Like the A-Team, I am often framed for a crime that I did not commit. My family, playing the part of the government, takes a perverse pleasure in conjuring various stories that reflect poorly on me and repeating them ad nauseum until truth is sufficiently battered into submission for the story to enter the family mythos.
It is with this aim that my sister Tina has prodded me incessantly to post an entry telling the story of how she lost her last pair of contact lenses.
A story that will now be told. In the spirit of fairness, I have offered Tina (and other family members) the opportunity to help me create a homage to Kurosawa's Rashomon by telling her version of the story, which she may do in the near future. I welcome the imaginative energy that fuels all her stories and encourage you to read her version of the tale, in spite of the fact that its function will likely be one of a fanciful appendix.
***
A few weeks ago, Tina and I spent the night at my Mom's place. My Mom beckoned us over with the promise of an extravagant meal, including salad topped with French mustard dressing, BBQ-glazed chicken, rosemary mashed potatoes, and Godvia chocolate ice cream for desert.
When we arrived, the reception was slightly different than expected. She handed us a frozen pizza and a pair of sweat pants so we could help her scrape off old wall paper.
I have learned the necessity of pausing at certain moments when telling people stories about my family. In the past I would blather on, almost in a stream of conscious, and my friend would interrupt: "Wait, your mother and two sisters contacted Ricky Lake and tried to convince her to do a show titled, "Dear Brother, We Have a Secret To Tell You: You're Adopted!"?
"Well, yeah" I would say, innocent at the time of how normal families work. "Is that unusual?"
So I pause after my Mom's minor bit of chicanery for your benefit, not mine. While you are catching your brief, I will mediate on the possibility of an alternate universe where moms feed you when they say they will feed you.
After working up an appetite completely satiated by ¼ of a vegetarian pizza with a single, withered green paper slice on it, I prepared for an early bed time. For some reason, I was weak and dizzy and could not stand on my own feet for much longer. I emptied the old solution from my contact lens case, refilled the case, and put my contacts in it and went to bed.
The next morning, I awake to hear a banshee-like shriek from downstairs. I sat alert and erect in my bed. Were we being attacked? Was one of my family members injured?"
"WHY DID HE DO IT?" yelled Tina. "WHY?"
My Mom: "I'm sure he didn't do it intentionally."
"HOW COULD HE HAVE NOT SEEN THEM?"
"I…I don't know."
"BUT WHY? WHY IS HE ALWAYS A BOZO?"
I gathered they were talking about me. The dresser vibrated as Tina ran up the stairs and rapped on my door.
"Did you dump out my last pair of contact lenses last night?"
Did I? We use the identical contact lens case, and I suppose in reaching for the closest case to me in my weary state it was possible.
"Dear, sweet Tina, I do admit the possibility of empting out your contact lens in my weakened condition. It was an accident, I assure you. Please accept my humble apology and allow me to pay for the cost of replacing them."
I said these words more out of self-preservation than good will. Tina has the capacity to hold a grudge, and assuaging her with supplication was my only hope to avoid either being punched in the arm or given the silent treatment for the next week.
There was a long pause. Finally, she said: "It's okay. I'm not mad." And went back downstairs for breakfast.
Puzzlement. That's it? Fear. Did I leave any valuables downstairs? More puzzlement. No being berated? Hope. Have we entered a new, more mature stage in our relationship?
I found out the answer at lunch.
"Where is the salt?" Tina said, patting the table like a woman recently struck blind. "Can anyone SEE the salt?"
"It's right there, Tina. Next to the packet of Hamburger Helper seasoning."
I held hope that her vision would clear up after lunch when my Mom sent Tina and I to Home Depot to pick up some caulk for the bathroom upstairs. We wandered among the mountainous aisles.
TINA: "Do you see the paint supplies aisle?"
ME: "Not yet."
TINA: "Well, keep looking. Because I can't SEE."
Fair enough. I would be mad if she had dumped out my last pair of contacts. We exited the store and were about to go home when a blind woman walked by us, tapping the ground with a cane. Tina ran up to the woman and grasped her arm. "My sister" she said, her voice quavering, "I know your pain."
I'd like to say this was the first time my family has used the blind to advance their own ambitions. I really would.
By the time we arrived home (I drove, of course), Tina had left Stage One: Groundwork, and had moved into Stage Two:
"Mom, let's call Michele." [my sister]
"But we just talked to her."
"I know. But we haven't talked to her since yesterday, if you know what I mean."
Oh, my Mom knew what she meant. Tina called Michele and told her a story that resembles the original story in the same way that road kill resemblances the original animal. And both of them told their friends, and my Mom told her friends, and the three of them, aware of the potential far-flung reach of the Internet, badgered me to recount the story on my web page for the past few weeks until I finally caved in.
And that's the real story, free of hyperbole and melodrama. Judge ye what you will. I welcome Tina or anyone else in my family to share their telling of the events, although I must warn them that the people who read my web page are exceeding intelligent and not prone to falling for--how should I say--a certain style of flim-flammery that has worked somewhat in the past.
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