Notes from an ornery captive
“IT’S NOT ALWAYS easy being so delighted by life,” my dad explains before flopping on the couch. “Hey, anyone seen the remote?”
The remote is always in the same place in the couch, stuck between the cushion and the arm. Always. Like the nose on his face. Same place. But does my dad look for the remote there? No, he just bellows, “Where’s the remote?” and does that little circle dance men do when they’re pretending to look for something. Mom says it’s because he actually craves human interaction but doesn’t know any other way to ask for it.
“Basically, men are animals,” she says.
“Now you tell me?” I say.
“But some of them make a pretty good living,” she says.
“It’s all about money with her,” my dad chirps from the couch.
Is this any way to start a new year? I’m home from college. My boyfriend is in New Zealand. And my dad asks me to write his column for him again on account of he needs time to watch 17 bowl games all in a row.
“Try to write something evocative and amusing,” he says from the couch.
“Like you do, Dad?”
“Better than that,” he says. “Like Jean Shepherd.”
“Who’s she?”
“She’s a he,” my dad says.
“So are a lot of writers,” I say.
“Just write anything,” says my dad as he goes back to watching the Rose Parade.
You should see him and Mom watching the Rose Parade. My dad’s flopped down on the couch making his resolutions out loud. He says he’s the only person left in America who makes fun resolutions anymore. More couch time. A better brand of vodka. Those are his resolutions.
“More and more, this world is filled with killjoys,” he says.
“What’s a killjoy?” my little sister asks.
“It’s like a bird,” my brother says.
“Actually, it’s closer to a squirrel,” says my father.
“Oh,” says my sister.
“Don’t tease her,” says my mom.
You should’ve seen Christmas. Wrapping paper everywhere, and all these people walking around with Scotch tape stuck to their pajamas. Mom stops to make coffee and we have to wait while she’s in the kitchen, on account of she doesn’t want to miss our reactions when we open our gifts.
“What else did you get?” she keeps asking my baby brother, who got a million things but would’ve been happy with a pocket comb. Or, like, a sock.
In the middle of it, my dad says the most valuable thing we could ever get from him are good genes and a sunny disposition, which he already gave us a long time ago, no batteries required.
“You can go far with those,” he says.
“How far?” my brother asks.
“Middle management, if you’re lucky,” he says.
Now it’s New Year’s morning and they sit there for hours watching the Rose Parade. First they watch the live version. Then they watch the taped version with Bob Eubanks prattling on about Andalusian stallions and Stephanie Edwards mumbling something about mustard seed. Dad says Bob and Stephanie, with all their quirks and idiosyncrasies, remind him of an old married couple.
“Dad, quirks are idiosyncrasies,” I tell him.
“They are?” he says.
I wish he’d be more careful with the language. Last semester in journalism class, they taught us that every word is important. But not with him.
“Look at the size of that Honda float,” says my Mom, and when she says “look at something” you’d better look at it because she’s one of those parents who always demand a response. “Yeah, Mom, that’s pretty big,” or something like that, just to be sure you respect her and aren’t turning into one of those snotty kids you see on TV all the time.
“Now, that’s a marching band,” she says excitedly at one point. “Come see this band, everyone.”
So that’s pretty much what my winter vacation has been like. Some people go to the French Alps for the holidays, but who needs to do that when you have so much natural splendor right here in your house?
Seriously, after a while shouldn’t, like, the Stockholm syndrome set in, where you begin to identify with your captors and become all sympathetic? Frankly, I’m not seeing it here.
“When you kids move out, we’re starting a bed-and-breakfast,” my dad announces from the couch.
“Dad, what do you know about bed-and-breakfasts?” I ask him.
“Your dad has been eating breakfast his whole life,” Mom explains.
“Thank you,” my dad says proudly.
“Kids, look at the giant pandas,” my mom says when another float passes on TV. “You see those giant pandas?”
Love the pandas, Mom. Seriously.
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
