Dyssed

            Uncle Olaf, party cone on head, was turning ninety-six. Technically, to baby Jeremiah, he was great-great-great, but nobody in the family wanted to use such hyperbole, humble lot they were. “Back in my day,” he graveled to a college-aged relative whose name he’d never remember, “they called me Olie-oldster, even as a whipper-snapper.”

            Since that coed wasn’t listening—ears plugged in and all—the lady to her right jumped in. “Why was that, Uncle Olaf? Because they knew you were going to witness a full century?”

            “What?” he questioned, but knew the question wasn’t interesting.

            “Tina,” the lady nudged the coed, “why not put the phone away…”

            She didn’t, but pulled out one bud as a form of protest. “It’s not a phone, but a ‘life companion’—see?” She pointed to the screen-saving ascription, neither trying to be informative or wry.

            Jeremiah, party cone on head, began to squirm. “I think his diaper’s full,” the lady told the table, a dozen relatives or so (not including life companions).

            Tina was barely defiant: “not my turn.” She might’ve indicated in her mind whose turn it was, yet that would take unnecessary energy, rummaging up out-moded debates.

            George, smoking somewhat at a distance, squirmed as well. “For cryin’ out loud, the kid shits like a, like a…”

            Somebody googled a punch line. “Like a goose.”

            “Yeah. I was going to say a sieve.”

            “What’s that?” no one googled.

            “A sieve wouldn’t make sense,” the lady pointed out, “unless the Pampers had holes in them.”

            “Back in my day,” Olaf shed some light, “babies wore nuthin’ underneath. They learned to use the chamber pot before they’d even walk.”

            “C’mon, Uncle Olaf, Jeremiah’s only two. Give the kid a break.”

            George, who was twice Tina’s age, jammed his cigarette between her drumming fingers—a means for her to stop, which she did not. “Careful, T—you’ll set the tablecloth on fire.”

            “You wish,” she yawned.

            “So, Olaf,” the lady changed the subject, “what’s your birthday wish?”

            “To get laid.”

            “That’s not funny,” the lady glowered at Jeremiah’s cousin, age nine.

            Olaf, whose hearing aid was off-and-on, agreed, “that’s just about right.”

            Rory, at the far end of the table, laughed at something else. His wife, sitting kitty-corner, called him out: “Care to share something, big guy?”

            His screen flickered. “Aw, it’s nothing so interesting. Just.., nah, nothing.”

            “Why do you call him ‘big guy’ when he’s, you know, not?”

            “Okay,” Olaf’s daughter called from the archway, “who’s ready for cake?”

            “Does it have walnuts?”

            “No. It’s gluten-free.”

            “That doesn’t mean it’s free from allergens.”

            “Since when are you allergic to nuts?”

            “I’m not. Just don’t like ’em.”

            “We’ll all take some cake, Helga,” the lady next to Tina declared. “In honor of all efforts made to bring us here—five generations, from Olaf to Jerry—”

            “He’s Jeremiah! How many times must…”

            “Oh, I didn’t know you were listening,” the lady went on. “All efforts to appreciate what’s distinct and in synch, if you will, about our extended family.”

            “NSYNC was my favorite group growing up,” Rory said.

            “I always thought you were gay,” quipped the nine-year-old’s older brother.

            “What?” Rory looked up. “You lookin’ for a fight?”

            “Why would you pick a fight with a kid, Rory? Especially about being gay.”

            The table went silent for a while. Helga had retreated for the cake; Rory drained his wine glass and pulled a new bottle from the cardboard box nearby his chair. The brothers scampered off for better things to irritate, and Tina, finishing up the cigarette, went to check on George. Olaf seemed intent to snooze, this party not his cup of tea at all. The lady slid over to tickle his nape, her way of making sure the day would give even a hint of a laugh.

            “Makes no difference,” Olaf mumbled, “by my age, it’s all waiting for Godot.”

            “For what?”

            “Makes no difference,” he repeated. “Ever try to tickle yourself? It’s impossible, they say.”

            “Oh, I don’t know. People amuse themselves all the time. Probably too much the case. What frightens me is when they frown at all the fun they have.”

            “Are they frowning today? Bored to be here, I bet.”

            Rory’s wife stood up to tilt the new bottle of wine. “Here, Olaf, you need to pick up your spirits,” filling half his dixie cup.

            Olaf nodded some thanks and brought it shakily to his lips. He was doing fine—sipping from experience—until Helga yelped as she fell into the room. The cat she tripped over hissed and jumped onto the table, causing everyone but Olaf to take cover. Helga’s face landed squarely in the cake, acting as an airbag, but the candles flared at the lure of her hairspray. Rory’s wife had the presence of mind to douse what she could with the wine, and her husband got the clue to lend some sort of hand. Helga herself did the most to prevent the fire from spreading, rolling her head like a spindle into the mush of the cake.

            The boys came racing in and almost blew up laughing. “Kids, you march back from where you came!” the lady ordered, “and don’t return until you’ve learned something!” The older one shrugged in agreement and the younger one mimicked, leaving their unsolicited school marm to bend down to the mess and declare, on behalf on no one else, “I’m so sorry, Helga.” The cat recoiled at her voice and used the occasion to dash into the kitchen and its unguarded victuals.

            Olaf, meanwhile, gently passed away. It hadn’t been as bad a day as he’d imagine, somewhere in his Beckett-governed mind. The cake, it seemed, was banana cream, and though his daughter was anything but mean, he had had enough of that inside joke, playing Krapp for all those years and necessarily, for an audience of sometimes ten, eating like a chimpanzee. He wouldn’t have to do that anymore, presuming afterlife more functional.

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2018)