone: John Stockton holds the all-time NBA record for assists and steals.
Me: Well, I bet John Stockton can’t make a cock joke using only of a deck of playing cards, a crazy straw and a bottle of whiskey.
My oldest sister, Tiffany, an early bloomer with tits at twelve (Tits at Twelve is the name of the book I’m writing about her), was convinced she was going to be an Olympic swimmer. She pushed Greg and I really hard and was convinced that we were going to be a family full of gold medalists, just like the Phelps family if Michael had siblings that also won gold medals. She played the role of the hardnosed, bitchy coach that drove us into the pool by threatening to inflict small amounts of pain or discomfort on us. I played the role of insubordinate athlete that thought his hardnosed, bitchy coach was a total joke. I often refused to go to practice with her just to see what small torture she was willing to put me through.
Tiffany: [Entering my room carrying a glass of milk] We’ve got to go to practice.
Me: [Lying on bed, waiting for Tiffany to leave for swim practice so I could masturbate in an empty house] I’m not going.
Tiffany: You’re going, or I’ll pour this glass of milk on you.
Me: Yeah right, you hardnosed bitch.
Tiffany: [Moving closer and tilting glass] I’m going to do it.
Me: Don’t Tiff. I’m not going. If you do, I’ll tattle-tell the shit out of you.
Tiffany: [Pouring glass of milk on my head and then running from my room as I chased her and called her a “hardnosed bitch.”] Don’t touch me.
Too bad pouring glasses of milk on your brother because he refused to go to swim practice isn’t an Olympic sport.
Tiffany was no doubt a gifted swimmer, setting several Cottonwood Country Club records. That’s right, we were members of Country Club (No big deal). But once the other girls started getting their periods and catching up to her physical abilities, she appeared to slow down as they sped up. She then realized that dream wasn’t going anywhere and thus picked up snowboarding. A couple years in, after making the US Development Team, she witnessed a girl break her neck in a half-pipe tournament and decided an education was a safer, lower-chance-of-breaking-her-neck route.
For Greg, being gay and all, it was acting. He partook in several plays, being gay and all. He even joined a traveling acting troop called, “Up With Kids,” being gay and all. And starred in a one-act play I wrote for him called, “Being Gay and All”, being gay and all. “Up with Kids”, the child version of “Up with People”, specialized in singing uplifting and downright awful songs at some of our Nation’s finest amusement parks and tourist destinations. The group essentially consisted of soon-to-be drama nerd fatties, young boys who hadn’t been injected with that hormonal poison that makes getting pussy a top priority, and Greg. Greg was by far the smartest, best-looking, and gayest member of the troop, so he stole the show every time. No matter whether we were in Disneyland, SeaWorld, Universal Studios, or the Washington Monument, Greg was in the center of the retard-filled stage lighting it up as my Basque Grandma Rosie, who invented my knowledge of farts and the word “shit” and is the best pincher I’ve ever met, laughed in the background, her only stopping to scold me when I blurted out a gay prediction.
Me: [Laughing to the point where I start scanning the scene for places to possibly discard my pants after I piss in them] God damn it, this shit is hilarious. Greg is so gay.
Grandma: [Stopping her laughter and pinching my not-yet-fat-arm] Don’t you dare say that. Greg is not gay and that’s the worse thing you can call someone.
Me: Sorry Grandma. I thought it was pretty obvious. I mean, he has a cardboard cutout of the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz in his room right next to his collect of Disney Villain dolls. Just you wait ten years.
Grandma: [Picking back up her laughter] Look, he’s putting on a wig.
TEN YEARS LATER
Me: Grandma, Greg came out of the closet. I was right.
Grandma: I’m dead now. It’s weird that you still talk to me.
Greg’s interest in acting started to wane as he became more self-aware. He picked up writing, and was way better at that. He remains to be the best writer in this family. I also think he started getting embarrassed by my grandma and me. As he grew older, I grew cruder, and my Grandma grew more senile. While at a Shopko just outside of Washington DC, she brought great shame to our family when she stopped mid-isle, looked around at the other Shopko patrons, and said, “Boy, there sure are a lot of niggers out here.”
“Yeah grandma. There sure are. There’s even one five feet away from you,” I said, signaling to my Mom that it was time to leave, and wondering how she could scold me for calling Greg gay when she used the worst racial epithet in our nation’s history.
Grandma wasn’t allowed on these trips anymore.
Michelle, my second youngest sister, dabbled into soccer, and appeared to be extremely interested in it. But it soon became apparent that she wasn’t as interested in the sport as she was in her balding, 30-something Mormon coach. She started sneaking off to movies with him, telling him she loved him over MSN messenger, and married him the second the law would allow it. She never had any real ambition and pretty much realized her full potential by spitting out a pedophile’s spawn at the age of 19.
For Chelsea, her impossible profession is dance, and the dream is still alive, so we are forced to play along and act like she has a legitimate shot at doing it forever.
Me: So, what do you want to be when you grow up, besides a fart and shit machine?
Chelsea: A dancer. Maybe I’ll be in the New York Ballet.
Me: Yeah, that sounds like a very nice dream. Keep working hard, and keep your hands off your genitals. Masturbating wastes a lot of time and sucks up a lot of energy. I mean, look at Greg. He gets nothing done.
Once Greg and I moved away to college, we thought we were pretty much finished with the dance performances. But we got the old, I-have-Lou-Gehrig’s-disease-and-Mom-has-cancer-so-we-were-wondering-if-you-could-drop-everything-give-up-your-careers-and-significant-others-and-move-home-to-boring-Utah-to-watch-as-my-body-slowly-betrays-itself-self-destructs-and-withers-up-into-an-immovable-mess-that-requires-that-I-be-forced-into-diapers-and-a-hospital-bed-at-the-age-of-54-while-your-Mother-goes-insane-off-chemo-and-becomes-addicted-to-pain-pills-and-yogurt call from my Dad. We moved back to help and be part of a complete, supportive, talk-behind-their-backs-on-dramedy-blogs family.
Part of the our responsibilities involved being there for Chelsea, helping her with homework, teaching her new phrases like, “Shit monster,” and supporting her dreams. Greg and I, with our decaying father in bed and our brain-dead mother crashing cars into poles but insisting that she was a good driver, pretended to take over some of the fatherly duties. It was all an act. Greg was to handle her emotions and play the role of concern mother, while I handled the fun stuff, like teaching her how to drive and teasing her about boys, and played the role of the verbally-abusive father who clearly resented having children because they made him feel guilty for drinking so much. Chelsea didn’t take either of us seriously, so it was though the three of us were some sort of a strange family mocking all other families that take being a family seriously.
Me: You got a boyfriend, you little shithead?
Chelsea: No. No boys like me because I fart.
Me: Well, there’s the farting, then there’s also the fact that you’re a total nerd that probably masturbates to your art history grade. Plus, you don’t dress like a slut.
Greg: [Shooting me a fake concerned parent look] Chelsea, that is not true. Don’t listen to your drunk father. You aren’t a nerd and you do dress like a slut.
We fucked around, but always stopped when it came to Chelsea’s dance. It remains to be the one thing that we take seriously because Chelsea isn’t aware of the fact that all dreams die once pubes start bursting out of our bodies. We encourage her and even call her, “The Dance Princess,” occasionally. She still believed in herself, so we had to as well.
“Fuck, I feel like Chelsea still believes in Santa Claus, and we are forced to play along,” said Greg.
“Yeah, it sucks. But at least she’s not into some gay acting bull shit,” I said back.
“That gay acting bull shit got us into Disneyland,” Greg said, as we high-fived.
“I still feel like Splash Mountain is better than sex,” I said.
“I’m sure it is better than sex with you,” Greg said.
Chelsea is part of a dancing troop or group or organization or whatever you call a group of young teens with camel toe dancing around a stage to music so old it’s gone through menopause, called The Children’s Dance Theater. Ages range from too young to fuck to still to young to fuck, you sick fuck (4-17). They have about four major performances a year (we get pulled to about two), but practice nearly every night. Chelsea was too afraid to drive, mainly because my lessons taught her that she sucked real bad at it and shouldn’t be allowed on the roads, so we had to drive her most nights. Driving her was horrible and interfered with drinking alone, so we soon pawned off the responsibility to the throng of people who felt bad about the whole dying-parents thing and wanted to prove to themselves and God that they were good people.
Person: Let me know what I can do to help.
Me: Well, you could drive Chelsea to dance, and pick her smelly ass up around 8.
Person: Um, okay. Where is it?
Me: Fuck if I know. I’m going to get drunk in the basement.
The actual going to performance part was one thing that we couldn’t pawn off because of the guilt our mother smothered us with. She used a variety of different approaches, usually involving our dying father.
“Come on, her father is dying. She needs you guys. You’re all she’s got.”
“You have to go. It means the world to her, and Dad is dying.”
“You’re going, unless you don’t want to go and thus crush her soul.”
“GET THE FUCK IN THE CAR BEFORE I START GETTING SO MAD THAT I MURDER YOU WITH MY LITTLE CANCER HANDS.”
But the most effective line she used involved Chelsea’s dreams.
“Come on you guys. Chelsea still thinks she’s going to be a professional dancer. You have to support her and play along. She can’t lose her Father and her dreams in the same year.”
All these lines worked at weighing down our souls and cementing our asses in seats at either the Rose Wagner Theater or the Capital Theater in downtown Salt Lake City.
In the winter of 2008, my Dad was being as anally fucked as one can be anally fucked by Lou Gehrig’s disease, the big faggot. He had gotten home from the University of Utah’s neurological rehab center after a trach surgery that placed a respirator at his bedside. At this point, despite the not being able to breathe on his own, his spirit hadn’t been crushed. He had hoped that, with the addition of a respirator, he would be able to learn how to live a productive, functional life under the circumstances. He figured that the disease had done it’s worse and that he would make like a red rock mountain in Southern Utah and plateau. His legs were still strong and he hoped to still walk, with the respirator in a small pushcart at his side.
But the version of the disease he got flipped off any plateauing and kept on rolling. The disease was working night and day on his legs, so he couldn’t rely on them any more. This meant the electric wheelchair was his mode of transportation. I figured that this served to be a big enough reason to keep us from the performances.
“I can’t go to Chelsea’s dance performance. I’ve got to watch this crippled fuck,” I would say as I gestured towards my Dad. He was my alibi. He would get me out of going. Surely we won’t be forced to go under these Lou Gehrig’s conditions.
There are all sorts of medicine one can use to overcome physical difficulties, but there still isn’t one to combat a catholic woman’s use of guilt. Even though my Dad couldn’t shit, breathe, or walk without another’s assistance, my Mom still was able to guilt him into going to Chelsea’s dance performances. She used a variety of different approaches, usually involving his imminent death.
“Come on, this will be the last chance you have to get to one.”
“You have to go. Don’t let this disease make you into a bad father.”
“Chelsea needs her father there because you’re going to die soon and she won’t have a father and she’s be the only girl in the group that doesn’t have a father because you’ll be dead.”
“You have to come. I already bought flower for you to give to her after the performance.”
“GET THE FUCK IN THE CAR BEFORE I START GETTING SO MAD THAT I MURDER YOU WITH MY LITTLE CANCER HANDS.”
In the end, my Dad had to go, and Greg and I were the only ones able to get him there.
Getting my Dad anywhere was a process, and a stressful one at that. People in hospital beds attached to respirators aren’t met to have an active, on-the-go life-style. Getting him anywhere required several steps.
Step One: Make his respirator portable. It was attached to an IV rack and a humidifier. Making him portable involved switching tubes, plugging in back-up batteries, and loading it into a backpack. My Mom was a slow learner and almost killed him every time she tried to make him portable, and Greg’s brain doesn’t work around anything technical, so I was the only one able to do it initially, not to brag.
Step Two: Pull my Dad’s limp body up into a sitting position, while keeping him attached to the respirator, hoping the tubes wouldn’t pop off.
Step Three: Yelling, “FUCK,” as all the tubes popped off. Looking at my Dad’s panicked face, and telling him to calm the fuck down, that everything was under control.
Step Four: Reconnecting the tubes and calling Lou Gehrig’s disease an asshole.
Step Five: Transferring him from bed to the electric wheelchair.
Step Six: Hoping to hell we didn’t drop him while transferring him.
Step Seven: Yelling, “FUCK,” as we dropped him to the floor.
Step Eight: Picking him up while calling Lou Gehrig’s disease an asshole.
Step Nine: Getting him into the chair.
Step Ten: Driving his chair to our elevator (No big deal) while hoping we didn’t hit a wall.
Step Eleven: Saying, “Ah, fuck it. We’re going to sell this house once you die anyways,” after putting a dent in the wall.
Step Twelve: Loading him into a wheelchair-accessible Sprinter Van.
Step Thirteen: Hoping we didn’t drive the van into a wall or another car so we could keep this dying man alive for as long as possible.
On this night, we arrived at the Capital Theater in downtown Salt Lake City. Greg, my Mom, and our family friends Iris, Tom Loken, and Sally Loken had accompanied us. We approached and were received by the swarms of people that attend mediocre dance performances in mediocre towns: parents, friends, dancers, and pedophiles looking to catch some camel toe. Upon arrival, I knew that it was a mistake. Steering a man in a 450-Lbs. wheelchair through a crowd of Mormon glad-handlers was tough. You have to get used to watching the road and say things like, “Excuse us,” or, “Pardon us,” or, “We’d like you to move because you have legs an can easily do that, where he is in a wheelchair and can’t, you selfish fuck…please.” My Dad always rocked an extremely concerned face that suggested that he sort of trusted us, but not really. My Mom had piled bouquets of flowers on top of him, that he could deliver to Chelsea after the performance to help her feel special, etc. The flowers made it look like we were rolling him into his own funeral.
Once we got in the theater, a nice old man directed us to the absolutely worst place in the theater for a wheelchair. Though there was room in the back, close to the exits and the van, should something go wrong, he insisted that we sit at the far, front-left corner of the theater, a five minute wheelchair drive.
Me [Wanted to say]: I know you’re old and old people aren’t as smart because of the wear and tear a human brain takes over the course of our unnaturally long lives, but are you a complete retard?
Me [Actually said]: Great. Thanks. Right in front.
We settled into our seats. I sat next to my Dad so I could take credit for caring for him, and Greg so we could giggle and whisper smart ass remarks to each other.
Me: Is this dance called, “Tights, a solute to camel toe”?
Greg: I think it’s called, “Look, little Mormon girls can dance too”.
I watched my Dad more than I did the dance performance (not to brag), and kept a close tap on how far along the program they were. It seems the second we sit down at one of these we are already asking about leaving.
“How long is this fucking thing?”
“When does Chelsea come on?”
“We don’t have to stay for the whole fucking thing do we?”
My Mom would always look at us and say, “Come on, you’re all she has, and is the last time Dad will see her perform.” My Dad would just sit there, A.) Because he knows not to question my Mom, B.) Remember, he can’t walk.
Chelsea came on about ten minutes in. We all whispered to each other and pointed to the stage, “Do you see her up there? She’s in the back.” They always place her in the back for some reason. She is a graceful dancer, and really talented, but her arm swings and leg kicks are always a bit faster or slower than the rest of the group, which is fine with us because it makes her easier to keep track of. We cheered harder and clapped louder for her. Greg may have even yelled, “YEAH CHELSEA,” which was probably a waste of energy since she’s slightly deaf.
After her dance, the performance continued. The theme was something about space, or the future, or technology, or science. The music was sort of futuristic, Space Odyssey, Space Mountain-ish. It was intense. Right as the most intense number with the most intense space-exploration music possible, my Dad’s respirator started to BEEP to let us know that we must act or death would soon arrive. It was dark. We couldn’t see anything. The respirator continued to BEEP as the music boomed through the theater, allowing even the old fuck that sat us to hear.
“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP,” it screamed. “STOP WHISPERING SMART ASS, CAMEL TOE JOKES TO EACH OTHER AND SAVE THIS MAN.”
Greg and I popped up out of our seats. We saw this as a great time to save our father’s life, but also a great time to use him as an excuse to sneak out of the theater. I checked the respirator as Greg tried to comfort him, rubbing his shoulders and checking his tubes. The worst thing that can happen to a person on a respirator is a mucus plug. When he is portable and away from the humidifier, his mucus starts to dry up and can plug the airway, blocking oxygen. This is what was happening, a mucus plug in the middle of a dark theater with space music shooting out of the speakers. Unplugging a mucus plug involved manually bagging him and literally pumping air into him with great force.
“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP,” said the respirator. “You fucks better hurry,” it added.
Unplugging a mucus plug is not like sex in that we can’t do it in the dark. So, we started the long journey up to the theater’s exits. We eight-point turned him around, starting to panic and swear, much to the chagrin of the Mormon audience. The dark, combined with the tense music, combined with the BEEPING, combined with tight driving conditions, all made for a pretty epic voyage.
We finally got to the top of the theater. The old man, smiled and opened the doors for us, as if he was doing us the biggest favor imaginable.
Me [Wanted to say]: If he dies, it’s your fault, you old fuck.
Me [Actually said with sarcasm]: Thanks a lot.
Greg and I got him to the theaters lobby area and started bagging him. He was turning blue at this point and was probably starting to think that watching his daughter dance to space music would be his last memory. Greg pumped the bag as I suctioned the mucus out of him. After about five minutes, we had worked through the mucus plug and everything was normal, well relatively normal given the Louie G and all.
We sat in the lobby for the rest of the performance. I sipped on tea and Greg rubbed my Dad’s shoulder. The flowers still sat on my Dad’s lap. Soon, the legions of people flocked out of the theater. My Mom found us.
“What’d you think? Wasn’t she great?” She asked, and though Greg, my Dad and I hadn’t just taken an epic space voyage that saved his life.
“We’re never coming to another one of these,” Greg said.
“It’s just too dangerous with Dad,” I added.
“Where the fuck is Chelsea? We need to get this dying man on wheels back to his hospital bed,” Greg said.
Just then, Chelsea arrived, all made-up, still in her dance tights. Her teeth-filled smile beamed back at us without an ounce of disappointment. My Dad clicked his mouth twice to grab her attention. She ran to him and grabbed his right hand, whose fingers had begun withering into a closed fist, and pulled them straight. He clicked twice again and gestured with his eyes down to the flowers sitting on his lap. She picked them up and smelled them. He smiled at her, forgetting about how he almost died, forgetting that he was about to die, forgetting that everything had been taken from him but his family, his little dance princess.
He mouthed, “Good job,” to Chelsea.
She smiled and mustered back a quiet, “Thanks.”
“You’re going to be in the New York Ballet one day,” I said.
“You were by far the best one up there,” Greg added.
“Yeah, I know,” said Chelsea, smiling and letting her dream live on.
We sat for a minute and soaked in the moment. “Okay, great. We did it. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”