Forgot to mention, Friendzo and I went to a Mothers’ Day party/Bat Mitzvah last Sunday, the 10th. It was a dangerous place to be.
The party started at 10h30 on the dot, with a birthday cake flown in from Serbia by the Blue Angels. They threw that out, though, since it was no one’s birthday but Rony Seikaly and Rick Santorum and Pat Summerall and Fred Astaire and John Wilkes Booth — and none of them was there. The guest of honor was a black cat named Hattie, and she wore a yellow ribbon. Friendzo cut it. I cut him. Then Friendzo’s sister Janezo Indian cut me in the line for punch, which Friendzo had of course spiked with Canadian Club, as he is wont to do. I didn’t mind Janezo’s Indian cutting me, but I was offended by her use of the term “Redskin cut.” On behalf of Janezo, I would like to apologize to Albert Haynesworth, John Riggins and every once and future Redskin for her callous and impious misappropriation of that grand and noble appellation.
Allow me to be frank — when the dance floor opened up, Janezo did as well. She glides with the best, and shimmies like a flapper on speed. This is because she is in fact a flapper, and also addicted to methamphetamines. So I guess that simile wasn’t really needed. I shall rephrase the preceding. She glides with the best, and also shimmies well because she is a flapper on speed.
I danced with Janezo for a while, before she had to call the reptile center for a refill on rhododendrons for her snapping turtle. This was a pressing matter.
After Janezo left, I realized that Friendzo was perched in the rafters of the barn. I called to him.
Friendzo, hark! I bring tidings of the new age! Cheerful cranberries in the East! Hopeful boysenberries in the West! The crops grow, Friendzo! Hark!
I have no heart. My lungs are black and my liver orange. My tongue crawls in my mouth, and the earth opens beneath me. The snakes of my dreams are made real and I cower. Run from this barn, else there’ll be no nougat for any of us.
I’m not even going to pretend I don’t deserve that, Friendzo. You’re right. You’ve always been right. I’m sorry for punching you a while ago.
This is about so much more than you or me, or even the combination of you and me. I’ve found the last rhododendron.
Why didn’t you give it to Janezo, dammit?
…
Your sister.
Oh. I stubbed my toe.
…
…
This is supposed to be a happy time, Friendzo. We are celebrating Mothers’ Day, and also a Bat Mitzvah. Enjoy the delights of the barn, and the company of strangers. And stop touching that owl, because I know for a fact that it has many diseases, some of them fanciful but others grotesque.
I will do this.
Friendzo fell from the rafters and floated to the floor. I looked away and thought of a rainbow with no orange. The barn was empty, suddenly, and I stared at the wooden slats for a long time. It seemed to me that the barn had been photographed many times before, and I felt in my forehead the light of the thousands of flashes of the thousands of cameras that had been here before I ever knew what a barn or a Mother or a Bat Mitzvah was. The afternoon draped itself about my shoulders and I carried it home, not looking back at Friendzo but knowing he was there behind me. At home I ran the shower for an hour thirty-five, and sat in steamy silence while outside the crickets died.
