Wifesy and the Lost Indian (Post 15)
Posted on December 19, 2012
My brother and his boyfriend do this cool thing where they invite the little old ladies (their moms and some of the dads too) out to a house that they rent for a little sun and fun over the Thanksgiving holiday. It’s a sweet and nice tradition. I hope they continue it. Plus, my mom loves it. She gets treated like a queen for a few days and has an audience that she can tell her “stories” to. What more could she want?
This past Thanksgiving, the house rental was out in Palm Springs – desert country, California. It was hot. Desert hot. So, they made sure the house had a pool.
Wifesy and I had our Thanksgiving with a few friends in downtown LA, but the next day I said, “Feck it. Let’s pack up the car and head out to the Springs.”
We had a great time.
Now, my brother’s beau – let’s call him my brother-in-law for ease sake – has a stepdad. That stepdad is a big, hulking, guy of Native American descent. He’s sort of a big luggish, bear of a man. I think of him as an older Adam Beach from “Flags of Our Fathers,” but a bit klutzier. Let’s call him Adam Beach, Sr., again, to save our sanity during this post.
I liked Adam Beach Sr. right away. He was charming, but I will admit there was something a bit off about him. Most women notice the “something off” qualities in men right away. I think it’s a bit of a self-protection mechanism. Then we quickly (and usually subconsciously) do something else. We put that “bit off” fellow in a category – either dangerous or harmless. Within a few minutes, I decided that Beach Sr. was completely harmless.
Where this gets hilarious -in my eyes- was when Beach Sr. and Wifesy were accidentally thrown together. Wifesy enjoyed herself that weekend, but she did seem a touch more out of sorts then normal. I can only assume this was because she was hanging out with my side of the family and therefore, weighing more carefully how to interact with everyone like you do.
For some reason, every time Beach Sr. ran into Wifesy he would confess something extreme. Maybe it was because he felt her slight unease with the situation and (wrongly) decided he was the cause of it. I’m not sure why, but I’m very sure it was funny.
It all started with the chairs. In the rental house, the dining room table was situated on the other side of the kitchen island. The kitchen island had a breakfast bar side set up with stools. So, there was only a few feet between the dining table chairs and the breakfast bar stools. The dining room table was only a few feet from the sliding patio door and the backyard, so the area between the bar stools and the dining table chairs was highly trafficked. I noticed every time Beach Sr. went through this area he ended up smacking into the dining room chairs and/ or the bar stools. I just thought it was because he was a big guy. I thought – big guy, little space and didn’t think much more of it.
Until, Beach Sr. ran into them a third time. On the third klunk-fest through the chairs Beach grabbed Wifesy on the shoulder and declared, “I have a brain injury!”
Wifesy stared at him wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights. I stifled a laugh and asked him how it happened. Beach told me about some shrapnel hitting his head during the war.
Thus began what I call, “the confessional attacks” between Beaches and Wifesy.
Exhibit A… We gathered our things to head to the pool, but not before Beaches cornered Wifesy and said, “SHE’S DYING.” There was Wifesy again, startled and frozen in front of him. “Who’s dying? Who in the feck is dying?” said Wifesy’s eyes. I went in for the rescue. I peeled Wifesy away from the Beachster and tried to decipher what in the hell he was talking about.
Once things had been settled and understood, I made Wifesy a plate of food for lunch. I left her, briefly, to get a plate of my own. I came back to find Exhibit B… Beacher leaning over Wifesy and declaring, “I have one ball!”
Hours later, Wifesy was taking a shower and I enlisted Beaches in a prank. I said, “Beaches, Wifesy’s in the shower. I want you to crack the door and I’ll flick the light on and off. When she peeks out the curtain, I want you to say…it burns when I pee.”
Okay, some of that didn’t really happen. But, most of it did. I’ll let you guess which parts.
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