Shaken, Not Stirred

There are a few minutes of conversation that I can’t account for, I am so distracted by the nastiness. A man I see once a year, who I only pay the slightest attention to because he’s married to my mother, who I barely tolerate for the average 2 day visit each year, who if not for the distraction of other family members and empathetic friends, I would have to avoid altogether in an attempt to preserve my eroding sanity, gets my undivided attention for 5 minutes and has to insult me?

He’s lucky, really. Lucky that I don’t care enough about him to fight back. Lucky I am more concerned with Scott than with myself to let the insult register more than skin deep. Lucky I will not make a scene and ruin everyone’s holiday over something stupid said by someone so inconsequential. Lucky he lives too far away for me to conveniently burn his house down. Lucky he’s a pathetic old drunk who would be an unworthy opponent in an argument. Because really, he’s stepped into the Master’s territory. You want to spar with insults? You better make sure you are beyond reproach, friend. I’ll clean your clock so fast it will make your head swim. Not that it isn’t already pickling in cocktails already.

Eventually I regain awareness and he and Scott have moved onto a relatively benign topic. Boats. That is a good thing. Nothing political. Nothing to have a strong opinion about. Something Scott knows more about than Bill, no argument. I take the opportunity to excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I have had to pee since the first Bicycle Thief.

And I am not sure where or why I meandered from there but Scott caught up with me shortly. Out of breath.

“Oh my God, what a windbag! I kept trying to send you telepathic messages to come rescue me. 911. Mayday Mayday. Help! SOS!”

I hand him a drink. A beer this time. The Bicycle Thief has left tire tracks on his brain, he thinks. Or maybe that was brain damage from conversation with Bill. Anything is possible. I try to convince him that it is not the cocktail making him sleepy. It is the boredom brought on by being left alone with my stepfather, and I am eternally sorry.

Mom sits down. She’s in a story-telling mood, and she wants to regale us with how she recently got fired. No, not from employment. She was dismissed as a patient from (yet another) physician practice. And not unlike the car dealership where she is persona non grata, and Bill’s cardiologist who will not allow her on the premises, she was asked not to return due to her surly behavior and argumentative conduct.

Wouldn’t submit to a breast exam.
Wouldn’t disrobe from the waist up.
Wouldn’t go for blood work.
Argued endlessly with the doctor about his procedures.
In short, made such a nuisance of herself that the practice would rather forgo her co-pays and Medicare reimbursement in favor of relative tranquility in the office.

We’ve heard this all before. Mom is not about to comply with what everyone else is doing just because they’ve figured out the best way to do it. Nope. Got a mind of her own.

And while she goes on and on getting ever the more loud and ever the more indignant as she retells the story and quotes her finest zingers, I look over and discover, to my relief and to my amusement, that Bill has passed out in the armchair in the corner, mouth open and snoring ever so slightly.

A reprieve. I am finding myself breathing a little more deeply at the thought that he is out of circulation for the evening.