The Holiday Lummox

So, my fat jovial imposition rolled in an hour late and I asked if he'd like something to eat. "No." he said. "I grabbed a bite on the turnpike, but I need a shower." He sure did. He smelled like a wet dog. His breath irritated my nose as if a lit cigarette had been shoved in one nostril. Ed showered for what seemed like one day. He used five towels, all the shampoo, all the deodorant soap, all the toothpaste, shaving cream, toilet paper, Tylenol, Listerine, Bactine, Visine. . . . He ruined my electric razor, he said, "Sorry dude . . . thought it was a wet razor." After the raucous in the bathroom was complete he said, "Ya know, . . . I think I will have a little something to eat." We adjourned to the kitchen. He sat down and to my bewilderment, he annihilated any and every victual brought into his focus, his big jaw masticating excitedly. He started with a stale bag of Fritos, worked his way through some week old chicken lo mein and into a can of chick peas. He devoured three bananas consecutively, a couple Pop-tarts and an old box of animal crackers. He ate a bowl of corn flakes and swallowed two tin canisters full of instant coffee. "Your mugs," he said, "Wouldn't serve a flea a proper bath." When the spoon clanged to the side of an empty jar of peanut butter his mouth came to rest. But I made the mistake of commenting on his eating habits. In spite, he tore open a bag of dry powdered soup and vehemently threw its contents into his furnace of a mouth. This was followed by a gush of spring water from the plastic gallon jug, a juggling of his dough-like head and finally a swallow that appeared so painful . . . like he was gulping down a few dozen thumb tacks. The yellow, gritty, salted seasoning lay unmixed in between his teeth. He smiled and said, "Ya got any apple butter?" It seems everyone has at least one of these oafs to contend with each holiday season. But when they show themselves at your front door don't fret, . . . deceive. There's no other way. For instance, phone the glutton before the holidays, ask him what his plans are. If he mentions his intention of visiting you, make definite plans with him, at least you'll know when to take cover. Then on the date of his expected arrival take your "Welcome" mat in the house, pull the shades down and park your car around the corner. When Mr. Lummox comes knocking, drop to your belly behind the sofa and in time he'll get discouraged and leave quietly. Later, if he confronts you, tell him your decrepit neighbor slipped and bounced down the steps breaking her hip. In the excitement of rushing her to the hospital you forgot his visit entirely. For those clods that decide to sit on your steps and wait, don't hesitate, call the police. Give the police your neighbor's name and address. If you need it later, stick to the " . . . old bird down the stairs" story. If Mr. Lummox succeeds in dissuading the police with his tired chatter, call a close friend to come by and act like he's picking up your mail. Have your friend explain that you were called "out of town, to console a friend that had been mugged." Never use business, weddings or funerals as an excuse. They can be too easily verified. Finally, if all else fails invite him into your home. As he makes his way into your kitchen with his back towards you, crack him in the head with a rawhide mallet. His rotund, imposing body might be to much for you to lift so keep a wheelbarrow handy. Dump him on the couch, pull his pants down to his knees and empty a beer on his chest. The next morning when he wakes up, grab your head and say things like, "Why did you do it?" and "Oh dude, Susie will never speak to you again." Mr. Lummox will certainly want to know what happened, but just shake your head alot and tell him he'd better " . . . get lost, just to be safe." The ache in his head and the wreak of beer will convince him to turn tail and leave you and your town alone for awhile. Gregg Ventello is a master's student in Liberal Arts from Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Odi Et Amo has appeared alternate Mondays.

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