Now, sufficiently aggravated to justify my intention of concocting my favorite ‘comfort food,’ I marched to the kitchen with purpose. I opened up the Frige, anticipating the reverie that would be induced by the rich smooth drink—a mixture of Pepsi, milk and Bosco Chocolate Syrup—my homemade Philadelphia-bred version of a NY Egg Cream soda. Instead, I discovered several bottles of insulin, carelessly placed high on the left side of the door—precariously balanced on top of the Bonne Maman Cherry Preserves—together with Boogie’s needles, wedged next to the can of whipped cream.
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Nick, Grandpa Waverly and I picked up a couple of trays of Ledo Pizza for an early dinner—because my nephew, father-in-law and Darin were planning a 7:00 a.m. Tee-off on Friday. With Hannah in the hospital, I was left out of their plans. Surprisingly, 125-pound Nick—who somehow managed to be 6’ 3” tall, while continuing to feast on his childhood diet of sugar and hotdogs—liked the large Meat Lover’s special. His wife, Cathy—with a perfect smile, nice curves (even after giving birth) and a warm, agreeable personality—was easier to please and a welcome houseguest. To Grandpa, quality meant little and his perpetual attempts at dieting over the last 30 years meant even less. Even though he had paid for the meal—he has always been a generous man with his time and whatever money he had—he waited patiently for his share of the pizza. My mother was treated to a few pieces and a portion of salad by Cathy and Leah, to save her the entanglement and clash of longer arms and hands battling for little prizes of food. Watching the chaos of family members reaching and pulling apart square cuts of hot cheese, I had to quietly warn Boogie to go easy on the medium Hawaiian pizza nearest him, because it was Darin’s favorite, and he had yet to return from some errand.
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After some moderate cajoling, every 30-60 minutes since his luggage was placed in the basement next to the air-mattress, Boogie reluctantly agreed to start the interview after dinner at around 6:30 p.m.
First we tried outside on the picnic table, where it was “too uncomfortable”. Then in the gazebo, where it was “comfortable, but too hot!” Boogie finally settled on the L-shaped sofas in the basement, where the soft cushions, temperature, humidity and air conditioning made the ‘porridge’ just right!
“So just start. Is the headset too tight?”
A shake of his head.
“Can you hear my questions OK out of your uncovered ear?”
Boogie nodded.
“Then, tell me all about yourself.”
“Let’s start with my accident,” began Boogie, with genuine interest.
After suddenly stopping to look down while starting to wring his very large hands together, Boogie visibly froze, then followed with, “You know I was kind of taken back, sorta speak, when you first brought up about recording me. From when I called about visiting. I know I didn’t give you the answer you wanted to hear, but it’s kind of poy-son-nal.”
That was always an expression and a voice he used as his way of letting you know that he was embarrassed, without publicly admitting to it.
“And to tell you the truth—”
≈ Yes, for a change, please do! ≈
“—back around when my accident happened—in the ambulance or when I was waking up in the hospital—they said … or I felt like I had been talking to myself.”
“Well, I’m not sure I follow,” I said, pleased with his selection for a first topic, and not wanting Boogie to go off in a new direction or delay any further. He had already postponed starting for three—, or 4 hours since his arrival and chill-out time, and I anticipated that this would be the regimen during his entire stay.
Knowing that the sooner he began, the more quickly he would become comfortable—and hopefully get ‘carried away,’ as he was prone to do—and give me more than I asked for or could use. So I hastily added, “Let’s just start. Tell me about your accident.”
“OK, let’s start with my accident,” Boogie said agreeably.
Warning to the Reader
Sex! Drugs! & Rock n’ Roll!
Well, maybe not a lot of music. But this is a story about too many drugs, a little sex, and a lot of alcohol-enhanced gambling. It is a guide on how to live your life ostensibly for the singular purpose of making bad decisions and missing golden opportunities. While using the excuse of trying to have fun and live life as it comes, it instead demonstrates ways to fail with regularity and completely blow one’s potential.
It is not too graphic, but it can be revolting, make you angry, or at least cause you to slowly shake your head from side to side, while squeezing your lips together in a disturbed expression. It is definitely not for children or teenagers; especially if they are your own offspring and you don’t want to answer awkward questions about your own past behavior that one is reminded of herein.
Furthermore, although this story is not intentionally meant to resemble real life characters (because people, names, places, businesses and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination), the tall tales and exaggerations may resemble actual persons, living and dead, and depict events and locations as told to the author by Cousin Boogie—That’s Boogie … as in: The Boogeyman (scary guy under the bed or in your closet), Boogie Nights (the movie), Boogie board (water-related), Boogie Woogie (Let’s Dance or a type of music), Let’s Boogie! (Let’s get out of here) or Do you want to Boogie? (—have sex?) Not to be confused with buggy (accompanied by a horse), bogey (golf), or Bogey Blunts (vanilla cigarillo), the original Bogey (Humphrey Bogart), Hogie lures (fishing) or Hoagy (Carmichael). None of which should ever be confused with the Philadelphia or Atlantic City (White House) staple, the Italian hoagie. Not that Cousin Boogie didn’t spend considerable time in Philly, AC or Los Angeles, but his tenancy didn’t compare to the two aforementioned and legendary Hollywood characters.
Boogie drinks too much, and is therefore too loud and often obnoxious; uses too much, and is therefore melancholy or incoherent; smokes too much—the tobacco kind—owes everyone money, thinks nothing of asking to borrow your personal stuff, and is careless with other people’s most precious possessions, but is lovable, charming, funny and good company for telling a yarn or two. In other words, he is a manipulator and everyone around him becomes an enabler. Of course, he has spent considerable time in therapy and usually laughs at the ability and attempts by mental health professionals to counsel him—.
But I must let him tell you, in his own words, if I speak the truth.
The Accident
July 27, 2009
10:00 pm
A 2003 white 4-door Cadillac was traveling north at 60 mph, while the two police cars were engaged in a complicated high speed pursuit of someone else—a young man on a motorcycle—one car passed him on the right and the other black and white started to go through the intersection up ahead—crossing from his left. The Caddy first hit the rear right end of the FHP perpendicularly as the police car was screeching to a halt as part of the planned barricade in the upcoming intersection. Careening diagonally off of the Florida Highway Patrol car, the Caddy twisted slowly in the air, like in an old motion picture, before it hit the nearest fire hydrant and stopped upside down, three feet in front of the four people huddled against the store window. And all the while, the driver was high on two Xanax—just for the hell of it. Out to take a ride and enjoy the Florida night.
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Sound and color