The Wedding Reception
"We miss you, Lena, why do you never come to see us? You never even call?"
If everybody wanted to see me, though, then why did I feel like the leper? The contagious fetid piece of poor luck that nobody would talk to beyond the traditional: "Hey, how the hell are ya?"
If they missed me, if they wanted news, why didn't they call me? Why didn't we pour tea and converse?
"I am well." I would respond, receiving incredulous glares. Did she really use the word 'well'? Well isn't she all intellectual now. Thinks she's better than us. Can't just talk like a normal person?
This event was only a little different: at least for once I knew I was invited because the host wanted me here. Even if the other guests ignored me.
I sat next to my godfather, the uncle I've always known and loved. He stood in for my father when I was an impressionable young teen and desperately needed a man with emotional depth beyond tired, hungry, or pissed off. Uncle Jack. You could tell Jack had been one of the popular kids in highschool. Smoking pot in the 70s, drivng fast cars with girls in the front and back seats. Now? Now he had a half dozen kids and a minivan, and brought home pizza or Chinese food with chopsticks. Now he knew when was a good time to offer up fresh brewed tea and aspirin with some scrambled eggs, and he could jump rope with the best of them. Uncle Jack was still cool, taking us to see the movies that Aunt Caroline called scandalous. He was just also a dad. An uncle. My Uncle Jack who loved me, and who actually talked to me at these sorts of functions.
"So do you like her new husband?" he leaned toward me to ask, offering me a beer. I shook my head, nodding toward my water bottle. "Still being a good kid, huh?"
"Since when does booze make family parties easier?"
"Wise beyond your years, young padawan," he joked. "Your new cousin. Good egg? Bad egg?"
I sipped my water, watching some little cousins chase my newest cousin across the lawn. Chris seemed nice. My first time meeting him was five minutes before the ceremony as his best man tried in vain to pin on his boutonniere properly. I fastened it for him, introducing myself quietly as I did so.
"Does she like him?" Jack's oldest daughter was notorious for her stubborn taste in men.
"Look for yourself." He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. I looked around for Shannon. I found her watching Chris the way a wolf watches a wounded deer as a horde of toddlers jumped him.
I smirked. "Ready to be a grand-dad, Jacky-boy? Looks like the clock is ticking."
He pretended to hit me, his hand swinging at least a foot wide of my head. "Speak not such abominations!" he commanded in a booming voice, "or thine own uterus will make demands of you in short time!"
I laughed. "Hey now, fight fair!"
A shadow fell over me, briefly saving my eyes from the glaring sun. I wore a big pair of sunglasses. Hollywood huge. In a crowd of folk who wore ragged camo baseball caps with their neckties and high heels, or who loudly toughed their way through the bright light.
"Lena!" The voice of Satan: my cousin Annette. Two years younger than me, forty pounds heavier. I never would have cared enough to dislike her if she hadn't spent the better part of the past twenty years trying to make me feel like shit about myself.
"Annette." I replied cautiously. "How are you?"
"Oh, busy," her laugh was fake, "working full time, you know? Saving lives is busy work. What is it you do again? You do seem to go through jobs so quickly, it's hard to keep track."
I took a sip of water. There's nothing equivilant to holding a drink when it comes to stalling for time. "I work for a college." And I have, I thought, for the past three years.
"Oh, so does my friend Perdita. She does housekeeping."
I wondered if she'd go away if I just ignored her.
She tried again. "Do you do housekeeping?"
"No," I responded, "I work for the library."
"I thought you wanted to be a teacher."
"I do that as well."
"So what are you, a teacher or a librarian? Could you not find anywhere that would hire you with enough hours or pay that you didn't need two jobs? The economy is so tough these days..."
Uncle Jack squeezed my hand inconspicuously under the table. I loved the support.
I look at Annette. "Would you like a rundown of my job description or would it suffice to say that I am responsible for the public image of a university research center, and I teach English to students who start out knowing about enough of it to say 'I am fine,' 'I like pink,' or 'Where is bathroom?'?"
"What's it like," she asks, gathering her bleached blonde hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. My sun-burnished brown hair was choppy, chin length and effortlessly 'punk,' or so I was told. She repeated herself, "What's it like talking to students who don't understand you?"
"Comparatively easy," I responded simply, "because they know how little they understand."
"So do you, like, know their language? What language is it?"
"Mostly Japanese." I sighed inwardly. I decided she was never going to leave. I understood that as soon as I drove home - four hours south of here - my extended family would talk about my career choices, my sex partners or lack thereof, and my physical appearance. I'll be 'too thin; that girl's not eating enough.' Probably it will be blamed on 'yet another antisocial man afraid of commitment' who is 'holding her back' and 'ruining her self image' and 'keeping her from her family.' Or something.
"Do you speak Japanese?"
"No."
"Then how the hell do you teach them?"
"Well, you see, I know a rather lot of English."
"But how do you know when they understand you?"
I ignored Uncle Jack's snicker. "Well, I figure I'm doing a pretty good job when they say 'spaghetti' instead of 'swim in lake' when I ask them what they like to eat."
"But you don't know any Japanese?"
"I know enough that if one of my students says 'Arigatou, Lena-san,' I will happily respond with 'Douitashimashite.'"
"What does that mean?"
"It means 'You are the master, Lena,' and 'I know. Bow before me.' Respectively." I lied without hesitation and Uncle Jack guffawed.
"You're allowed to say that to your students? What kind of teacher are you, anyway?"
"The kind who spends most of the day filing tax reports in the dusty stacks of a library and occasionally looking up writers whose last names keyword-link them automatically to Sigmund Freud."
She shook her head, walking away, probably looking for somebody else to abuse.
Jack offered me a beer again and I stuck my tongue out at him.
"Jack, can you imagine how that would have gone if I had been drinking?"
"Don't look now," he responded, "Your grandma's coming."
"What!?" I squeaked, looking around the open lawn for somewhere to hide.
"Kidding," he grinned.
I smacked him lightly. "She'll have triplets. All girls. Very pretty. Very fertile."
"Stop that," he said, eying his daughter.
I smiled and hugged him awkwardly without getting up.
If everybody wanted to see me, though, then why did I feel like the leper? The contagious fetid piece of poor luck that nobody would talk to beyond the traditional: "Hey, how the hell are ya?"
If they missed me, if they wanted news, why didn't they call me? Why didn't we pour tea and converse?
"I am well." I would respond, receiving incredulous glares. Did she really use the word 'well'? Well isn't she all intellectual now. Thinks she's better than us. Can't just talk like a normal person?
This event was only a little different: at least for once I knew I was invited because the host wanted me here. Even if the other guests ignored me.
I sat next to my godfather, the uncle I've always known and loved. He stood in for my father when I was an impressionable young teen and desperately needed a man with emotional depth beyond tired, hungry, or pissed off. Uncle Jack. You could tell Jack had been one of the popular kids in highschool. Smoking pot in the 70s, drivng fast cars with girls in the front and back seats. Now? Now he had a half dozen kids and a minivan, and brought home pizza or Chinese food with chopsticks. Now he knew when was a good time to offer up fresh brewed tea and aspirin with some scrambled eggs, and he could jump rope with the best of them. Uncle Jack was still cool, taking us to see the movies that Aunt Caroline called scandalous. He was just also a dad. An uncle. My Uncle Jack who loved me, and who actually talked to me at these sorts of functions.
"So do you like her new husband?" he leaned toward me to ask, offering me a beer. I shook my head, nodding toward my water bottle. "Still being a good kid, huh?"
"Since when does booze make family parties easier?"
"Wise beyond your years, young padawan," he joked. "Your new cousin. Good egg? Bad egg?"
I sipped my water, watching some little cousins chase my newest cousin across the lawn. Chris seemed nice. My first time meeting him was five minutes before the ceremony as his best man tried in vain to pin on his boutonniere properly. I fastened it for him, introducing myself quietly as I did so.
"Does she like him?" Jack's oldest daughter was notorious for her stubborn taste in men.
"Look for yourself." He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. I looked around for Shannon. I found her watching Chris the way a wolf watches a wounded deer as a horde of toddlers jumped him.
I smirked. "Ready to be a grand-dad, Jacky-boy? Looks like the clock is ticking."
He pretended to hit me, his hand swinging at least a foot wide of my head. "Speak not such abominations!" he commanded in a booming voice, "or thine own uterus will make demands of you in short time!"
I laughed. "Hey now, fight fair!"
A shadow fell over me, briefly saving my eyes from the glaring sun. I wore a big pair of sunglasses. Hollywood huge. In a crowd of folk who wore ragged camo baseball caps with their neckties and high heels, or who loudly toughed their way through the bright light.
"Lena!" The voice of Satan: my cousin Annette. Two years younger than me, forty pounds heavier. I never would have cared enough to dislike her if she hadn't spent the better part of the past twenty years trying to make me feel like shit about myself.
"Annette." I replied cautiously. "How are you?"
"Oh, busy," her laugh was fake, "working full time, you know? Saving lives is busy work. What is it you do again? You do seem to go through jobs so quickly, it's hard to keep track."
I took a sip of water. There's nothing equivilant to holding a drink when it comes to stalling for time. "I work for a college." And I have, I thought, for the past three years.
"Oh, so does my friend Perdita. She does housekeeping."
I wondered if she'd go away if I just ignored her.
She tried again. "Do you do housekeeping?"
"No," I responded, "I work for the library."
"I thought you wanted to be a teacher."
"I do that as well."
"So what are you, a teacher or a librarian? Could you not find anywhere that would hire you with enough hours or pay that you didn't need two jobs? The economy is so tough these days..."
Uncle Jack squeezed my hand inconspicuously under the table. I loved the support.
I look at Annette. "Would you like a rundown of my job description or would it suffice to say that I am responsible for the public image of a university research center, and I teach English to students who start out knowing about enough of it to say 'I am fine,' 'I like pink,' or 'Where is bathroom?'?"
"What's it like," she asks, gathering her bleached blonde hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. My sun-burnished brown hair was choppy, chin length and effortlessly 'punk,' or so I was told. She repeated herself, "What's it like talking to students who don't understand you?"
"Comparatively easy," I responded simply, "because they know how little they understand."
"So do you, like, know their language? What language is it?"
"Mostly Japanese." I sighed inwardly. I decided she was never going to leave. I understood that as soon as I drove home - four hours south of here - my extended family would talk about my career choices, my sex partners or lack thereof, and my physical appearance. I'll be 'too thin; that girl's not eating enough.' Probably it will be blamed on 'yet another antisocial man afraid of commitment' who is 'holding her back' and 'ruining her self image' and 'keeping her from her family.' Or something.
"Do you speak Japanese?"
"No."
"Then how the hell do you teach them?"
"Well, you see, I know a rather lot of English."
"But how do you know when they understand you?"
I ignored Uncle Jack's snicker. "Well, I figure I'm doing a pretty good job when they say 'spaghetti' instead of 'swim in lake' when I ask them what they like to eat."
"But you don't know any Japanese?"
"I know enough that if one of my students says 'Arigatou, Lena-san,' I will happily respond with 'Douitashimashite.'"
"What does that mean?"
"It means 'You are the master, Lena,' and 'I know. Bow before me.' Respectively." I lied without hesitation and Uncle Jack guffawed.
"You're allowed to say that to your students? What kind of teacher are you, anyway?"
"The kind who spends most of the day filing tax reports in the dusty stacks of a library and occasionally looking up writers whose last names keyword-link them automatically to Sigmund Freud."
She shook her head, walking away, probably looking for somebody else to abuse.
Jack offered me a beer again and I stuck my tongue out at him.
"Jack, can you imagine how that would have gone if I had been drinking?"
"Don't look now," he responded, "Your grandma's coming."
"What!?" I squeaked, looking around the open lawn for somewhere to hide.
"Kidding," he grinned.
I smacked him lightly. "She'll have triplets. All girls. Very pretty. Very fertile."
"Stop that," he said, eying his daughter.
I smiled and hugged him awkwardly without getting up.