Jimmy - September 21, 2005

I have had too many drinks again. So many that there are three asses on my lap, six cheeks undulating, morphing back into two and then out again when each new wave of ethyl alcohol makes it to my brain. Each wave is worse than the one before, because, as I've already mentioned, I have had too many drinks...again.

I am in the VIP room of a club in the suburbs. A stripper I have named "tasty" for the airbrushed "tasty" on her wifebeater, a sliced up wifebeater, has taken me there as per my request. I don't think I requested actually. I think I just grabbed on to her breasts because I've always been a fan of both breasts and airbrushed t-shirts, and she took that to mean, "I would like a lap dance." I'm not unhappy about the miscommunication because it has led to naked asscheeks on my lap, a favorable outcome.

It is the day of the Sabbath, the day for worship and for rest. I neither worship, nor do I rest, and it is glorious.

-

It's always sunny at Southwick. Clouds cover every part of New York, cloak its benign prettiness with fog and choke its benign peoples with Seasonal Affective Disorder, but that one patch of beach on Lake Ontario, Southwick State Park, is sunny with sand like sugar. The dunes blow to twenty feet in height. Sea grass pops through, and when you're standing on a patch at the top, looking out over the lake, you'd swear that sliver of black at the horizon is Africa, not Canada.

I was atop one of those dunes the first time I heard the guttural sounds of Jimmy's car, the growling of a Tyranosaur on Xanax with a Timpani in its nutsack. They were primal "man" sounds and I liked them. It seemed as if everyone camping at Southwick that summer liked them--the Frisbees stopped swirling back and forth, and kites divebombed into the sand as their masters turned and gaped at the Mustang. Well, I should say that everyone young enough to appreciate youthful glory at its apex liked the sounds. All the old farts made faces as Jimmy passed. I made faces back and decided that old people were silly and that I would never be one of them; bitching and moaning about noise they can't even hear through their "miracle ears."

As the car got closer, the smoke got thicker. It blew blue, and drifted to the south side of the road where it hung and dissipated slowly like jet stream in the sky. Soon the odor of various meats searing on Webbers was totally obscured by Mustang fart. When the car pulled onto the grass square belonging to us, "The Tyler's Campsite" as marked by hand-carved wooden sign on a stake my father had made to be kitschy and hospitable, Jimmy killed the engine and climbed out of the open window like a resident of Hazzard County. He was young, vital and handsome.

I ran at top speed down the back of my dune to give him a hug knowing all the way that I would be thrown onto his shoulder and spun relentlessly until I puked. I didn't care. He was my cousin and the coolest dude, ever.

-

I don't remember anything about my mother's father. When I was born, he came to the hospital, pinched the cheek belonging to my dimple and said, "What a cute little Murph."

He was a handsome Mick with black hair. He had green eyes, twinkly ones, and the same chubby cheeks I've inherited. I got his stubbornness too. He was kicked out of Catholic College for punching an abusive nun...in the face. A month later he was drafted into the Army and sent to Okinawa, where he did courageous things that no one will discuss, least of all him. He came home with a Purple Heart and promptly drank and smoked till his own heart got hard and stopped altogether. It stopped six months after I was born, so all I've got left of him is a nickname and cute cheeks.

I knew Grandma very well. But I should say that the Grandma I knew was the late-in-life version, the post Alcoholics Anonymous version. I knew the Grandma who had panic attacks, picked her cuticles endlessly and never let me shower for fear I would get "consumption" and die. I would ask her about her past and about Grandpa, and she would say, "He was full of piss and vinegar," and then change the subject. No one was ever better at changing subjects. I would ask her something "totally inappropriate" and she would move the conversation to her beloved grandson Jimmy, and the various things I could do to be more like him and less like me. Truth be told, he deserved her praise.

She lived in Baldwinsville, NY, in an apartment complex specially designed for seniors, every bathroom containing an emergency pull cord, which would alert EMT's and send ambulances howling into the parking lot. No one ever had an emergency, but the ambulances came regularly, and so did my cousin Jimmy. He shoveled Grandma's sidewalks, hung her picture frames and fixed her appliances.

The Grandma I knew was crippled with fear. Each time I spent the night at her apartment, it further strengthened my resolve to never grow old and become frightened by everything. I would play with her Parakeet, Peety, till I got yelled at for frightening her, play outside in the landscaping till I got yelled at for frightening her, play with board games till I got yelled at for frightening her, ad infinitum. I once took a dump on her neighbor's lawn because she wouldn't let me inside. The doorbell frightened her. She used to say I was "the bane of her existence," and I took it as a compliment.

When I was ten, she took me on a bus trip to Niagra Falls so that we could argue while taking in nice scenery, I suppose. I bought a ripped t-shirt with beads and an airbrushed Pegasus on its chest. We posed for a picture in a fiberglass barrel and pretended we were going over the falls. I still have that pic, and in it I'm wearing the Pegasus shirt. Grandma looks like she always looked, as if she'd just seen a ghost. But now that she is a ghost, I have to admit I miss her.

-

It is Christmas Day, and I am being swirled around on cousin Jimmy's shoulder. This is awkward because I am 27 years old and Jimmy is very drunk, again. Inappropriately, and much more so than everyone else. He tips to the left and right as he spins me, tripping slightly and nearly beheading people with my feet. When I escape, I sit down, and I do not get up again.

He is nearly skeletal. Fifteen years of Chroan's disease has not been kind to him, and as he finishes off another beer, he jokes that he has so little intestine left that its "a straight shot from m' mouth to m' 'ssshole." We laugh, but only to hide how sad we think this is. I wonder how much dead intestine is from Chroan's and how much is from drink, and I consider asking this question aloud because I am "totally inappropriate," but I say nothing because Jimmy is a sweetheart and I don't want to embarrass him. My mother is picking at her cuticles when she changes the subject. She is good at changing subjects.

-

My Aunt, mother and sister sit across from me. We are swilling Cosmopolitans and laughing, so much so that we alternately snort the Cosmo into our noses and have to blow it out. My Aunt is talking about the Grandma I never knew, the early version. She is telling a story about the time Grandma "mooned the school bus."

BunnyMommy: "Whaddya mean, 'that one time?' Dontcha mean 'every day?'"
Aunt Robyn: [choking on Cosmo] "True. She mooned my friends so many times they stopped flinching."
BunnySis: "What? Grandma? Grandma used to get so drunk during the day that she'd moon your school bus?"
BunnyMommy: "During the day? Oh, no no no. She'd be trashed before we even left the house. In the MORNING."

Aunt Robyn: [to my mother] "Remember George, the milkman?"
BunnyMommy: "Oh my God! I had totally forgotten about that."
Me: "Who the hell is George?"
BunnyMommy: "George was Grandma's drinking buddy. He used to come over to the house during the day and they would get hammered while Grandma baked shit and made Waldorf salads and stuff. But one day, she got George so drunk that he crashed his milk truck into the front porch of the MacMillan's house, and he got fired from his job. Oh his wife was so mad!"

We laugh, and choke and slap the table. We are doubled over, and I am aghast that my frightened, take-no-risks Grandma, who never got behind the wheel of a car was such a wild drunkard. Later, I see pictures of her with my Grandpa. They are laughing, smiling and dancing, and my Grandmother's smile is glorious. I realize I had never gotten the chance to see it before.

-

It is last Monday. I am in Baldwinsville, and it is a rather nice day. I mention to BunnySis that it's probably much nicer on the beach at Southwick, but we can't go there. We have business to attend to. We are at a funeral home watching sober people fresh from worship and rest pass in and out and pay their respects.

I am standing in a long black dress by my mother's Subaru, handing out beers from a collapsible cooler my father and I have just made a trip to the grocery store to buy. It is full of beer and ice. I hand the beers off to my family while they stand dazed beneath a weeping willow, not weeping though they need to. My uncle takes a drag from a cigarette and says, "I don't understand. Just last week he was over at Robyn's putting flower boxes up and mowing her lawn, and today he's gone." His eyes grow glassy as he says this, and instead of crying, he changes the subject, deftly, to Bill Clinton's shoddy foreign policy. And just when we think it is impossible to laugh, he says "A towel is not a hat, god dammit."

-

The back seat of the Mustang is tiny. My knees are twisted to the side, pushed into the leather of the seat in front of me. I am drinking a beer for the first time. My sister sits in the front seat while Jimmy drives, and she calls off the number on the speedometer with a wide smile...80...82...85. The wind whips harder as we speed along, everything shining, the console, my sister's silver beer can, the road signs we pass at what seems like warp speed. The Xanax has faded. The Tyranosaur is raging now, it's Timpani nuts knock into each other with ferocity, with intensity like sumo wrestlers...87...90...92... RRRROOOOAAAARRRR! The landscape blurs into green swashes...95...97...99. I guzzle beer, and push my nose out the window. I am yelping with glee, my hand pressed to the roof of the Mustang so hard I fear it might pop through...100! We scream! We are faster than the fastest! We are louder than the loudest! We are wild, alive and glorious!

Posted by The Bunny at 4:04 PM

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Comments

I really liked this one. My parents and grandparents also morphed into completely different people as they got older.

You make me want to write.

Posted by: Rachel at September 21, 2005 05:24 PM

Great story, you managed to make me horny and fit in some nice writing, especially the part about the section of beach and the sounds of the car.

I think it may be spelled Crohn's, not Croan's.

And also, cosmopolitans? Please write about feeling some titties to restore my faith.

Posted by: thundercock at September 21, 2005 06:03 PM

It is Crohn's disease, my rather awesome Uncle, and most of my family has it.

Life is too short to be afraid of everything, but at least the woman had a good run with alcoholism.
My grandfather irish and also full of piss and vinegar used to fill his life with dice games and shooting contests, he taught my mother how to shoot when she was 5 and living in Youngstown Ohio means marksmanship is pretty hard to beat among the Mafia families.

They still owe our family a favor...

Posted by: kate at September 21, 2005 08:11 PM

Bunny is good writer.

Posted by: Tucker Max at September 21, 2005 08:25 PM

I love your writing. This entry in particular struck me to comment tonight. I felt like I was looking at snapshots as I read. I felt as if I was there. It's a great tactic to use in writing. You do it well. Keep up the great work.

Posted by: mynewalias at September 21, 2005 09:47 PM

Best Bunny work ever. It's Crohn's Disease. Edit it so asshats with names like thundercock don't miss the goddamn point of the entry. You make my day every time you post. Thank you.

Posted by: cornfed at September 21, 2005 09:49 PM

I'm so sorry for your loss Bunny...

Posted by: nicegrrl at September 21, 2005 10:55 PM

My sister has Crohn's - but she's on a macrobiotic diet that she only breaks on her birthday so she's usually doing fine.

You are an amazing writer, Bunny. I am so in awe of you.

My grandpa was a badass - always told it like it was. A master of socially inappropriate behavior. Some of my favorite quotes:

"A guy could grow a beard waiting for you."
"Talk about picking fly shit out of the pepper."
"If I hear the little drummer boy one more time, I'm going to shoot the bastard."

Posted by: LilaChicaD at September 21, 2005 11:02 PM

I love your blog. This one especially hit it home. Bunny is such a fan-fuckin-tastic writer! I wish for half your talent and most of your rockin' outness...

Posted by: Kels at September 22, 2005 12:53 AM

What D-List said. That is easily the most compelling thing you have written to date.

Posted by: D-Rock at September 22, 2005 01:50 AM

I'm so sorry for your loss, Bunny. You're a true inspiration to me. You capture the human soul with your writing, and you can relate the things you know to a lot of people.

Please never forget to see the beauty of it all and please never forget to smile.

Posted by: Moe the guitarist at September 22, 2005 02:41 AM

Moe-

I'm under the impression that Bunny doesn't forget to see the beauty of things and that she won't forget to smile.

I'm pretty sure that's one of the most beautiful things about her.

Posted by: Christina McKenna at September 22, 2005 11:28 AM

Even if you never will, your 'voice' has really matured. This was excellent.

Posted by: Lorelei at September 22, 2005 01:31 PM

Outstanding Bunny. Lovely imagery, wit, and I felt it. I really felt everything you were communicating deep down in my bones. I hope you never stop writing.

Posted by: AngryPlath at September 22, 2005 02:26 PM

That story made me both happy and sad at the same time. It was done so beautifully. Thank you

Posted by: Sydira at September 22, 2005 04:23 PM

Erin, this is fucking beautiful. I was getting worried because I didn't feel like I have cried enough over this. You fixed it.

Posted by: BunnySis at September 22, 2005 07:25 PM

dear et bunny,

i am sorry about your loss.

we met.
you're beautiful and i adore your writing. one of the most influential people in the life of sarah porter. inspiration never looked so good.

Posted by: sarahhel at September 22, 2005 08:28 PM

I generally think that blogs are useless masterbatory wastes of time, yours is the exception.

Posted by: halfway at September 22, 2005 08:46 PM

I've been reading (both you and Tucker) for a long time, but never before felt like I had anything that I needed to say. But today, after reading this, I do. Your writing is amazing. It gets more amazing each time you write. This time, I was moved to tears. I'm really sorry about Jimmy.

Posted by: Linda at September 23, 2005 11:31 AM

that was awesome, Bunny. simply beautiful.

miss you.
xoxo

Posted by: Ruca at September 24, 2005 12:48 AM

Firstly, please allow me to say, WOW. Simply one of the most well written things I've ever read.

Now onto something very un-Tinyish. People can say how sorry they are for your loss, and most the time it seems weak, and meaningless. How can anyone be sorry for YOUR loss? Were they with you in the mustang? Did they feel the bubbly tummy feeling that you got when you heard the mustang coming? Nope. They weren't, and they didn't. But, just this once, maybe just maybe when they say it they really do mean it. Maybe for one of the few times in the history of the written word, someone (You of course) has wrote exactly what it's like to have "been there, felt that."

I won't say I know how you feel, that would be crass. What I will say is, I know how I felt when my Papaw would let me sit on his bar during the day, and pour me a coke from the fountain gun. I know what I felt when I'd hear stories of how he used to win trophies dancing the "Charleston." I remember what it felt like when he'd hug me.

I can also remember the smell of the joint, as I passed it to my Uncle Danny. I can still taste the Crown Royal and Peppermint Schnapps floaters he'd sneak to me and my 2 cousins. I can still hear him telling me goodbye in his own way as he laid dying in IU Med Center, as his liver failed from Hepatitis C.

But mostly I can remember the taste of the tears that I cried when it came time to bury them both.

I don't know how you feel Bunny, but I know how I feel. And maybe just this once when someone you barely know says "I'm sorry, for your loss" it'll mean something.

I'm Sorry Bunny, for your and your family's loss.

TINY

edit: I sent this as an email to begin with, but decided it should of went here.

Posted by: Tinius at September 24, 2005 03:53 AM

i cried for a very long time after reading this. you're a very goot writer!

Posted by: sarabeans at September 24, 2005 08:25 AM

sweet bunny, that was so touching, i got lost in it and forgot where i was for those ten minutes it took me to read it..you are the most unforgettable writer of our time. your outlandish behavior is countered by your sincerity, and you perfectly embody this generation. never stop writing!

Posted by: Trisha at September 24, 2005 10:58 AM

Bunny-
That was achingly beautiful. Thank you for sharing such precious memories!

Posted by: Traffic Goddess at September 24, 2005 01:42 PM

you make me cry sometimes

i write songs to your stories

i am never this lame

Posted by: Colin at September 24, 2005 02:49 PM

Guys. Honestly, I'm overwhelmed. Thanks so much for the compliments, they mean more to me than you think.

Posted by: TheBunny at September 25, 2005 10:30 AM

This was truly one of the most beautiful things I've ever read. I have cried every time I've read it.

Posted by: Kate at September 25, 2005 10:31 AM

I've never commented on your stories, but I've read them all. You are an exceptional writer (which I know you have heard over and over again). I check your site daily, and I get so excited when I see a new story up.

This one touched me when I read it that I started to cry at work. I was a mess. No one knows how someone really feels when they lose someone special, but we all have an idea. I am sorry for your loss Bunny.

The best thing anyone can do for their loved ones once they are gone, is to keep their memories alive (in my opinion). You've done that here. You are the best.

Best wishes Bunny.

Posted by: italianbambina at September 25, 2005 12:50 PM

Damn, you're good.

Posted by: Matt Rustler at September 25, 2005 10:38 PM

I love you so much Bunny. Never stop writing. Good. Thank you.

Posted by: IAmACliche at September 26, 2005 06:26 AM

This piece shows how much you have grown as a writer. You are exceptional.

~ Vanaya

Posted by: Vanaya at September 27, 2005 06:46 AM

Bunny - The ending to that story was amazing! You add something to your writing that any one can relate to, I can't word it any other way than "you're real". You're willing to accept your imperfections, hell even openly acknowledge them. I love that and I will continue to check your blog every day. I put my website on the URL if you want to check it out and maybe SEND ME YOUR AUTOGRAPH!

Posted by: Barbie at September 27, 2005 03:00 PM

Dear Bunny,

simply one of the most poignant and evocative short stories I have ever read. You seem to be able to effortlessly engage the reader at the same time conjuring vivid imagery and a rich sense of character. I would really like to see more of this type of story on your site. You are an inspiration to aspiring writers.

sincerely adam

P.S hanging out for my next bunny fix

Posted by: Sjambok at September 28, 2005 07:43 PM

I am a souless husk of a human being, my soul is gone and my spirit is crushed. My emotions are dead and I no longer see the world with the innocent light of childhood, but you almost brought me to tears. Your story moved me beyond anything else I have ever read. Please, keep writing, you are more of an inspiration to people than you could possibly know.

Posted by: Radiohead at December 23, 2005 03:18 AM