Recall the reasons I live with Bob and Kate: a) because I am broke and need somewhere to live that is cheap (in this case, free) and b) because they need help straightening out their 40 years worth of marital possessions.
These circumstances give rise to some humorous incongruities.
On one hand, if I pick up a dusty plastic carnation that I found half melted next to the boiler - all the way down in the cellar - ... well, before I am permitted to deposit that runny, dust-encrusted tragedy of a whatever into a trash can, I must listen to a full history of the flower's acquisition, complete with a side-commentary on the romantic feelings engendered by the flower at the time of its introduction to their household, followed by a detailed history of all the carefully considered storage strategies for said flower, especially the one that caused someone, with every noble sentiment and careful consideration, to place the flower on the floor about four and one half inches from the boiler. In 1977. After this information has been related to me, we all heave a melancholy sigh and agree to deposit the flower into a trash receptacle.
On the other hand, while these people may be relied upon to give a full history of every worthless piece of garbage in their entire four story house, they have - at least once a week - no idea why I live with them. Wait - let me rephrase. They know I am there to do all manner of whatever they can think of for them. What they can't remember is why I am reduced to agreeing to perform whatever duties they can think of at any given moment of any given day, amen.
At least once a week, I have the same conversation with Bob.
"Where is your mother?" he asks.
"She has already passed on," I reply.
"Why?" he asks.
"Breast cancer," I say. Big pause while he thinks of breasts and big scary tumors.
"Mother fucker," he says.
"Indeed," I reply.
"What about your daddy?" he says.
"He has also passed on," I say.
"What happened to him?" he says.
"Leukemia," I say. Big pause while he considers bad cells running around in the blood of my father.
"How old?" he says.
"Sixty-seven" I reply.
"God damn it," he says.
Bob and I had this conversation three times before I decided to spice it up a bit by using the word "dead" instead of the phrase "passed on." When we rounded the corner to conversation number five, I decided I would throw in the part about how the root cause of me living there is all the bills I accumulated because of my dad's illness. But then yesterday, he forgot all of it all over again and forgot the part about me being broke, too.
"Where are your parents, honey?" he asked. Big pause while Lalea thinks what to say.
"My parents are dead. They died and we burned them up and put their ashes into urns. The reason I live here is because I spent so much money trying to see my dad when he was sick and when he died, and got all burned up and put into an urn, the family's money was all gone," I said.
Bob took a moment to sift through this information. The mental image is one of my father's ashes slipping through his fingers onto the ground.
"Where did all the money go?" Big pause while Lalea thinks of what to say.
"He gave it to people who are not in our family," I said.
"Mother fucker," said Bob. No pause.
It is unclear what Bob meant - ie, whether
life is a mother fucker or my
dad is a mother fucker, but Lalea simply nodded in agreement and continued doing what she was doing, ie, some stupid task assigned to her by one of the two of them.
No doubt I will have to explain at least two or three more times where my parents are and why I live in their attic. Next time maybe I'll include a more graphic description of cremation, ie, a drip pan and a bone crushing phase to ensure the consistency of the "cremains," so as to make the idea really stick in his long term memory.
Have an excellent Saturday.
Love,
Aelalea
