- Books, Literature, and Writing»
- Books & Novels»
Thanksgiving Holiday Sex
Thanksgiving Holiday Sex
We are the only Asian family in a place called Cuddly Valley, twenty miles from a mountainous area. We live in a sea of evergreen trees and Douglas fir. Coyotes come up and rest their straggly body in our neighbor’s side path. In winter time, when it snows—it snows. White powder reaches knee high; slush fills our shoes. Traffic slows to a crawl, and, since our log cabin is secluded in the inner reaches of the forest, a plow can’t reach the dirt road where it snakes its way to our dwelling. Instead, our neighbor, who lives across from us, uses a converted plow-truck to sweep the sleet that accumulates every snowfall.
These neighbors are an elderly couple who have retired to their lodging that they built with their very hands. In their late sixties, Diane and Bob are two of the nicest people in the block. As a retired church janitor and auto-mechanic, Bob stands at six feet three inches. He towers over his wife who is only five feet tall. Sometimes, I wonder how a tall man like that makes love to a munchkin. She’d have one heck of a joy-ride, swinging around like a paratrooper.
We have a total of 8 neighbors on our street, and out of all of them, Diane was the first to invite us to a thanksgiving party. I was immensely surprised because, for one, we weren’t white, and, secondly, Diane had told me beforehand there would be too many people in the house and not enough space for me. She turns around and tells my mother, she’s invited. My mother turns around and tells me we’re invited. Diane, why didn’t you invite me in the first place when I told you we weren’t celebrating Thanksgiving because our mom’s side and dad’s side cut all ties with us?
But I was pleased and glad Bob and Diane had invited over us for Thanksgiving dinner. Otherwise, we’d be celebrating it all alone, in the middle of nowhere where wolves and bear dances together, purchasing a five dollar chicken at Ralphs and munching on canned peaches for the night. Thank God, this time, I’d have real gobbling turkey, mash potato, cranberry sauce, and all assortments of pies which makes this holiday so special. White people aren't so racist after all.
After my stomach was filled to the hilt, and I felt like barfing, I systematically hugged the entire family members on Bod’s and Diane’s side. It felt like hours. It was hours. I never knew Americans were so touchy feely and lovey dovey; I had a trill go up my legs. The last time anyone touched me was eons ago, when a pigeon landed a turd on my shoulder as I was pumping gas. That’s the closest I’ve been to being touched by a female. Salivating, I embraced Bob and Diane’s son, Brent. He was strong and sturdy—tall too. His daughter came next and then his son, Justin. Then his wife. I hugged Diane’s three sisters (lovely cougars), touched Bob’s grandsons, and molested his seventy-year-old brother-in-law, feeling his bony spine in his back. Twenty three victims in all.
Soon as they left to their place of residence, I settled down on a chair next to Bob and shot the pipe. We discussed about the prospect of the end of the world. “So what do you think is going to happen in 2012,” he asked, his white beard overflowing like Santa.
“Nothing much. America is heading in a bad trajectory, that’s all I know.”
“What should we do about it?”
“Have your own land, stockpile on food, and keep a gun close by in case there are ever looters trying to break in your home.”
He laughed, “That’s already happened. If you look at Singapore, places like that, they’re all futuristic. The Chinese is taking over. ”
A very awkward silence followed. My head turned, slowly, eyes probing the old man’s soul. “Yes, that is true. Before you know it, you just might be speaking Mandarin as well.”
“They’re nice people.”
“I always watch shows on the CCTV channel. Have you seen ‘The Men who Built America’ on History channel?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” I said, “Is it any good?”
“You’ll see just how the founding fathers were greedy and what they did to accomplish their goals.”
“Well that’s a given, money makes the world go round. It’s all about the almighty dollar. You know we’re in trillions of dollars in debt, right?” I asked, twiddling my thumbs together, and then, cracking my knuckles. “Money is pretty much debt? The money that’s being printed in the fed’s treasury don’t exist. It’s an imaginary sum that used to reflect gold coins. One note or dollar would be the same as one gold coin, but not anymore. Now, there are no gold coins. It’s just an invisible air that exists in the bank. All the real gold coins are stored in Fort Knox or Bennett or whatever it is in Virginia.”
“Right,” I shifted in my seat, feeling bloated. I suppressed an urge to burp. Bob nodded in agreement. We were becoming amicable, trusting, and turning to close friends. I was with a sixty-seven year old man; the wisdom being exchanged tickled my toes.
“We’re headed for a collapse of the government soon. Can’t fund social security and welfare, medicate and food stamps. What’s going to happen out in the streets when the entitlement program ends?”
“People will go crazy. I know that for sure.”
“Riots,” I said, ominously.
“We’re safe up here,” he said. “Just keep me away from my wife.”
“Yeah, make sure you hide the knives away in the cabinets.”
“You mean for me or for my wife?”
Without answering, I walk over to the empty chairs and bury myself in a Blue Moon. The sparkling beer is actually my favorite alcoholic beverage compared to the rest of the fermented tipples. I was surprised my dad had also come to the party when he adamantly refused, initially. For over fifteen years, he studied oriental medicine and the diverse property of herbs and the way acupuncture needles funneled chi, or the life-force, or what people know as chakras, into the body to generate a balanced, healthy system. Soon as my mother mentioned reading the pulses of all the partiers, my dad did a U-turn and headed straight back home. I caught him before he could run out the doorway.
“Dad, you aren’t going anywhere, okay? We could’ve opened the shop back in Los Angeles and make income during thanksgiving, but you’re here now, and you have to do this.”
“Free turkey, Dad. They’re giving us free turkey. In return, you’re giving them a free seminar. All of them.”
And so he did. Many of the participants flat out refused, shaking their head no, pawing a hand up like a kitty playing with an dead bird, saying--who are you kidding, me? I’m perfectly fine—there’s nothing wrong with me. But with the constant cajoling by my mother, they all caved in.
Nine people were too drunk to be tested; my father couldn’t read their pulse because the beat was this irregular, zombie-like comatose state. The other five read healthy. The rest needed major, major diet change, regular exercise, and stress releasing hormones called: swimming, sprinting, and sex. These recommendations seem to be falling on deaf ears. It’s Thanksgiving! Who gives a flying pig poop? Two. They already know what they should be doing! Three, again, it’s Thanksgiving, for Christ sake.
Diane’s sisters served themselves with another heaping help of pie. Apple pie, cherry pie, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, and pies I’ve never heard of or even seen.
“Albert, why don’t you try the pecan pie?” one of them said.
“I’ll get to that very soon, ma’am.”
All three gorgeous cougars chuckled. It was long and tiring, but it’d been the greatest thanksgiving I’ve ever had. My parents walked the short distance home. Eventually, I was the only one left. Bob’s brother-in-law and his sister climbed the spiral staircase that went up above the dining room ceiling. I could hear the floorboards creak and groan from overhead. Then it began to shake.
“Quiet up there, you two!” shouted one Diane’s sister, Jerry.
“Reminds me of the time Brent and his wife wound up making a ruckus,” another sister, Jody, said. “Took her forever to come down.”
“Bob,” Diane said. “Can we make a trapdoor so we can seal off the sounds?”
Bob grunted, flipping through news channel. “Let them at it, would you? It’s a free country.”
“We aren’t screwing!” Bob’s sister Elaine screamed down hoarsely. “It’s just the wood creaking.”
“I’m glad it still works!” Bob shouted back up. Laughter rang out throughout the hallways and the kitchen, our cheerful mirth and warm energy spilling onto the corners, carpet, and upholstery. It was, hands down, the best thanksgiving we’ve ever had. And I can’t wait to bring pineapples and tangerines again for the next one.