The Bubs Interview: Question 1 - Finale

Our Nova Scotia Christmas. This is the first picture taken of CP + Poor George.

After the completion of our ill-fated card game, Michael and Timothy retired to their respective sleeping chambers on the second floor. Timothy went to his usual bedroom while Michael was in a large room with two full-size beds, one for him and one meant for me. George and I decided we weren't quite ready for bed yet, so we bade the other boys good-night and sat at the kitchen table a while longer. The rest of the house was just too damn cold.

George re-outfitted himself with the red Santa Claus hat that he wore while chopping wood outside, and moved closer to the stove to warm his hands.

"So you're a clarinetist, are you?" I said, shivering. The air seemed to grow ever more frigid by the second.

"Yep. And too bad I didn't bring one with me on this trip. I don't like to go too long without practicing; makes it easier to lose your lip."

"Yes, it is always tragic to lose one's lip. What kind of music are you working on?" I can never seem to resist a smart comment, especially where none is called for.

"My pianist and I are working up a recital of 19th century romance pieces. Some of it is really hard and requires a lot of fast tonguing."

"Fast tonguing?" Not being a wind player, I didn't know much about these things.

"Yes. Sometimes when you have fast sections you have to flick your tongue back and forth to play the different notes."

Hmm.

"Tongue flicking. Gee, you could really make the girls happy with that." I couldn't resist; it was just too easy.

"Well I can make the boys pretty happy too," George replied with a devilish grin.


Ha! I knew he liked me.


"Well, we'll just have to see about that," I answered, returning his play. Despite what he likes to tell everyone about how aggressive I was during our courtship, I maintain that it was George who started the whole dance.


****************************

After a bit, George announced he was ready to go to bed. I agreed that sounded like a good idea, and we exited the semi-frigid kitchen to retreat to our respective sleeping spaces, George's in the cozy living room next to the stove, and mine in the tundra that was the upstairs. I felt at least half of my face go numb as I made my way into the icy bedroom, and I momentarily feared for the health of my sleeping cousin who hadn't been feeling too well to begin with.

As I was fishing through my suitcase in the dark to feel for some warm sleeping clothes, I thought I was even beginning to lose sensation in my fingers. Enough was enough, I decided, and I marched back downstairs into the living room where George was busy stoking the wood stove's limp fire.

"How convenient for you that you'll be right next to the stove all night while the rest of us are up there freezing our butts off," I remarked.

"Well, would you rather sleep down here and feed the fire all night like I'm planning to do? How else do you think the house is going to get any heat at all?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I would," I replied, sitting down on the tiny bed.

"Well you'll have to fight me for that spot, because I already called it."

"You already called it? That's very charming, George. The fact remains, however, that regardless of whatever school yard dibs game you think we're playing, I am not going back upstairs to sleep. It is too cold. I just moved back east from California and I'm not used to this kind of weather yet."

"Cry me a river." George started changing into his sleeping clothes while I remained on the bed.

I didn't really want to beg, but considering the circumstances I decided it wasn't necessarily beneath me.

"PLEASE don't make me go back upstairs. I will freeze to death. I'm serious. I could die up there, and then you'll have to blame yourself the rest of your days. I can't allow you to do that to yourself."

"I'll take my chances," he responded with not even a hint of sarcasm. "Good night, I'm going to sleep." George crawled right over me and got under the covers.

Silence for a few minutes.

"Get the light, would you?" George asked.

"I will. But I'm not going upstairs. I'm staying here with you."

"Whatever. Just close the damn light already. I'm exhausted."

"Ok." I turned out the light and changed into my sweatsuit. "You're going to have to move over," I said, lifting the covers.

"Move over where? Have you seen the size of this bed?" He laughed.

"I don't care. Anything will be better than sleeping alone in that cold room." I snuggled in next to George, who spontaneously wrapped his arms around my waist.




And that, Gentle Readers, is how it all began. It's also all you need to hear - although, for the record, nothing R-rated occurred until the end of the trip.



Which I won't be writing about.



So, Bubs, did we "meet cute?" I guess it's for you and my other Gentle Readers to decide.

The Bubs Interview: Question 1 Part 5

Poor George + Karen Black = Love

As we concluded the tour of Timothy's Nova Scotia seaside cottage, Michael and I put our bags in two of the upstairs bedrooms and returned downstairs to start unpacking the general provisions we had brought: pounds of fresh coffee beans, gallons of wine and liquor, gourmet cheeses, boxes and boxes of various dry goods and some fresh produce. Timothy, being a self employed artist, did not have unlimited means with which to purchase some of the higher ticket items that would be harder to obtain in the province's outer regions. His eyes bulged at the splendor we laid out before him.

"I will make dinner," Timothy offered as he rummaged through the display, selecting a few boxes of whole grain pasta and some organic crushed tomatoes.

"That sounds great!" I replied. "It's been a while since I've had a chance to cook a nice meal, what with school and all. Anyone object if I take charge of Christmas dinner? I would love to roast a turkey in that stove!" I didn't know the first thing about roasting anything in a wood burning stove, but I was in the mood for an adventure.

"Sounds good to me!" Timothy said.

"Me too!" George chimed in, although in a slight "this I have got to see!" kind of way. I didn't yet understand the full array of George's cooking skills, which is a good thing because, if I had, I might not have been so eager with my offer.

Score three for Tom in the George Camp of Coolness: I had already grabbed a check in a restaurant AND introduced him to America's most hilarious author; and now I was offering to cook a major dinner. Nothing annoys George more than people who claim they are "afraid" to cook for him, so I'm glad I didn't yet know I had reason to be concerned.

************************

Timothy prepared us a casual dinner of salad and pasta which we all enjoyed. After the dishes were done I said "would anyone like to play a game? I raided George's collection and brought a few things. How about Mille Bornes?"

"Mille Bornes? Why did you bring that? We really shouldn't be playing Mille Bornes. It's an awful, hateful game," Michael replied.

I was confused by Michael's characterization, as I had played Mille Bornes as a kid and had never thought anything of it. It's a Parker Brothers rummy-style card game which is set up as a road race. You play in teams, and the first team to finish the race by obtaining 700 km worth of cards wins. You also try to delay your opponents by giving them flat tires and making them run out of gas and that sort of thing.

"Puncturing people's tires and causing accidents is not my idea of a fun time. You can count me out," Michael declared.

"But we need four people or we can't play. Come on Michael, it will be fun!" George implored.

"Yeah, come on Michael. You can be my partner!" I added.

Reluctantly, Michael agreed. But little did I know what I had gotten us all into.

Almost as soon as I laid down my first card, Michael started objecting to whatever "strategy" he perceived me to have. "Oh look, he's throwing away mileage again. I have NO idea what he's doing - he is NOT playing well at all. Would one of you please trade partners?" Reminded me of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo playing bridge.

Things got worse as the game progressed and the accidents and flat tires started happening. George, in his increasingly impish manner, seemed to acquire every flat tire and accident card in the deck, and played them against us until I thought Michael would scream himself hoarse. "VERY FUNNY, George! Do you have to LAUGH at us every time you do that????" I was getting concerned about Michael's serious take on this "game."

Worse yet for Michael were the Coup Fourré cards, which you could play as a trump when someone tried to make you have an accident. As soon as they play the accident card, you yell "Coup Fourré!" while you lay down the card, countering the accident and causing your opponent to lose his turn.

As fate would have it, George got every Coup Fourré in the deck. And he didn't hesitate to throw them down with great aplomb, usually with an obnoxious fake stutter for added dramatic effect: "Oh, look, look what I have! C-C-C-C-C COUP-COUP-COUP-Fourré!" He nearly squealed with delight as the veins popped out of Michael's forehead.

By the third or fourth "C-C-C-Coup Fourré!" from George, Michael started shouting "KNOCK IF OFF, GEORGE! YOU ARE BEING COMPLETELY OBNOXIOUS! It's bad enough that I've got Lucy Ricardo for a partner; I don't need you rubbing my face in my own SHIT!!!"

"Calm down, Michael, it's only a game!" I said.

"Yes, it's a game! An evil, horrible, hateful game! I told you we shouldn't have played this!"

He was being so unreasonable and such a spoil sport that George and I couldn't help but giggle, although we both tried to stifle it. Later on in a calmer moment I approached Michael about his inappropriate competitive attitude with the card game, and in his defense he admitted it was an unreasonable trait he had picked up from his parents as a small child.

I suggested he refrain from engaging in any and all future recreational competitive activities, and he agreed it might be a good idea.

"But I don't need to remind you that you practically forced me into the game, do I?" Michael added.

"Well, I did encourage you to join us, but that was before I realized you weren't my cousin after all. You're like the secret love child of Joan Crawford and Attila the Hun."

"No, he's more like the little spear-guy from Trilogy of Terror!" George chimed in.

I nearly collapsed laughing at his mention of this 1975 Karen Black classic movie-of-the-week. For your enjoyment, here is a ten-second clip of the spear-guy:

Now it was my turn to be impressed. This George character was something else, I decided.

The Bubs Interview: Question 1 Part 4

Site of our rustic Nova Scotia Christmas

Needless to say, when I woke up the next morning I was still crabby about Michael's verbal thrashing the night before. I felt somewhat trapped because I really didn't want to address my problem with Michael in front of George, or worse yet, do anything that would cause Michael to launch a new attack. Having temporarily forgotten how emotionally evolved I am, I bristled when Michael greeted me with a warm smile.

"Good morning," I replied curtly.

"How did you sleep?" Complicated question. The truth was that I didn't sleep well at all because I was so angry. However, since I had already been unable to sleep because of the high emotions, I was simultaneously able to enjoy the sound of George's loud snoring during a large portion of the night. In my temporary emotionally unevolved state, I took the easy way out and blamed my poor night of rest on George.

"I couldn't sleep through all that fucking snorning," I announced, as if randomly acting like a bitch was going to solve anything.

I still feel bad that I said that, especially since it was not George's fault that I couldn't sleep that night. Worse yet, as I found out years later, is the fact that George actually overheard me say it. And not being one to pass up the opportunity for a good guilt trip, he still finds occasions to bring it up to this day.

"Oh, that's terrible," Michael replied. "Why don't you reserve a separate room for the trip back so that you can sleep better," he suggested, genuinely trying to be helpful.

"Whatever," I grumbled as I collected my belongings and headed out to the car.

When Michael and George were ready, we went back to the diner for breakfast. Not surprisingly, it was a fairly quiet meal during which I remained mostly silent. I'm sure George was thinking I was just one of those crabby morning characters, the kind that grunts and barks out orders until an appropriate level of caffeination is reached.

After we were done eating, George retreated to the restroom again while Michael and I went out to the car. As he sat down in the driver's seat, Michael started to make some kind of joke about not knowing how to operate the automatic door-unlock button. I decided enough was enough. I looked him right in the face and spoke my mind.

"I did not appreciate the way you spoke to me last night. You owe me an apology."

"You're right," he replied. "I'm sorry."

"You were out of control."

"Yes, I'm sure I was. And you would know more than most people how to spot that kind of behavior," he added, obviously referring to various members of my somewhat colorful immediate family.

"Yes, I would. And you were."

"Again, I'm sorry." I appreciated that Michael just laid his apology out there without trying to blame his behavior on the fact that he'd been feeling sickly most of the trip.

"Ok." As Michael started up the car I decided things were going to be all right.


*****************************************************

We rode a ferry from St. John to Digby, Nova Scotia, and we sat in the cafeteria drinking coffee and chatting during the most of the three hour crossing. The weather was wonderful outside - only a slight wintery chill through the early December morning sunshine, and the waters were still and calm. Good thing, as I'm known in some circles for my occasional short yet violent bouts of seasickness.

When the ferry had reached its destination, we got into the car for the final leg of our journey: a two hour car ride from Digby to our friend Timothy's house on the southwest coast of the province. We enjoyed the rustic beauty of the drive through the western half of Nova Scotia. "It looks like Wisconsin," I stated repeatedly, without adding that any rustic place with a lot of coniferous trees reminds me of Wisconsin.

"Yeah, well remember, we're not headed into any lap of luxury. Timothy's house is pretty spartan," Michael reminded us.

"Sounds like fun," George and I both replied. After a while we arrived at Timothy's house, a charming fisherman-style cottage right on the water. The white paint was peeling in most places and some of the shrubbery looked like it could use a good pruning, but otherwise the house looked fine.

Greeting us warmly, Timothy ushered us inside with our bags and provisions. The first room we entered was the kitchen, a large open square with the four walls painted various colors and an oblong table alongside a set of frosty windows. In the corner nearest the table sat a cast iron wood burning stove.

"The whole place is heated by wood," Timothy noted. "I've got one stove here and one in the front room. The heat travels upstairs to the bedrooms through these ducts in the ceiling." He pointed to the kitchen ceiling "duct" above the stove, which was really just a large open hole into the room upstairs.

"I hope he doesn't have any toddlers crawling around up there," I thought, summoning every inch of my willpower not to start in with the charred baby jokes, which I figured would never be appropriate before cocktail hour anyway. Timothy directed us into the next room, a small living area furnished with another wood stove, an armchair, a non-functioning old fashioned parlor organ, and a tiny bed in the corner nearest the stove. A large woodpile sat just opposite the bed on the facing wall.

"This stove heats this room and the two front bedrooms," Timothy noted. "That bed used to belong to one of my friend's kids. He outgrew it by the time he turned 10, so I moved it in here as a daybed and an extra sleeping space for when I have a lot of company." I could see what he meant; the bed couldn't have been more than 20 inches wide.

"I'll sleep there!" George announced. "That way I can get up in the night and feed the stove so that the rest of you can stay warm." How magnanimous of him, I thought, especially considering that it would also probably be the warmest spot in the house. We were heading into late afternoon; the sunlight had grown dim, and I sensed a distinct chill in the air as if winter were preparing to beat down on us right through the walls of Timothy's rustic seaside cottage.

It was definitely going to be a cozy Christmas.

The Bubs Interview: Question 1 Part 3

After breakfast we jumped back into the car to resume our long journey to Canada.

Having just completed my first semester of law school, I was eager as a bee to read a few books for sheer pleasure instead of having to slog through a lot of really boring texts. I opened my knapsack in the back seat and examined a few of my choices: Geek Love, a book Mindy gave me which chronicles the lives of a circus freak family (a must read for you, Bubs, if you haven't already); The Shipping News, which takes place in Newfoundland, but which I figured was close enough to Nova Scotia to suit the ambiance; and David Sedaris's anthology Barrel Fever which, because it contains the story of "The Santaland Diaries," is a customary holiday read for me.

"Would you guys like me to read aloud The Santaland Diaries as is my annual holiday tradition?" I asked.

"What is that?" they both replied.

"A story by David Sedaris. You've never heard of it?"

They both replied that they had not. So, I opened up my dog-eared volume of Sedaris's short essays and started in on his highly amusing tale of his experiences working as a Christmas elf at Macy's. I began to read aloud. "Working as an elf in Macy's SantaLand means being at the center of the excitement...."

George and Michael positively howled as I made my way through this hilarious story of Sedaris's elfly trials and tribulations which include everything from dealing with pox covered children, to enduring the abuse of an African-American mother who complained that the black Santa wasn't black enough, to assisting a little girl without a nose.

"Oh my god, that was hysterical!" George exclaimed when I was done. "You read that so well - you must have practiced it for years!"

"No, but I have heard him read it aloud many times on NPR. I can't believe you've done without it at Christmastime for so long," I replied. I think George smiled broadly for the remainder of our vacation.


*******************************

It was a long trip that day as we drove all the way to Saint John, New Brunswick, where we found a roadside motel room to sleep in for the night. We unloaded our essentials and went in search of dinner.

"Do you think they have poutine in New Brunswick?"

"What is poutine?" George asked.

"You've never had a poutine?" I replied incredulously. "You're in for a real treat. It's basically a mound of french fries covered in gravy and then smothered under melted cheese. It's a Canadian specialty, or at least in Quebec. It's fabulous."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Michael said. He wasn't feeling well for most of the trip, which made him more than slightly cantankerous a lot of the time.

"Well, it sounds, um, interesting," George said, trying to be diplomatic.

The menu of the diner where we settled in for dinner sadly did not feature poutine, although they did have some other Canadian delicacy involving fried meat which I tried but was not impressed with. We were all tired anyway.

After dinner George got up to use the restroom, while Michael and I went out to warm up the car. Michael sat down behind the wheel and I went over to the passenger's side. My door was locked.

"Unlock the door please," I said.

"I'm trying to. I think it's stuck," he replied. I couldn't see what he was doing because it was very dark outside.

"Did you press the automatic 'unlock' button? I think it is supposed to unlock all four doors at once."

"YES I PRESSED 'UNLOCK'! WHAT AM I, SOME KIND OF FUCKING MORON? JESUS CHRIST!" He totally lit into me. "GOD DAMNIT, DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW HOW TO UNLOCK A FUCKING CAR DOOR?" He was literally screaming.

I was stunned. I knew Michael could be a crabby pants and that he wasn't feeling well, but this went well beyond the limit of acceptable behavior. Once the door finally opened I got into the back seat and just bit my tongue. I wasn't sure how to respond to his sudden upbraiding, as if there were any appropriate response at all, and besides, I saw George approaching and I didn't want to get into any kind of discussion in front of him.

Instead, I did the only reasonable thing which was to take out my passive-aggressive card and remain as silent as possible for the rest of the evening. When we got back to the motel, I promptly unpacked my sleeping attire, brushed my teeth and got into one of the three beds.

"Are you going to sleep now?" Michael and George both asked me.

"Yes, but you two can stay up and do whatever you want. You won't bother me." I closed my eyes and turned my back to them. I was majorly pissed.

The two of them sat up for a while and chatted. To add insult to injury, Michael just acted as normal as pie, as if he hadn't twenty minutes prior verbally abused me without so much as a whisper of an apology afterward. I felt it was going to be a long, long trip, and I dreaded whatever was to follow.

The Bubs Interview: Question 1 Part 2

After an unreasonable delay, we now continue where we left off a few weeks ago.

*************

After dinner I offered to help with the dishes, but George graciously refused my request. Thank God, because I didn't really want to do them anyway. Instead, Johnny told me to come with him into the sitting room again.

"Here, I give you Lucky Money, one from me and one from my wife. It for good luck." He handed me two small red envelopes, each containing a dollar bill. The Chinese usually hand them out to their friends and family during Chinese New Year, but sometimes at other times of the year too, such as when a new friend visits your house for the first time. I thought it was really sweet.

"I tired now. You go downstairs."

I thanked Johnny and Mama Gin for the hospitality once again, and went down to talk to my cousin, who was packing for our big road trip which was to start early the next morning.


**************************************************

We arose at the crack of dawn and loaded George's car with provisions to take up to Nova Scotia, where we would be spending Christmas with my cousin's friend Timothy, who had a house on the shore. Michael had warned me the house was quite "rustic," and that we needed to bring a lot of stuff, most notably warm clothing. I was really looking forward to it - it all sounded so charming.

When we were all packed, we got into George's large Pontiac Grand Am and set off.

"Wow, a New Yorker who has a car and drives," I noted.

"Well, he just learned to drive a few months ago. This is his first car. We'll have to keep a close eye on him," Michael replied. It turns out that Michael was quite serious about that part. He henpecked and back-seat drove on George the entire trip, to a level of obnoxiousness that would have gotten him bludgeoned to death if he'd tried it on me. Admirably, George had the patience of a saint with him and rarely gave any response at all.

Somewhere in Connecticut we stopped at a roadside diner for a spot of breakfast. When the check arrived, I took it and said "I will buy breakfast. It looks like you guys have already bought a lot of provisions for us." I was referring to the many bags of groceries and dry goods we had loaded into the car earlier that morning.

George smiled. Little did I know about the Asian propensity for check grabbing; often if you dine with a Chinese, they will tackle you to the ground before letting you pick up the check. Which can be quite annoying at times because you know that a lot of it is all a show. They don't really want to pay all the time; they just want to appear as if they do. And if you don't make some sort of effort to fight them back for the check, they get annoyed eventually. Not that we Midwesterners don't have our own little passive-aggressive etiquette games, but still. We tend not to be big check grabbers.

George didn't fight me for the check, yet I had no idea that simply picking up a breakfast tab would make such a good impression on him. Finally, I had done something right, even if I didn't know it yet.

The Bubs Interview: Part One

Chicagoland cop and freak fetishist Bubs has turned the tables on me after my award-winning interview with him last month. As is the custom these latter days, Bubs provided me five interview questions. Today we start with Question Number One.



Bubs: I found several mentions of a character known as "Poor George" throughout the CPW archives, but I'm not sure when, exactly, he appeared in your life. Did you two, as they say in Hollywood, "meet cute"? Or is it just a boring story that you don't want to bother us with?

CP: Although he is certainly a character to speak of, Poor George is not simply a figment of our collective imagination as some of you may expect, but is in fact a real person who lives and breathes. Whether he is a bona fide child of Mama Gin or, as he claims, the long-lost heir to one noble Anastasia Beaverhausen is still a matter in dispute.

I don't know what it means to "meet cute," although I can tell you that PG and I were "properly introduced" by my cousin Michael - which is probably the first "proper" thing that whore has ever done in his life. Our heartwarming tale begins at Christmastime in 1997, shortly after I had moved to the East Coast to attend law school in Washington DC. Michael had invited me to come up to New York to go on a road trip with him and his friend George for the holidays. I graciously accepted.

After my last final exam at Georgetown, I rode up to New York on the train and stayed overnight with a former flame of mine, where we succumbed to temptation and rekindled our extremely stale romance just for that evening. What can I say; the cocktails at dinner were strong.

The next day I hung out in the East Village where my friend lived, did some sightseeing, and in the late afternoon took the subway out to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn where Michael's friend George lived. This was my first time in Brooklyn, and I enjoyed my walk from the subway to his house where I passed various groups of people speaking their thick Brooklynese: "Whaddya tawlkin 'bout?" and that sort of thing. Charming.

I approached the brownstone that George shared with his parents - he in one apartment and the parents in another. I had no idea which apartment was his, so I just picked a doorbell and rang it. A nice looking Chinese-American man opened the door.

"Hi, are you George?"

He looked at me kind of weird and then said "I think so."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know which bell was yours. I hope I didn't disturb your parents."

"It doesn't matter. God, you sure brought enough luggage," he said, referring to the two reasonably sized black bags at my side. "Come on in. I'll take one of these for you. Here, you carry the heavy one." He thrust my rolling suitcase at me and proceeded into the dark entryway.

"We have to go down these stairs. Watch yourself, some of them are a little tricky."

I saw what he was talking about as we started down the narrowest staircase I had ever seen. I almost fell forward three times due to the extreme downward slant of several of his steps.

"Nice place you have here," I said as we entered a long narrow room almost completely devoid of natural light. Probably because he had a 26 inch TV squarely blocking one of the only windows in the room.

"Take your shoes off. I just installed these tiles and I don't need you getting black streaks all over them."

"Ok." Reasonable enough request, although I might have simply suggested removing the shoes rather than throwing about thinly veiled pre-offense accusations. I opened one of my bags and extracted a nicely wrapped box, which only I knew contained delicious Frango Mints from Marshall Fields that my mother had sent me for Christmas.

"Here George, this is for you to thank you for your hospitality." He took the package, briefly glanced at it and tossed it down on top of the radiator.

"Thanks," he replied. "I'm busy making dinner for my father. You can come up to my parents' kitchen if you want." I complied, and followed George back upstairs.

We entered his parents' apartment and went into the kitchen where my cousin was sitting at a small round table with George's father, Johnny. George walked over to a large cooking stove with an enormous wok built right into it and resumed his dinner preparations.

"Georgie cook like me!" his father said proudly. "He don't cook like mother. She terrible. Everything he learn, because of me!" He cackled loudly, and I decided I liked Johnny immediately. He got up from his seat and said "come, you follow me, I show you my house."

He hobbled into a living room just off the apartment's kitchen. "This my wife, Georgie mother. Her name 'How Gin.'" He was referring to a diminutive woman sitting on the end of a crumpled futon sofa. She appeared to stare at a blank TV screen about five feet in front of her.

"Hello, my name is Tom. It's very nice to meet you." Mama Gin looked up slightly confused and limply accepted my outstretched hand.

"Where you mother and father?" she said.

"They're at home, in Chicago. I'm just here on vacation." She made no reply, and resumed staring into the blank screen.

Johnny ushered me back into a carpeted sitting room near the front of the house. "Here, I show you picture. Last year we celebrate, we marry fifty year." He opened a photo album containing pictures of an elaborate banquet with Mama Gin and himself seated at a large round table surrounded by ten other people and mounds of delicious looking food. Mama Gin had on makeup in the picture and looked somewhat normal. Boy was I in for a surprise.

"This restaurant, I know them well. I deliver food to them years ago. They do very good banquet for me." He continued to turn the pages, offering random comments to describe various photos.

"You know, I have cancer. Prostate cancer. But it no get me. I a survivor!" Johnny laughed again, beaming with enthusiasm and energy.

"Well I'm glad to hear that. I'm glad you have George here to help you with that."

"Right. Now, I rest. You go talk Georgie now."

I went back into the kitchen. George had gone back down to his apartment to get something, so I sat down at the table to talk to my cousin.

"Careful, don't spend too much time talking to his parents. They're really weird," Michael said.

"Weird how?"

"Just weird, you'll see. How was your trip?" George returned from downstairs. Michael and I continued talking to catch up, making an effort to include George in the conversation. I told them about finishing up my final exams, riding the train up to New York, writing all my Christmas cards on the train and about the amorous reunion with my old friend the night before. George snorted and remained silent.

When dinner was prepared, George called his parents into the kitchen to eat with us. Johnny appeared in the doorway, unaccompanied by Mama Gin. "Georgie mother no eat now. She eat later. She never like eat with people." He sat down with us.

George placed a small bowl of rice in front of each of us, and then at the center of the table a chicken and vegetable stir fry, a plate of sauteed leafy greens and a large poached ocean bass covered with ginger and scallion. My mouth watered at the mere sight.

George and Johnny carefully instructed Michael and me on the procedure for eating the fish, which consisted of reaching onto the serving plate with your chopsticks and using them to loosen the fleshy white meat before transferring it to your own bowl of rice.

"George, this is absolutely delicious!" I exclaimed, reveling in the strange and wonderful new flavors. "How on earth did you learn to make a fish like this?"

"I tell you, from me!" Johnny replied. "I have to teach him everything. Mother not cook." He giggled again before sucking an entire stalk of juicy greens into his mouth, barely assisted by his chopsticks. "Georgie cooking very good. He learn from me."

We proceeded through the remainder of George's wonderful meal. At one point I dropped one of my chopsticks on the floor, and picked it up to wipe it off. George grabbed both chopsticks from me and threw them into the sink. "You never replace just one chopstick, it's bad luck." He reached over into a drawer and handed me a fresh pair. "Here, and stop eating all the fish. Save some for the rest of us, please."

He was cute, but he sure had a mouth. He also didn't seem to care for me very much.



to be continued...