Damien Galeone

“I’ve got a funny story,” my mom says. It’s my brother’s birthday and we are celebrating with carrot cake. It’s my two sisters, my brother and Mom and Dad. With my mom’s promise of a humorous anecdote, we cast glances around the table at one another.

There is cake in front of my dad, so he is essentially furniture. My brother decides to do it.

He lays down his fork. “OK, Mom, go ahead.” My sisters and I brace ourselves.

This time she tells a tale about some kids who got killed and dismembered in front of their parents on Christmas Eve. I think the murderer was Santa Claus. Not a mall Santa, but the actual Santa Claus.

What happens anytime my mom says the words “funny story” varies in content but not morbidity. We have heard ‘funny’ stories involving babies and Rottweilers, children and wheat threshers and families and armed lunatics.

This is disturbing considering the fact that my mom is a jovial, happy woman. She is always smiling and optimistic.

I blame her choice of programming.

The shows my mom watches on a typical day are as follows – Crime Scene Investigation, CSI Miami, CSI Vegas, Law and Order, Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, Law and Order: Criminal Intent, and a new show called Your Family is Going to Die. Which I don’t much care for.

In contrast to these somewhat dark shows, the rest of the family enjoys sports or sitcoms. As a result, our funny stories rarely involve bloody murders and car accidents which kill whole families.

In the interests of experimentation – lost remote – I watch an episode of Law and Order.

The episode is about a female con artist who lures rich, lonely middle-aged men into a fake relationship. After she gets the guy to fall in love her, her partner – a big, intimidating man – threatens to kill him, beats him up and then steals all his money. This leaves him sexually frustrated, lonelier than before and, presumably, depressed at now being poor. The twists at the end are that the con artists are twins and they are also, of course, lovers. The middle-aged man goes insane and kills the brother.

The episode ends at five o’clock in the afternoon.

I arrive at The Horne four minutes later and start jotting in my notebook, awaiting the sweet forgetfulness that alcohol provides. Someone taps me on the shoulder.

“What are you writing about?” She is pretty in a ‘I don’t often bathe’ sort of way.

“Nothing,” I say, still amazed by the magical conversational powers that writing in a notebook has in The Horne.

We discuss living in Europe, teaching and Langhorne. Her husband arrives and we chat about writing and the novel and, since this is Langhorne, squirrel traps and an in-depth discussion on termites (with visuals). After an hour or so of benign conversation, I realize something terrible.

These people are going to kill me.

They think I am a rich, lonely middle-aged man, which is only two-thirds true. I deduce that the woman is the bait, which I’ve taken, then her friendly ‘husband’ (incestuous twin) comes in and now they’re going to trick me into the parking lot, brain me and take my money. I’ve got it all figured out.

The fact that I don’t have any money works as insult to the injury of being killed by an incestuous twin team.

What happens next is debatable. Depending on who you are, me or them, I either become somewhat guarded or insanely paranoid.

Husband says, “So, are you excited about your book?”

I reply, “I would be, but I can assure you there is no money involved. I have no money at all. I won’t make any money from this book at all. And if I did, it would go straight to my brother, whose address I can provide.”

Wife says, “Wow, a book is quite an accomplishment!”

I reply, “I agree and I like that it’s void of financial rewards. I had no money before the book, I have no money now and I will have no money after the book. Anyone who would want money from me is just out of luck.” I stress. “Out. Of. Luck.”

I start laughing, because I’m hilarious.

They exchange a look. I begin to notice similarities in their facial structure and hair patterns. I go to the bathroom to regroup.

When I return, the couple has moved to the Megatouch machine at the end of the bar and I sit back down with my notebook. I am proud of myself for having thwarted the advances of this devilishly clever con duo. The bartender arrives and I order another beer.

“It’s on them,” he says and points down to the couple.

“Oh,” I smile and wave.

“What did you talk about?” the bartender asks. “They wanted to pick up your tab.”

I leave the bar in that mist of slight intoxication and euphoria, when you aren’t sure if you should be proud or shameful. This will become clear later.

When I get home, my mom is watching TV – Law and Order: Family Slaughter Unit.

I say, “Mom, I’ve got a story for you.”

“Is it a funny story,” she asks.

“Well, that really depends on who tells it.”

Insanely paranoid or somewhat guarded?