Family Ties

I had made a habit, since the age of eight, out of invading the kitchen of every house my Aunt took me to. I found myself at yet another gathering, and as soon as the time was right, when the adults were busy, I headed for the fridge. I was confused why so many of these cocktail parties, or fundraisers, or whatever the hell I was being summoned to, never had anything but alcohol and cheese.

“Christ!” I said aloud – a three story house with nothing but condiments and mango juice. I opened the cupboards and drawers and found nothing but the basics – uncooked pasta, baking ingredients, peanut butter, a hand gun, and an abnormally large amount of mouse crap. The most exciting time I intended to have all night just ruined my posture. This had to be the second or third lousiest place I’d ever been to with my Aunt. I ate a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter and drank the juice straight from the container. The decision was quickly made to leave a sip at the bottom, just out of spite, just to annoy someone, because I was definitely annoyed.

As soon as the refrigerator closed, the kitchen door opened. “What are you doing in here?” a voice said. Surprised and calm, I wiped my mouth over my left sleeve, turned around and looked at the first person to talk to me all night. She had a sweet voice, but an ever sweeter face. She was a foot taller than me and was probably in high school, but I tried anyway. “I’m looking for a beer. All that’s out there is cheap wine and bitter champagne,” I said very smoothly. “No you’re not,” she replied with confidence. I quickly chimed in, “You’re right. I saw a beautiful girl and wanted to bring her something good, something besides brie and bleu cheese.” She lowered her eyebrows and tilted her head like I was talking in another language.
It was silent for at least five seconds. My smile slowly faded in that time, what seemed to be enough time for me to leave the room without embarrassing myself any more. “Kid,” she eventually said, “I’ve gotta be five years older than you. Now I’m not gonna make fun of you for eating, because from the looks of it, you love to eat. That’s some belly you got there. And you got some charm too – a little creepy, but I’ve seen worse.” I thought she said she wasn’t going to make fun of me. Oh well, that was a compliment, right? This is what I was thinking as there was yet another awkward pause.

“Listen honey…I’m twelve, and from the size of your bust line, I’d guess yer only fourteen. That’s two years, and I’m mature for my age. I’ve been to hundreds of these parties and the question isn’t whether I can handle you, it’s if you can handle me.” Damn, not bad for having peanut butter in my gums and on my breath. She responded without a pause or a stern look this time – “Grow up,” she said as she walked over and kissed me on the cheek, then went back to the adults at the party.

It turned out that she lived in that crummy house with her parents. My Aunt had taken me to a religious meeting, something about believing in ghosts and vampires. The girls name, I would find out, was Illiana and she was fifteen. That was how most of my encounters went at that age. I was aggressive and didn’t hesitate, with girls or food. The food couldn’t walk away though. I was chubby, but never disgustingly obese throughout my childhood. I suppose I was a little forward or too young for her, but for some reason, I’ll never forget the taste of mango and peanut butter in my mouth as I talked so rudely to her.


I came to live with my Aunt Suzy in 1983. I was six years old when my parents drove me five hours north and dropped me off in St. Paul, Minnesota; they told me they were going to a place called Victoria for a month’s vacation. That month turned into an eternity, and my Aunt took the needed, but unwanted duty of taking care of me. It wasn’t until 1986 that I stopped sleeping on a couch in the den and she got me a bed. She always said in some form, “I guess I’m gonna have to make time to care for you.” I always felt like I was holding her back. She loved me, but didn’t want to have to deal with me.

She was single and worked as a secretary for the governor. She didn’t make much money, but she was always at parties, whether they were political, religious, book clubs, card games, or whatever reason she could make to socialize. My job was to ride in the back seat and follow her in and find a nice spot to be quiet.

The very last social gathering she took me to was in August of 1988. Wayne Gretzky had just been traded to the Kings and I was depressed. The North Stars went 19-48-13 the previous year and I was daydreaming about a Gretzky, Bellows, Ciccarelli power play. So there I was, a 15-year-old in Minnesota; it’s summer and it’s barely 40 degrees and Suzy said I couldn’t play hockey because my feet got too big for my skates.

Friday night and full of testosterone, Aunt Suzy burns me with a surprise gathering about the women’s “gender gap”. She first feeds me a shit-for-show dinner featuring brussel sprouts. We converse about the night and she tells me all about women’s rights like that should be my main priority too. In the car, I blast George Michael (now old enough to sit in the front seat). She puts on Miami Sound Machine. Michael. Estefan. Michael. Estefan. Michael. Slap in the face.

I get to the house of Fran Chambers. She’s a single, successful businesswoman. I shake her hand and stare at her breasts. I can see she is repulsed by the fat on my neck and crooked teeth. Regardless, I make myself useful and find the basement. After two hours of silence and TV, I don’t know if I should feel happy or left out. There are no other men or uninterested people at the meeting for me to annoy. The Rangers were shutting out the Twins so I started to snoop around.

Holy shitballs....the pantry has Doritos and Little Debbie’s: in my stomach in less than five minutes. I move to some small cabinets by the furnace. What the fuck? Playboys?! Am I being videotaped by these feminist cunts upstairs? I masturbate on to Fran’s couch to pictures of Kimberley Conrad and turn the cushion over. Feeling just about as good as a 15-year-old can, full of snacks and released of sperm, I get the idea that anything is possible in this house. Pants still down, I take off my shirt, shoes, and rest of my jeans, leaving only my high socks with two red stripes. I take all the Playboys from the drawer and head upstairs. The first person to see me was a really old wrinkle. She must have been seventy. I swear her dentures dropped to the ground with her sag bags. Quickly, through screams and panic attacks, everyone saw my wrinkled penis, chocolate, cheesy face, with my Playboys in hand. I decided to walk home, freezing. It was only a couple of miles. My Aunt was too busy apologizing to her newfound friends to watch me leave. I made it about a half a mile before enough talk led to the cops picking me up.

State Trooper Legume started with, “Boy! What the hell are you doing without any clothes in this weather? Do you know the law?”
“Yes. I’m sorry sir. They made me do it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I was supposed to be a sacrifice for some women’s group. Please help me!”

After a smooth story, like I used with Illiana, my Aunt and her friends were charged with child abuse and they weren’t allowed to have their meetings anymore. Fran was looked into and it was found she used to be a Frank. The cops even let me keep a few magazines. My Aunt lost her job and let me move in with my best friend Kenny. Everyone felt sorry for me, but I was the happiest I had ever been. I got to play hockey that winter and planned on leaving semen under many more couches.