A Game For Horrible People
My family played a card game two hours after we put grandma in the cold Oregon ground. To be specific, we played Cards Against Humanity — a party game for horrible people, as it says on the little black box. I think that’s a fair description — of my family that is. We don’t have any criminals or abusers or perverts; well I take that back, Uncle Tommy did get into a fight with two Jehovah’s Witnesses and spent the night in a prison cell once. I guess what I’m trying to say is that my family isn’t the type of horrible that makes for interesting television like Hannibal Lecter or the Kardashians. It’s one of those indescribable things like how certain people just make the skin between your knuckles itchy and humid. It’s that kind of feeling that words can only diminish. They’re just horrible, and I’m one of them.
My family played a card game two hours after we put grandma in the cold Oregon ground. To be specific, we played Cards Against Humanity — a party game for horrible people, as it says on the little black box. I think that’s a fair description — of my family that is. We don’t have any criminals or abusers or perverts. Well I take that back, Uncle Tommy did get into a fight with two Jehovah’s Witnesses and spent the night in a prison cell once. I guess what I’m trying to say is that my family isn’t the type of horrible that makes for interesting television like Hannibal Lecter or the Kardashians. It’s one of those indescribable things like how certain people just make the skin between your knuckles itchy and humid. It’s that kind of feeling that words can only diminish. They’re just horrible, and I’m one of them.
We had departed the cemetery in a caravan, heading up to the family mountain cabin. I want to say we went there to escape from the world or because my grandma loved nature and we wanted to be closer to her. But the only real reason my family headed up to the mountains is because the cabin was fully stocked with booze and every kind of spirit except my grandma’s. My Uncle Terrance was the first to the door, loosening his black tie with one hand as he punched in the door code with the other. Tapping the pungent dirt that we had just buried grandma in off his shoes on the doormat, Terrance turned towards the cars, waving his tie in the air, and yelled, “Let’s get this party started!”
I should be fair — Terrance is fairly awful in any circumstance, so this wasn’t a surprise to anyone. My parents took my brother and me when we were young to Oregon to visit the family. During the extended visit, it happened to be my parent’s anniversary, and so they left us with my Uncle Terrance to enjoy a nice dinner minus two rowdy mistakes. My brother and I hopped in Uncle Terrance’s blue truck, and as soon as my mom, dressed in elegant silver and pearls, closed the door, Terrance swung his head around and blurted out, “Your daddy’s gonna crack that oyster tonight.” Terrance was a nice guy, and I mean that. He just never really grew up after high school.
While I’m sure many families have big cookouts after a funeral, I doubt many do stand-up routines and karaoke while setting up a ‘pour-your-own’ mini-bar. Maybe that’s just how they deal with life — with a somewhat apathetic irreverence. Not many of us are religious, and maybe that’s why funerals are usually like this. Closer to a college frat party than a family mourning a passing.
One of my family’s redeeming qualities is food. Whenever I opened the screen door to grandma’s house, an array of spices swirled around me, welcoming me in. Warm coriander took my coat, earthy cumin asked if I wanted anything to drink, and hearty curry powder guided me to grandma who embraced me in a hug. No one ever went hungry or unloved at a family reunion, grandma made sure of that. Perhaps that’s why I agreed to play the game. Everyone had made their plates and sat outside on the porch in a drunken circle, taking in the cool mountain breeze while reminiscing about old memories of the women who held our family of misfits together.
When I sat down, the little black box was already out and the game had begun. Everyone engaging in that awkward balancing act of holding your drink in one hand and your playing cards in the other. Even Aunt Trisha, who rarely left her penthouse in New York City with five Persian cats for any family reunion, was playing while sipping a sparkling water with a twist of lime. The various distinct cackles and snorts of my family members echoed through the forest, probably scaring some tiny animal. It was Uncle Tommy’s turn, grunting as he leaned forward towards the deck of cards and plucked a black question card with his sausage fingers that had so often massaged grandma’s shoulders. She was the only one who would let him. The hand returned and he leaned back in his chair which squeaked under the strain of what Uncle Tommy liked to refer to as a “real man,” but what suit stores label “husky,” and doctors call “at-risk.”
“Travis,” said Uncle Tommy, leaning towards me and staring through me. “What’s that smell?”
“I don’t smell anything,” I said.
After a few seconds of silence, Uncle Tommy began asking other family members. We all looked at each other, much like we do after one of Terrance’s stunt, though the looks exchanged in this interaction were of confusion, not annoyance. Searching our faces, Uncle Tommy looked around the group.
“Guys, it’s the damn question card,” said Uncle Tommy, flipping the card in his hand so we could all see the white text. He chuckled as a man will at those more ignorant than himself when he has little else to laugh about.
“Well, you could have just stated that to begin with, Tom,” said Aunt Terri, the closest thing to an Amish midwife outside of Pennsylvania who was alternating between tomato juice and an unsweet tea, slanting her eyes down her hooked nose at everyone with an alcoholic drink.
Grunts of comprehension sounded around the drunken parabola as people took a swig of their poison and looked down at their hand of possible answers.
Alcoholism.
Daddy Issues.
Silence.
Poorly-timed Holocaust jokes.
An Oedipus complex.
Ebola.
Crippling Debt.
I had nothing. Alcoholism was the only answer that made some semblance of sense, so I put it on the arm of Uncle Tommy’s chair, careful not to put my hand anywhere near him. I took a sip of my ginger-ale which had been open since the funeral. Flat, but still cool. The white cards made their journey to Uncle Tommy, all except Uncle Terrance’s.
“It’s just a damn smell, T,” said Uncle Tommy, shuffling all the other answer cards. Tommy had run a weekly casino night in college for almost two years before the provost, one of the regulars, started seeing freshmen bet their dining tokens and decided enough was enough.
“You can’t rush art, Tommy,” said Uncle Terrance as he passed his white card in.
Uncle Tommy shuffled all the cars once he received Terrance’s, cutting the little deck of white answer cards over and over again with his clubbed fingers. “Ok guys, what’s that smell?” said Uncle Tommy, his puckered mouth hanging open and dark. Something brown stained the corners of his lips.
“Dick Cheney,” said Uncle Tommy, reading the first card. “Nice one, Terrance. Ok, what’s that smell?” said Uncle Tommy as he picked another white card. “A windmill full of corpses. Well isn’t that nice,” said Uncle Tommy, placing the read white cards at the bottom of the deck.
“Oh that was very clever!” said Cousin Todd, nodding his head with a yellow smile at all of us, his veiny eyes bulging, trying to convince us the windmill was a winner. Todd did four years in grammar school, four years in reform school, and didn’t learn a damned thing in either place. He wasn’t an idiot, he wasn’t dangerous (yet), and his parents couldn’t afford to send him to an institution. So Todd began working at a diner as a busboy and after thirty-four years he remains one.
“A New York Subway,” sighed Uncle Tommy.
Aunt Trisha tried to stifle a cackle but ended up coughing. She threw her hand in the air–the white flag–and returned to her sparkling water.
“Ok, what’s that smell guys?” said Uncle Tommy, picking a new card. “Oh Jesus,” whispered Uncle Tommy.
People leaned forward a bit. Was it a super dark card? One of those overtly vulgar or weird ones like my firm buttocks?
“Spit it out Tommy,” said Cousin Elsa, sipping her second “sex on the beach” out of a pink cup with KAPPA KAPPA GAMMA printed in white letters.
There’s a stillness–like when you wait for a firework to explode, watching the flashing light tumble down the fuse like a bumblebee drunk on nectar, waiting for it to explode and see the debris fall everywhere.
Uncle Tommy swallowed hard, his thick joules quivering a bit, “Grandma.”
One word sucked the air out of the mountains and left us all gasping for air. Cousin Elsa spit sex on the beach all over the serving table in disgust, speckling the white and black cards with globs of tropical red and orange. Aunt Trisha swallowed the lime in her drink, her eyes rolling back, wishing she had never left her prized Persians. Cousin Todd’s eyes retreated back into their sockets for once, like a scared turtle. Our eyes darted around the floor. Eventually, we began stealing glances around the group, sharing a collective shame. Uncle Terrance’s mouth curled a little at the edges, trying to stifle a smile.
I laughed.
I didn’t mean to it just came out. Then I did it again.
No, I snorted.
As I breathed in through my nose, the smells of curry powder, coriander, and cumin filled my nostrils; I gagged as the warm spices morphed into the damp, moldy ground that we buried grandma in.
Everyone stared at me, even Uncle Terrance, who couldn’t contain himself anymore and pointed at me with his gaping mouth, cackling.
“Dammit, T!” yelled Uncle Tommy, his chins shaking, while the rest of the cards fell out of his clammy hands.
“What the actual hell, Terrance,” said Cousin Elsa, wiping her mouth off.
Aunt Trisha was still choking on the lime, but her eyes were giving Terrance a terrible look of disapproval, much like she would give her Persians after making a mess.
“Never, in all my years, in all my blessed years, have I ever heard something so atrocious, so abominable! You should be ashamed of yourself, Terrance,” spat out Aunt Terri, the wrinkled rolls of powdered skin trembling.
“I’m not the one who laughed,” giggled Uncle Terrance, still pointing at me.
Everyone’s eyes returned to me. The skin between my knuckles became fiery and itchy as I slanted my eyes down. I could feel their eyes upon me, searching for any exposed cracks they could infiltrate and excavate an answer from. It felt like grandma was looking down upon me, shaking her head. I began rubbing my hands together like I was trying to start a fire and if I rubbed hard enough I could spontaneously combust and all of this would be over. Everyone could move on and not remember that this was the funeral where Travis laughed but rather where he spontaneously burst into flames and his ashes were swept into the woods by the wind. Jesus, why did I laugh? Why did I have to laugh?
“What the hell, Travis?” said Uncle Terrance, still giggling.
I don’t know, it just came out. The itch between my knuckles spread like a wildfire across my body, beads of icy sweat began to race down my side from my armpits, and no matter how much I tried to expand my lungs, they wouldn’t take in any air. I had to alleviate the pressure building up inside me, this fire consuming me.
Something dragged me up from my seat and opened my mouth, “I’m not the one who played that card after we just buried her!” I shouted.
Terrance looked at me with a blank face. Silence. All eyes remained on me, now scanning me up and down with a weird fascination like I had walked out on the deck naked. I would never live this down. God, why did I have to laugh? The end of Terrance’s lips curled a tad before they exploded as he fell to the ground, hysterical with laughter. Everyone exchanged glances again, unsure of how to proceed. First Cousin Elsa giggled, then one escaped from Uncle Tommy, and soon we were all laughing. Even Aunt Terri let loose a chuckle, after covering her mouth with her hand and Cousin Todd performed the Heimlich on Aunt Trisha, who spit out the lime onto the serving table to join Elsa’s sex on the beach.
Red in the face, partially from the alcohol and partially from the laughter, Cousin Elsa swiped a hand past the black question card deck.
“Ok, what will always get you laid?” Cousin Elsa asked as I sat back down.
The laughter got louder momentarily, then it stopped. People began combing through their cards. Uncle Tommy made a joke about grandma’s dirty sense of humor. Soon everyone refilled their glasses, and the game continued.
