Thanksgiving

by Andy Michelsen

The turkey sea­son brings the swarthi­est and grim­i­est crit­ters out from the wood­work onto the streets and into the houses of dis­tant rel­a­tives all across the coun­try. A man that you have never before seen will arrive at your doorstep, call you cousin, and help him­self to a fat seat and a plate by the tele­vi­sion. His wife and three kids will fol­low. There is a dis­pute over the taste of the turkey as tem­pers slowly flare up like an acid flash­back. Grandpa sits in the cor­ner star­ing madly into the tele­vi­sion giv­ing a mum­bling, inco­her­ent ver­sion of play-by-play. Cross eyed stares from peo­ple who can­not believe what is going on in this house and want to run out into the dri­ve­way and start bash­ing win­dows with a Louisville Slug­ger as badly as I do right now.

Instead I creep to the back­yard behind the bushes and the dog pen to have a smoke, find­ing my cousin Mar­tin already there as he offers me a toke of his joint. To which I humbly oblige. The air is rich with fall scents of wood burn­ing, home cook­ing, and night bloom­ing jas­mine. I shoot the shit with Mar­tin about work, or lack thereof, depres­sion, and his new Porsche. I start to tell him of my recent pub­li­ca­tion when he cuts me off and dashes out of sight leav­ing me hung out to dry like a mar­tyr when my father approaches me with a sour, stern face like a drill sergeant with con­sti­pa­tion. We stand silent for ten min­utes before I head back inside, think­ing about how even though my father had said noth­ing, I could still hear his dis­ap­prov­ing, malig­nant words ques­tion­ing what exactly it was I was doing with my life. Observ­ing, I thought to myself.

I took a slice of pump­kin pie for the road and kissed my mother on the cheek. As I headed out the door towards my car, I thought again about knock­ing in a win­dow or two, but decided it would be best to save my energy for Christ­mas din­ner. I guess the car’s own­ers should be thankful.