These Things that We Adore

Haven't seen the ocean
in nearly four long years
It's high time I absolve myself
of all these saline fears
I jigsaw like a puzzle
I break to hide my truth
I watch them twirling down the drain
my breath, my love, my youth

Haven't seen a canyon
since that trip I took out West
I often think of moving back
this time to try my best
I was once a broken person
who worked to shield his light
I made the choice, every day
for dull to steal my bright

Haven't seen a beaten path
in far too many days
I fear I might be out of touch
with Earth and all her ways
I walk into the forest
slide my hands beneath the leaves
I feel the ground start to shake
my back contracts and heaves

Haven't said the word "goodbye"
to someone quite like you
You'll always be the one I love
no matter what I do
You took a bird with broken wings
you taught him how to soar
Sometimes we have to watch them fly
these things that we adore

Ignite

Three fifty-eight a.m. on Sunday
crickets chirp outside
Fan is twirling in the window
Rabbits run and hide

Coffee smells like sweet surrender
The dew falls like a breath
The fog looks like a sobbing man
holding on 'til death

Lights are burning in the distance
the city's far away
Here, atop this hill of dreams
he'll conjure words to say

He'll think of all the wasted years
that could've torn him down
He'll remember all the trackmark friends
he left in his hometown

And like a spark ignites a flame
the sun is soon to rise
putting a match to a brand new day
emblazoning the skies.

Drift

Drifting through illusioned thought
uncovering fake and real
Such a feat--to discern the two
when you've spent your life at heel

Drifting through an endless space
at the lightest of measurable speed
left behind my human want
my aching, unfulfilled need

Drifted through the countless years
afraid to make my peace
Give me credit for the hell I've paid
make this fiending cease

Drift away, please leave me here
the tide will soon arrive
I guess this time we'll fight to see
which one gets out alive

Saturation Research Article

Abstract

            The following piece is a semi-fictionalized accounting of the Stonewall Riots. For the purposes of my saturation research paper, I “invented” an author named Frederick Wallace who lived through the time of the Christopher Street Riots, as they were also called, but due to a medical emergency, was unable to be in attendance. Instead, he interviews a friend, Michael Fader (an actual human being, interviewed briefly for Stonewall: The Riots that Sparked the Gay Revolution by David Carter) and obtains his (fictionalized by Joe Lawley) accounting of the events that took place over the span of six nights in June and July of 1969. Though the controversial story never finds a publisher at the time of its creation, Wallace is now—43 years later—publishing it in light of the current Gay Rights movement and his prominent position within a successful major publication.

Faded Pages Reveal an Un-Fading Fader

(A 43 year-old interview with one of
Stonewall’s original participants)

By Frederick Wallace

            I was a 22-year-old, fresh-faced intern at the main offices of Harper’s Bizarre in New York City during the long, hot summer of 1969. I had just graduated, with honors, from the NYU School of Journalism in May, but my name had yet to grace the bylines of any major publication in the city, let alone the country or world.

            Interning was about as typical as you might imagine: getting coffee for overpaid dickheads, coming up with new designs for lobby bulletin boards, and every now and then, someone would take me aside and give me advice on how a “guy like me” could really get ahead in “a place like this.” Little did they know, I had my own agenda.

            Having lived my adolescent years during the heart of the Civil Rights Movement, and having been an actual attendee at the Woodstock Festival for peace and love, my goal was to change the world with my words. As far as I was concerned, Harper’s was a stepping stone—a task necessary to complete and obtain my actual sheepskin degree. I knew that publishing a self-assigned story of my own interest would be next to impossible, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try. Lucky for me, it didn’t take long for inspiration to come.

            I was about as “out” as a gay man could be in those days—a regular on the free streets of Greenwich Village, I frequented many of the gay-friendlier establishments that popularized the area, including the Stonewall Inn. Aside from my family, I considered my sexuality to be common knowledge among “the community,” but it certainly wasn’t the time of rainbow flags and purple ribbons.

            Having had the bad luck of stepping on a rusty nail in my cousin’s driveway the week previous, I was laid up on the third floor of Our Lady of Perpetual Peace with a nasty blood infection, and thus, was restricted from going out on the night that the Stonewall riots started. I did, however, have a number of friends who were there, including two were detained by police and forced to prove their gender (they were transvestites), before being rushed to the paddy wagon and booked downtown for indecency (Carter 138).

            When I heard the news via telephone, I was outraged. It was my fight. It was my generation, and the one thing I felt I was living to stand up for. Unfortunately, the amount of medication I was on and my general state of health completely prohibited standing at all. But when I returned home seven days later, and back to my coffee post at Harper’s, I decided if I couldn’t fight, this was sure as hell going to be my story. And though it’s taken 43 years to publish, I’m as proud of it today as I was of it then…

* * * * * * * * * *

(From July, 1969)

            I suppose if you’re going to gay in 1969, the best place to do it is Greenwich Village in New York City. In fact, up until last week, you’d have been hard pressed to find any homosexual living in the area that didn’t think of the Village as somewhat of a “safe haven.” However, considering the riots that took place on Christopher Street (and the surrounding area) last week, that sentiment, and the idea that gays are “safe” anywhere, really, is now seriously being questioned—and for good reason (Silver 1).

            Michael Fader is 25 years old. At 18, he enlisted in the United States Army and served his country in Vietnam before taking two bullets to the chest and being sent back home, with an honorable discharge and a Purple Heart. Since then, Fader has been employed full-time doing maintenance in the Macy’s building on Fifth Avenue. Three months ago, he saved a woman from certain death by warning her that her vehicle was leaking gasoline when she pulled next to him at a service station. He walks a sick neighbor’s dog twice a day, free of charge, and has done so for more than six months now. And, in the early-morning hours of last Saturday, June 28, 1969, outside of the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street, Fader was detained, forced to disrobe in front of NYPD officers, and eventually charged with indecency for wearing clothes that officers deemed “too feminine” for a man to wear.

            Lucky for Fader (and maybe the rest of us), he wasn’t alone. Using the bar’s owners’ as their excuse, cops initially entered and announced they were raiding the Stonewall on account of the fact that the bar did not have a valid liquor license. Employees, anyone with a question or without identification, and all men wearing women’s clothing were arrested. When the tides turned against police, they retreated inside the bar, locked the door, and waited for reinforcements to arrive. “After the trapped cops were rescued by the riot police, a game of cat and mouse was played out over succeeding nights between protesters and law enforcement for control of the streets surrounding the Stonewall” (Carter “Stonewall Stories” 1).

            I sat down with Fader on what seemed like the first quiet night in the Village since the riots began, July 4^th, to find out exactly what happened, why it’s (hopefully) just the beginning, and why fireworks are an appropriate celebration for what might be the “first Gay Independence Day.”

Q (Wallace):  As a gay man, how would you define your idea of “safety” on the streets of the Village?

A (Fader):  As a gay man, I do not feel safe anywhere, really. I guess I feel most at home in the Village, but even there, safety is not guaranteed. A couple of weeks before the incident at the Stonewall, I found a pamphlet on the ground outside of a coffee shop. It said things like “Do not confuse the ‘hippy set’ with the ‘gay set,’” and “There are many hippies in this area, who while they may dress in a ‘gay’ fashion, are actually quite opposed to any gay advances” (Coleman 1). Can you believe an actual, printed-on-a-press pamphlet had been produced and distributed to multiple people that contained such closed-mindedness? And this is supposed to be some kind of a safe haven?

Q:  As of now, a sexual act between two men is illegal, and homosexuality is listed as a mental illness with the American Psychiatric Association (Silver 1). Two months ago, Canada enacted a Reform that aimed to fix such issues within our neighboring country to the north (Kinsman 1). Can you imagine something like that taking place here, in the U.S.?

A:  Just so you know, it is also illegal to cross-dress and even to dance with another man (Cusack 1). “If you [stand] on the corner with another man for more than five minutes, [you'll] get hit in the legs with a nightstick by a cop saying, ‘Move on, girls,’ or [you’ll] get arrested for congregating” (Dooley 1). But I can see a reform taking place now—if you asked me the same question a couple of weeks ago, I might not have had the same answer. But there’s a certain solidarity now, you know? We’ve taken a stand. And it’s not going to stop here. All this talk about “civil rights” for the last fifteen or twenty years… how about our civil rights?

Q:  Speaking of Civil Rights, we’re moving into the 1970’s, and names like “Martin Luther King, Jr.” and “Rosa Parks,” and places like Birmingham, Alabama, have all become a certain kind of slogan for the Civil Rights movement. Do you think the word “Stonewall” will end up with a similar fate?

A:  I think any person, place, or thing that inspires people to live openly and love themselves on such a large scale will be remembered, whether that’s right now or at some point in the future. I mean, they have the Iwo Jima memorial statue with five soldiers raising the American Flag—I think we need a similar statue in front of the Stonewall, only ours could be the scene of five very different soldiers using a broken parking meter to tear down the Inn’s front door (Carter “Stonewall Stories” 2). That happened, by the way.

Q:  What else sticks out in your head from that night?

A:  I remember talking to one of the officers for about fifteen minutes before the raid actually got underway. I thought he was gay! Four of the cops came in early to do a little… ah… “undercover” work, I suppose. They were in plain clothes, mingling with everyone, chatting it up. It wasn’t until after the uniformed officers came in and the ones in plain clothes began to point-out offenders for arrest that anyone realized who they really were (Carter 139).

            And I remember a lot of breaking glass. Lots and lots of breaking glass—windows, bottles, car windshields. At one point, a uniformed officer tried to stand upon the bottom of an overturned garbage pale in order to get a better view of the riot’s extent. No sooner did he stand on both feet than did two guys snatch the can from beneath him and hurl it through a second-story window (Carter 159). But to define it all as “anger” seems… off.

“We all had a collective feeling like we’d had enough of this kind of shit. It wasn’t anything tangible anyone said to one anyone else, it was just kind of like everything over the last few years had come to a head on that on particular night in that one particular place, and it was not an organized demonstration. It was spontaneous. That was the part that was wonderful. Everyone in the crowd felt like we were never going to go back. It was like the last straw. It was time to reclaim something that had always been taken from us.” (Fader in Carter 160).

Q:  Why the Stonewall Inn? Aside from the invalid liquor license, why did cops choose this place for raid?

A:  The police chose to raid the Stonewall for a number of reasons. Aside from their irrational fear of gay culture, the Stonewall is supposedly owned by mafia big wigs—who knows? But more than that, the Stonewall lets us dance, slow dance—with each other. Even the other “gay friendly” places don’t do that. And just for that reason, the Stonewall attracts a huge spectrum of people who are sexually different, from all walks of life: the most normal through the most outrageous (Carter “Stonewall Stories” 1).

Q:  The riots ended up lasting a total of six nights. Why did the demonstrating continue past the first night?

A:  The Stonewall was small, and in relation to the size of the gay population in the entirety of the city, there weren’t all that many people there on the first night. Throughout the next day, word spread like wildfire about what had happened the night before. While the streets were being swept and windows of the Inn were being boarded up, many gays started making their way toward Christopher Street in a show of solidarity. Maybe some sensed, or wanted, a follow-up. People began painting slogans and hanging signs. Before night fell, Saturday’s crowd was bigger than the one that had formed on Friday (early Saturday morning) (Carter 180).

Q:  There’s been a lot of talk that the first night was about freedom, but the subsequent nights of rioting were more about anger. Thoughts?

A:  I think the whole thing—all six days and nights—were about freedom. I do think, however, that a lot of people had a lifetime of anger inside of them when they showed up on the second or third or fourth nights—and they were there with the specific intention of ridding themselves of that anger’s weight. I remember, at one point on Saturday night, a police officer grabbed a friend of mine and raised his club in the air to strike. As he was about to come down hard with

his weapon, my friend screamed “How’d you like a big Spanish dick up your little Irish ass?!” The cop dropped his club, mid swing, allowing his soon-to-be victim escape. I also heard another story about two officers chasing about a hundred guys down Waverly Place until one of them realized they could turn the tables by turning around and chasing the officers instead. They could be heard for blocks screaming “Catch them! Fuck them!” (Carter 181). So, yes, perhaps there was more anger, but it came from a place of hurt and fear, not hate.

Q:  Why do you think that “fear” of gay culture (that you mentioned before) exists?

A:  It’s not as much about fear as it is misunderstanding. Along with Black Civil Rights, you began to see things like black people in magazine ads and on television programs. But even the gay-friendly medium of the Broadway stage refuses to acknowledge its gay characters. Take “Hair” for example—a huge hit  in ‘67—but even one of the show’s main characters, Woof, is very much closeted on the stage when his character is clearly gay in the script (Colman 3). I think when gay culture becomes more mainstream, people will stop “fearing” it. People fear what they do not know.

Q:  Where do you see the future of gay rights heading?

A:  I’ve heard lots of talk about the formation of a “Gay Liberation Front” forming, and a few guys are supposedly trying to put together a mainstream gay newspaper or magazine (Carter “Stonewall Stories” 1). This is a new generation of gay—one that doesn’t want to hide. Maybe by the turn of the century, we could live in a different world. Here’s hoping…

* * * * * * * * * *

            It has been 42 years, 10 months, and two days since I sat down with Michael Fader to discuss the Stonewall Riots and his predictions for the future of the gay community. Since then, I’ve spent the majority of my time freelancing stories for magazines across the globe and trying to put a little “gay” into the mainstream media. Meanwhile, the Stonewall Riots have become a legendary part of the Gay Rights Movement:  June 28^th is now a worldwide Gay Pride holiday celebrated with parades and parties in almost every major city and the name “Stonewall” has, indeed, taken its place in the history of Civil, if not Human, Rights. In addition, four states have legalized the ability of gay couples to marry (though only two other states and the District of Columbia recognize the marriages), dozens of others states recognize or perform civil unions for same-sex couples, twenty states have laws against anti-gay bias, three openly-gay members of Congress serve our country, and a movie about gay rights activist Harvey Milk has won two Academy Awards (Carter “Stonewall Stories” 1).

            However, we’ve got a long way to go. There is still a gaping hole where some form of federal legislation needs to be put in place to protect the gay community, and it seems nary a day goes by that we don’t hear yet another unfortunate story about another gay youth who either killed or attempted to kill him or herself based solely on bullying that extends from their perceived sexual preference.

            I contacted Fader a few weeks ago to inform him of my intent to publish his story. I remember, at the time, he was happy to be my subject but seemed more and more relieved each time I told him about a rejection letter I received in response to my submitting “our Stonewall story.” While he was excited to hear that his words would finally see the light of day, he opted instead to use someone else’s words to express his feelings, unique gratitude, and, hopefully inspire a younger generation to live happily. He emailed me the following quote from 21^st Century philosopher, Richard Rorty:

“Solidarity is not discovered by reflection but created. It is created by increasing our sensitivity to the particular details of the pain and humiliation of other, unfamiliar sorts of people. Such increased sensitivity

makes it more difficult to marginalize people different from ourselves by thinking ‘They do not feel as we would’, or ‘There must always be suffering, so why not let them suffer?’ This process of coming to see other human beings as ‘one of us’ rather than as ‘them’ is a matter of detailed description of what unfamiliar people are like and of re-description of what we, ourselves, are like.” (Rorty in Chan 1).

Perhaps we’re not that different after all.

**Appendix

            One of the most vital sources used to construct this saturation research paper was Stonewall: The Riots that Sparked the Gay Revolution, a book by David Carter—probably the most definitive source that I was able to locate in regard to the riots that took place during the summer of 1969. In fact, while researching the incident(s), Carter’s name comes up as the author of a number of credible, peer-reviewed sources that can be easily located. Stonewall the book, however, goes into the greatest detail of all, putting into context a time and place that a reader would not be able to understand otherwise unless they too, had lived through it. The text describes the six nights of protest in detail, mainly through interviews with a number of participants, one of whom had his name borrowed and story fictionalized (without permission) for the preceding story.

Works Cited

Carter, David. Stonewall: The Riots that Sparked the Gay Revolution. St. Martin’s Press. 

            New York: 2004.  

Carter, David. "Stonewall Stories." Advocate 1027/1028 (2009): 94-99. Academic  

            Search Complete. Web. 10 Apr. 2012. 

Chan, Phil C. W. "Protection of Sexual Minorities since Stonewall: Their Lives,

            Struggles, Sufferings, Love, And Hope." International Journal of Human Rights

            13.2/3 (2009): 129-141. Academic Search Complete. Web. 6 May 2012.

Colman, David. "Based On A Truly Gay Story." Advocate 1030 (2009): 69-71. Academic

            Search Complete. Web. 6 May 2012.

Cusac, Anne-Marie. "The Promise Of Stonewall." Progressive 63.8 (1999): 10. Academic

            Search Complete. Web. 6 May 2012.

Dooley, Savannah. "Stonewall Revisited." Advocate 941 (2005): 36. Academic Search

            Complete. Web. 6 May 2012.

Kinsman, Gary. "Queer Liberation." Canadian Dimension 44.4 (2010): 19-22. Academic  

            Search Complete. Web. 10 Apr. 2012. 

Silver, Diane. "Stonewall's Unfinished Revolution." Lesbian News 34.12 (2009): 14. 

            Academic Search Complete. Web. 6 May 2012.

One More False Start

Got no place to go-
no things that are mine, I'm on borrowed time
Got no wounds to show-
juat scars that have healed and a faith that's congealed

Wanna break all ties-
with the frown on your face, with this whole fucking place
Sick of all your lies-
all the words that you speak, each one makes you seem weak

We could have it all-
if you'd just breathe, wouldn't feel I should leave
Instead you'd rather fall-
kiss it goodbye, wipe that tear from your eye

Now I know the truth-
you took what I had, now my name just means "sad"
You're not gonna steal my youth-
I guess it's just wrong and that this means "so long"

I'm sure you'll be okay-
put on your game face, get right back to your race
After all, you're gay-
you can go have group sex, 'cause your mind's not complex

Leave me on the side-
Of a dark road, watch my brain cells explode
I can't believe I cried-
over one more false start,
time to rescue this heart,
if to love is an art,
guess you're just not that smart

Blood on your Hands

Heaven and Hell--
poetic illusion
Christian, Jew, Muslim
incite mass confusion
Speak words of hate
say them with love
Judge every man
Praise up Above
Bring down the house
with songs about freedom
Twist written stories
the facts--we don't need 'em
Dispense propaganda
go door-to-door
Say "God is loving"
but "Hell waits in store"
Decide who can love
and who gets a tax break
What makes a family
put children at stake
It's clearly the "end times"
so work, bring them on
'cause the blood's on your hands
when the bombs fall at dawn

Give

wake up
gay wife
this is
your life
two a.m.
get it up
gotta fill the coffee cup

sub tab
dis solve
front door
re volve
love the hate
hate the love
no one that I'm not above

work hard
play light
sun is
too bright
take a break
take the hit
I don't even give a shit

look good
loose skin
am I
too thin?
crazy stare
bulging veins
hear them say I'll go insane

make cash
spend me
my eyes
don't see
break away
fade to black
I'll pick up my own slack

"I'm gonna be okay * I don't care what the people say * I'm gonna be alright * Gonna live fast, and I'm gonna live right * I'm moving fast, can you follow my track? * I'm moving fast and I like it like that * I do ten things all at once * And if you have a problem, I don't give a..."

My Orchard, My Orphanage, etc.

The following three poems will be published in Kutztown University's 2012 Shoofly literary magazine.

2001

High school graduation

Head higher than the skies

Ignoring what they told you

“You’ll see it—time just flies”

First Madonna concert

Drank a box of wine

Lost my keys and dignity

While standing in the line

Acura Integra

Black with shiny rims

Drove it off Old Miller’s Bridge

and nearly severed limbs

Last time I could speak that name

The highway stole her light

I stood over her body

Her blood still seems so bright

Tried so hard to say goodbye

She lives inside my head

Reminding me of what I’ve done—

that one day

I’ll be dead

My Orchard, My Orphanage

Seventeen weeping apple trees

Scattered against a crisp gray sky,

Overgrown limbs fallen slovenly on the ground.

Their fruit gone to waste—

A stinking rot pile of red and brown.

“Your roots are like my own,” I whisper,

“Planted firm in unsteady earth.”

The wind allows each branch to sigh,

Crackling leaves rustle in chorus.

Seventeen weeping boys and girls

Scattered across a field at dusk,

Assembling for the annual St. Anne’s Orphanage photo.

Their minds gone to waste—

A medicated pile of wasted dreams and forgotten hope.

“Your tears are like my own,” I whisper,

“Born of fear, mistrust, and envy.”

Their brains allow their necks to turn.

The shutter clicks our flashbulb darkness.

Overweight, Effeminate Boy

Overweight

effeminate boy

Paint your toes and cry

Hide your face

as they walk past

Don’t look them in the eye

I see you standing

by the pool

Only mirror you go near

I watch your knees

snap like boards

Broken from your fear

Your beauty’s simply

buried deep

So far that they can’t see

Those brilliant colors

shining bright

Your far-off galaxy

Overweight

effeminate boy

It’s freeing when you cry

Close your eyes

kill the pain

You’ll soar before you die

I’ll take you by the hand

old friend

I’ll tell you all I know

Overweight

effeminate boy

My fourteen-year-old Joe

The Higher-Hanging Right Testicle

I submitted the following two poems for publication to Kutztown University's 2011 Shoofly literary magazine. "The Higher-Hanging Right Testicle" was eventually selected, published, and finally performed live on April 20, 2011.

The Higher-Hanging Right Testicle

A tad smaller than my counterpart to the left,

I sometimes have a Napoleon Complex:

I have something to prove,

a hefty load to shoot,

and I’ll show you that size really doesn’t matter-

at least not in my particular case.

But it can get so hot in here.

I crave the light and dream of dangling in the wind.

I imagine a place where there’s more to do

than stare at this dick and smell this asshole all day.

But alas, this is my fate:

to stay attached to a man who doesn’t appreciate me,

stuck inside these ostentatious Calvin Klein briefs,

praying no one kicks me.

I’m a little sensitive.

The Immaculate Deception

I sat beneath his stars.

I screamed his glorious name.

All I found were lies

and a sick and twisted game.

I listened very closely

to their words as they would speak.

Now I’ve reached the age of reason.

Now I see it’s you that’s weak.

You’re the one who fragments

when we should just step in close.

You’re like a draining, fucked up drug

in a drip-drip-dripping dose.

I’m sorry that you’re crushed

by the burden of your desire.

Listen close, you’ll hear me laugh

as I’m burning in the fire.

There is no resurrection,

no murmurs in the wind,

no soul inside your body.

There is no man who’s “sinned.”

So spare me all your bullshit,

I’ve heard your lies before.

Leave me to my impure thoughts

and my hell that waits in store.

Debi & the Christmas Pig

The following piece won the 2012 Kutztown University Bennett Harris Humorous Writing Award.

Debi & the Christmas Pig

Pets never fared all that well in the Lawley household. Somewhere along the line, someone (probably one of my sisters, Erin or Debi) decided that the culprit behind all the mysterious pet deaths that plagued our home for years was my mother, Rosemarie; and much to Mom’s chagrin, every visitor that our home received got quite the earful concerning exactly how she had developed her particularly curious penchant. Tinker, the dachshund, was tied to a tree and mistakenly left to roast in the August sun, sans a bowl of water. A kitten (whose name beseeches me, as it was before my time) was “accidentally” let out the front door to a waiting black Lab who proceeded to rip it to shreds in front of a bus stop of terrified little girls (who are probably still in therapy). And who could forget the hermit crabs, who—after a February bathing in the kitchen sink—received a February drying on the back porch rail. In all honesty, the list goes on and on. We love Mom, don’t get me wrong, but if your neighbor’s Golden Retriever is taking regular shits in the front yard, she’s the one to call. So why was it, then, that sister Deb opted for yet another pet as my parents' Christmas gift in 2003? I’ll never know—but the craziness that ensued has become a thing of legend.

Debi sold timeshare at a non-defunct resort in the Poconos, not far from the home where the three of us grew up in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. In that line of work, she tells me, you meet “all kinds of people,” and one of them happened to tell her that pot-bellied pigs make the greatest house pets. “They’re just like lap dogs,” I can still hear her saying over the phone, as she made her way three hours North along Highway 380, toward Piggly Wiggly’s farm where she was picking her “little surprise” up.

“I’m not so sure, Deb,” I said in my most polite, yet firmly doubtful tone. “This whole ‘pig’ thing might not pan out as expected.”

“Trust me. He’s gonna love it,” came her quick reply, clearly referring to my dad, Don, and completely forgetting the fact that this was supposed to be a gift for both of our parents. And in neglecting any thought of our mother, Debi also neglected the fact that Mom grew up inside of a small apartment in New Jersey—where there certainly weren’t any farm animals; and the fact that Mom had refused to set foot on farmland of any kind during her 30+ years in rural Pennsylvania was seemingly neglected too. Oh, and the whole issue of Mom being a pet killer—completely out the window.

I wasn’t along for the three-hour ride back into town with the squealing pig and two children under the age of seven (my niece, Téa—Debi’s daughter—and her cousin, Rah), but it was later reported to Erin and me that circumstances were less than enthralling. At one point, amid the high-pitched screams being emitted by varying species, Rah stared in frustration out the window and whined, “Grandpa’s not gonna like his present.” He too, forgot about Grandma. Résumé

There’s a certain way to give a gift of questionable impact to someone. It has a lot to do with being tactful, and thoughtful, and also requires impeccable timing. Debi had not one of those three things working for her on Christmas Eve when she pulled into the driveway. Inside my parent’s house, Erin and I both knew about the special package that was about to arrive, but suffice it to say my mother was less than prepared when, in an unannounced fashion, Debi hurled open the kitchen door and dropped a yelping, shrieking, seven-pound demon from Hell onto the tiled floor.

The first obstacle that Mr. Piggy was forced to overcome was the kitchen floor itself. Ceramic tiles, apparently, are not optimal material when it comes to gaining traction with a six-week-old set of hooves. I’d say it took about 30 seconds for him to cover a distance of about 40 feet. To my mother, however, I’m sure it felt like 30 minutes. It’s possible that part of the pig’s trouble came from the fact that Mom was belting out some petrifying shrieks of her own.

Once the pig made it over the single step that separates the kitchen from the living room, his pace picked up a good deal. I suppose he was looking for the safest place hide, because the little devil made a bee-line for the Christmas tree. When the coast was clear, Mom made her own bee-line for the tallest piece of furniture she could find, which ended up being the green recliner she spent most evenings seated upon. But for this occasion, she decided to stand, screaming “It’s me or the pig!”

Meanwhile, back at the base of our cut-and-decorated, now shaking-and-shattering evergreen, Dad and Erin were making a feeble attempt at removing the pot-bellied Nightmare-before-Christmas from the house before my mom removed it herself, by whatever means necessary. After a few sloppy moments of grabbing blindly for the pig beneath the tree’s boughs, Dad decided a large box was the best way to go. He quickly retrieved one from the garage and instructed me to stand on the other side of the tree and yell “go pig!” in the loudest and sternest voice I could muster. I did just that—at which point the pig fouled four nearby presents and ran into the corner of the vertically-standing box. Dad closed both of the cardboard doors and rested his foot at the base to extra protection. Silence.

 “Get that thing out of here right now!” Mom barked. “Debi, what were you thinking? You weren’t thinking. If you were thinking, you would’ve thought ‘gee, I shouldn’t bring a live pig to Mom’s house for Christmas dinner,’ wouldn’t you?”

 “It was a present. I heard they make good pets,” Debi sheepishly defended herself against the still-settling chaos. “They’re like lapdogs.”

“I don’t even like dogs, Debi,” Mom snapped back. “Much less a pig that’s supposed to act like a dog. Get it out of here now. Bring it to the S.P.C.A.”

Disappointed and defeated, Debi motioned for me to help her. As we tipped the box onto its long side, it became clear that the pig had urinated while cowering in the dark, and subsequently, on Mom’s floor too. I could feel the cold pee seeping through the deteriorating cardboard with my left hand as we carefully loaded the box into the back of Debi’s Mazda, but, in the spirit of fixing a near-ruined holiday, I ignored it.

When I came back in, my clearly frazzled mother was breaking a Xanax in half and breathing deeply, as if she were at Lamaze class.  Dad was still red and chuckling, Erin just looked at me, wide-eyed but thoroughly amused. We expected that Debi’s trip to the animal shelter would take at least twenty minutes, so Erin and I poured a glass of wine and sat down on the couch to collect ourselves. Imagine our surprise when, less than five minutes later, Debi returned without the pig.

“Where is it, Deb?” Mom asked. “I know you’ve still got it.”

“I don’t,” Debi said in a simple and peaceful voice. “I saw two boys playing down the street, so I stopped and asked them if they wanted a pig. They said ‘yes,’ so I gave it to them,” she smiled. “Now it’s their Christmas pig.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

            About three months later, traffic was shut down for hours on the local highway, Interstate 80. Through the woods behind my parents’ house, you could see the cars and trucks sitting motionless as night moved in. In the morning, Dad went out for the morning paper like he always does. This time, the headline caught his eye.

 “Wreck of Big Rig Caused by Loose Pig.”