My younger brother Chris came from Portland to Spokane for a visit during the holiday. He was talking on the phone with my dad, who had managed to get home time to spend Christmas with my sisters a few hundred miles away. I only caught half of the conversation. First, Chris was listening a lot. My dad always has so much to say. Chris has said before that it takes a certain verbal athleticism to successfully interrupt and comment during a conversation with our father. To Dad’s credit, once this maneuver has been successfully accomplished, he listens with great interest to the things his conversational partner has to say.
So Chris was silently listening for a long spell before he finally said, “OK Dad, do you want to hear my van fantasy?” Up to this point I assumed they were talking about holiday schedules and arranging a time to meet. How dull. Van fantasies: here is something to discuss!
Chris said, “I’d like to get an old, beat-up Ford Econoline van—the kind with no windows in the back, like a delivery van.” From where I stood in the kitchen, washing dishes and countertops, I already wondered if the van would be parked on a dirty street or in an abandoned lot strewn with trash. “Inside,” Chris said, “the van would have hardwood floors, wainscoting, and a copper ceiling. There would possibly be a tiny little roll-top desk in there. See, from the outside it would look like a heap of junk, like it didn’t even run. Hey, maybe it wouldn’t run. But inside it would be like a finely-appointed professor’s den.”
Dad must have replied with some enthusiasm, because on my end I heard Chris say, “Yeah, yeah.”
From here they expanded the scenario to include the signs panhandlers often make—the ones that state variations of some half-truth, always beginning with, “Why lie…I want _____.”
“Why lie, I want caviar and a martini,” Chris said.
Dad threw out another idea, to which Chris responded, “which really means they want a hooker and some heroin.”
Finally Chris ended the van fantasy discussion with the comment, “Why lie? I want some meth and meth.”
He finally hung up, not having arranged a meeting time with dad, as dad was much too tired to discuss schedules. He had used up all his energy on van fantasies. So, Chris picked up his old guitar and continued strumming, trying to work out his old arrangement for the Hall & Oates song my mom played constantly when we were teenagers. Sadly, he couldn’t quite remember it. If only he’d had some quiet studio or study. A place where he could focus. If only he’d had a tiny roll-top desk.
Here is Chris in my living room on Christmas day. Two days later he traveled to my sister's house and met up with Dad for the first time in many months. I was on the phone with Dad when he said, "Hold on, your baby brother Christopher just walked in the door. Wait a minute. He’s wearing...Levis. (pause) Completely normal pants. (He consults with Chris) Yes, they’re 501’s. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear regular clothes before. But he is wearing a tee shirt in what appears to be a size 1. It’s almost a tummy shirt (Chris lifts the snug tee to reveal his navel.) Ah, there we go. Yeah. And he’s got these pretty gay clog things on (see above photo)."
Here's a link to a cozy moment with my sweet and mysterious little brother, Chris Dugan:
No comments:
Post a Comment