Gobble Gobble Day
By Sean O’Brien
When they rolled up on that shore first generation born, toast to those who made it on a boat to New York.” — Macklemore.
Uncle Tom lived on 93rd and Lex for as long as I can remember. He and his wife, Jean, had a spectacular two-bedroom corner apartment. It was on the ninth floor with views of central park to the west and Harlem to the north. It was an early 20th century-built building, sturdy. It had that Olde York feeling as large marble columns lined the vestibule, and hand-carved gargoyles adorned the rooftop. It was a gorgeous building. He and Jean were a lovely couple and complimented each other well. They were both high-powered professionals — Tom with Pan Am and Jean with AT&T. They both loved to travel and spent most of their lives in transit. You know when you look up at the planes in the sky as you drive to your shitty 9–5 and wonder, ‘who’s on that plane, and where are they going?’ Well, it was Tom and Jean flying first class to Beijing, or Sri Lanka, or some exotic place we’ll never see.
Tom and Jean never had any kids; I guess they didn’t have time for them. They were responsible and good stewards of their destinies. They enjoyed the finer, worldly things that life offered. That’s not to say they were driven by a rapacious demon that sat upon their rooftop and would sneak into their bedroom as they slept at night. They both were God-fearing folk. In fact, the only differences that I ever saw between them were their religious affiliation and ethnicity. Our side of the family, the O’Brien’s and the Seery’s, were Irish Catholic. Jean’s side was German Protestant. If you’re Irish Catholic, marrying a German Protestant is far better than marrying an English Protestant. Try that shit in Hell’s Kitchen, Woodside, or Woodlawn, and you’ll end up with your throat cut and dumped in the Hudson River or hanged from a telephone pole with your shillelagh swinging in the wind. There are some things you just don’t do. Seriously, the IRA in those neighborhoods means something entirely different from an Individual Retirement Account. It’s definitely a retirement account, just a more permanent one.
Traditionally, our family, at least the kids, would kick off the holiday season by running from the cops on Halloween. Eggs, toilet paper, shaving cream, razor blades, smashing pumpkins, the whole nine. If you’re Irish, you have an ingrained affinity for Halloween. It’s in our blood. Some would say it’s our most celebrated holiday. Others contend that the holiday season kicks off at Thanksgiving. To each their own.
Our family would spend Thanksgiving at Tom and Jean’s, and then they’d come to our place for Christmas. Then we’d go our separate ways cursing each other and spending New Year’s Eve in some dive bar mumbling Irish blessings, fighting, and slurring words like some deranged misanthrope. Then we’d reconcile around Valentine’s Day, as we’d have to rejoin forces for St. Paddy’s Day. It was a dysfunctional but linear life.
After attending the 10am Christmas Mass at our home church, Sacred Heart, Allison, my little sister, turned to ma and asked why aunt Jean never joined us for Christmas mass. It was a fair question. I could see how she saw it as strange. Uncle Tom would come, aunt Looper would come, but aunt Jean wouldn’t. She wanted to know why. She was curious. She was a kid, and kids asked questions.
“Doesn’t aunt Jean love Jesus, ma?”
Ma stopped and grinned, appreciating Allison’s curiosity and naiveness. She bent down to eye level and began. “No, sweetie, she does. She adores Jesus. It’s just that we’re Catholic, and aunt Jean’s a Protestant.”
“So what,” Allison fired back, “prostitutes need God too, ma, probably more than we do. I think we should invite her to join us for mass next Christmas. Ya know, if she’s not out hooking.”
In our family, Thanksgiving was always a very structured holiday. I would say it operated like clockwork, but that would be inaccurate. A proper assessment would be to say it worked like a clockwork orange. It was torture.
Our day of giving thanks began at noon. All four of us would schlep over to McLean Avenue on the southeast side of Yonkers to pick up our step-grandmother, Peg. Jill, my older sister, Allison, and I would all pile into ma’s 1984 livid grey Chevy Cavalier. Allison would either read or stare out the window, and ma would chain smoke Merit 100 cigarettes. At the same time, Jill and I would argue the entire ride over about which one of us would go upstairs to Peg’s creepy apartment and help her down to the car.
I’d end up losing that argument every time due to gender assignments and false accusations of being the stronger sibling. Clearly, I was not. I had a decade worth of black eyes, broken noses, and bloodied lips from Jill to prove it. But in the end, it’s not about what you know or even what you can prove; it’s about who you know. And Jill and ma were in cahoots. So, I went up.
It wasn’t that Peg was a mean or a nasty or even a smelly grandmother; she wasn’t. She was just our step-grandmother. What does that even mean? To a kid, it means ditch the bitch. I would be 40 years old before she started sending me more than five bucks for my birthday. It was an extra weight we didn’t need. However, the real issue, for me at least, was her stoic demeanor. She wasn’t at all demonstrative. That bothered me, so did her ashen livid grey complexion. She looked like the living dead. And not the Walking Dead cool kind, the scary and awful kind. What made all of this a shocking reality was the elevator ride down she and I would share. Her elevator was an old-school one: tiny, dimly lit, and slow. It wasn’t uncommon for the elevator to get stuck in between floors either. That was always fun. I would have to suffer the entire ride down with Peg standing much too close to me. Meanwhile, she would say nothing and stare blankly ahead, not even blinking. If I had been a decent step-grandson, I would have checked to see if she was breathing, but I wasn’t, so I didn’t. I’d just stare at the floor and fiddle with my fingers, desperately waiting for the elevator door to open where she’d either fall out dead or slothfully amble forward.
Sadly, I think the most vibrant I’ve ever seen Peg look was while she was lying in her coffin at her wake. The mortician we hired, Will Raymer, had done a hell of a job. Coupled with the whiskey flask I had been nipping from and the joint Jill, Allison, and I had smoked in the car earlier, I thought she looked enchanting that day.
What a shitty life. That poor woman, she spent 80 plus years of her life looking like she was dead and two days dead, looking full of life.
The car ride over to Tom’s was pretty routine. Although Thanksgiving is touted as the most traveled day of the year, there was usually little to no traffic. Except on the Cross Bronx Expressway, of course. If you’re a native New Yorker, you know the Cross Bronx is to be avoided at all times and at all costs. It’s the bane of a New Yorker’s existence. World War III could hit, 99.9% of the world’s population wiped out, countries and continents destroyed and forlorn, and the Cross Bronx would be untouched. It would be bumper to bumper, guaranmotherfuckingteed. Abuela’s would be running from car-to-car hustling bouquets of flowers, Viejo’s selling fruit, and kids no older than Allison selling water. So, taking the Saw Mill River Parkway to the Cross Bronx was not an option.
Ma would take the New York State Thruway to Tom’s. She’d take this route instead of the Bronx River Parkway, which for years, I thought a mistake. However, due to its proximity and ease to the Third Avenue bridge, in retrospect, it did make more sense.
Taking the thruway offered two ways to approach the bridge: the apparent sign and nowadays GPS-directed practice, or the locals’ side street way. For years I chalked ma taking the locals way to her just showing off. However, decades later, I realized how practical it was.
The Third Avenue bridge connects the Bronx to Manhattan, over the east river. Once you cross over to the Manhattan side of the bridge, you’re thrown into a loop of sorts and dropped onto the FDR Drive. Then you pass the infamous ‘Crack is Wack’ graffiti mural in East Harlem, on your right. A hop, skip, and a jump later was the 96th street exit, which we’d take, and from there, it was simply a few blocks down and over to Tom’s apartment.
“Ma, there’s a spot!” I’d yell.
She’d raise her cigarette-stained fingers, waving off the absurdity of my statement.
“Meh, a closer spot will open up. It always does.” She’d brag as her narrowed eyes would scan the streets.
It’s New York fucking City; spots don’t open up often. But what could I do but sit back and cross my arms, defeated and belittled?
As we’d circle Tom’s block one time, two times, and a couple of more times, ma would resign herself to settling on the spot I previously pointed out, exclaiming, “Aha! Would ya look at that, everyone? I told you a closer spot would open up.”
She’d then settle into a smug smirk and parallel park perfectly. She loved that move. I felt like I was taking crazy pills.
After being greeted by the snobby doorman, all six of us (doorman included) would stuff ourselves into another tiny elevator. The goal was not to touch or breathe on each other. The elevator would slowly ascend and come to an uneven stop on the ninth floor, where the doorman would first open the safety gate, then the door, and tell us to watch our step. We’d all file out and turn right. Tom would already be standing in front of the door of his apartment with a huge smile. I loved his smile. I loved that hallway and the smells coming from the apartments. I loved the whole vibe of NYC apartment living.
“Happy Thanksgiving, everyone,” he’d say as he welcomed us.
Tom was a tall, well-toned, and good-looking guy. The exact archetype you’d expect to be living on the upper east side of Manhattan, working for Pan-Am. Although Tom could be demanding at times, he was a good guy. I liked him. He wasn’t snobby or elitist. He respected his humble Bronx beginnings.
Peeking at us directly from behind Tom’s broad shoulders, bouncing around like she was on a trampoline, was Jean, already half in the bag but not yet quite slurring. She’d be yelling gobble gobble, slurp slurp!, in what I reckon was supposed to be a turkey’s voice, every so often interrupted by an alcohol-induced burp.
Although Thanksgiving isn’t a religious holiday, most Americans that celebrate it tend to center it around God, family, and, well, giving thanks. It’s in the name, for crying out loud. However, in our family, Thanksgiving centered around the armoire, the oversized hutch, and the seldom-seen solid oak table leaf. One might think we ancient Irish Druids the way everyone worshipped that leaf.
The Thanksgiving celebration would begin with a required collective fawning and accolade allocation of the hutch and the armoire. The leaf, the crown victor of the day, came into play last.
Tom’s and Jean’s fine china, which was actually from China, was housed safely behind the protective doors of the armoire. The cheaper china, from Chinatown, was used as decorative plates and displayed on the hutch. The following two hours of our celebration were an exercise in pacing, redirection, and torture, as we spent them retrieving holiday items from either the hutch or the armoire.
“Sean, hon, please grab the napkin holders. They’re in the middle drawer of the hutch.” Jean would shout from the kitchen.
Fuck me.
“Allison, on the second shelf in the armoire is our Thanksgiving tablecloth. Please bring it to your mother so she can start setting the table,” she’d instruct.
“Jill, in between the World War II ships on the hutch is our gravy boat. Please bring it over to the dining room table. I beg you to be extra careful. That gravy boat is the only surviving heirloom Tom and your mother have from grandpa Jim’s trip from Ireland to New York. If that gravy boat could talk,” she’d giggle to herself and then down another gin martini.
This continued until the entire Thanksgiving scene was set: placemats, fine china, seat cushions, flatware, silverware, corn on the cob holders, napkin holders, the gravy boat, doilies, cocktail glasses, champagne glasses, wine glasses, candlestick holders, and candles. All coming to a disappointing climax when the English poppers were drunkenly placed a little off-center on each of our dinner plates.
How I despised those things. Not solely because of their names, which was reason enough for any Irishman, but for their purpose, or lack thereof. It was asinine. English poppers were these little toy-like things, no bigger than a piece of bazooka chewing gum, with a skinny string sticking out of each end. When you pulled the strings, which we had to do in unison, they’d pop and turn into little ornamental paper hats. Like we were little pilgrims. And I got it, they were celebrating the Mayflower and shit, but what ordinary people would do would be briefly place the hats on their heads, make a toast, and be done with it. We, however, were forced to wear the hats for the duration of our holiday dinner despite them constantly falling off our heads. We looked like idiots. I hated it.
This all dwarfed in comparison, however, to what really tied us, our lunacy, and the holiday together; the table leaf.
“Hm, let’s see, how many are we this year?” Jean would rhetorically muse. She’d contort her face into a thinking women’s pose, looking all fucked up, then continue, “Ten, there’s ten of us,” like she arrived at a final derivative in Calculus. Then she’d grab her drink and walk from the kitchen to the dining room, assessing the situation she just resolved, which hadn’t changed since Allison had been born a decade ago, and say in her inebriated Wisconsin accent, “Well, the table only fits six adults, looks like we’ll need the leaf. Tom,” she’d scream as if she was being raped, “we’re going to need the leaf. Would you and Sean run down to the basement and grab it, please? K, thanks.”
Retrieving the table leaf was more labor-intensive than the job of a logger. As it was, the leaf was only used once a year and stored in the storage closet in the basement of the building. Tom and I would take the service elevator down to the basement, where we’d carefully remove each box and crate from the closet. The leaf, wrapped in a heavy cotton cloth for protection, was located in the back of the closet, buried deeper than the Ark of the Covenant, and probably equally as heavy. Once secured, we’d haul it onto the service elevator and take it upstairs.
Once upstairs, we’d clear the table we just spent two hours setting, install the leaf, which everyone had to witness, reset the table, sit down and say grace. I was a teen and full of energy, but I needed a nap after this experience. It was exhausting and unnecessary. An exercise in inefficiency and ineffectiveness. They loved it, though.
We’d proceed with a toast then begin stuffing our ungrateful faces like cannibals while doing our best to keep the English popper hats balanced on our heads. There’d be a lot of drunken smacking of the lips, clinking of glasses, ‘pass this, pass that’ talk, and always the mention of a particular dish that was ‘scrumptious.’ Once done, after the once pretty and perfectly set table looked like Beirut, we’d clear the table, uninstall the table leaf and complete the entire days’ set-up process in reverse. It was an awful lot of work for 30 minutes of eating and extra table space. I would have been content eating my dinner alone in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet using the porcelain toilet tank lid as my personal lap table leaf, and flushing my ridiculous English popper hat down the crapper. Decades were lost to this insufferable tradition, but we were Irish Catholic, and we don’t mess with tradition.
We’d finish dinner around 3:30pm. Jean would proceed to pour herself another drink and serve the rest of us coffee and dessert. To her credit, Jean was a tremendous cook and baker. She knew her way around the kitchen. Allison, Jill, and I would devour the desserts. Peg might indulge in an Irish coffee, and ma would pass on everything. She wasn’t a big eater and seldom drank alcohol. Tom could hold his liquor. He drank moderately and like a gentleman. Jean, however, she’d always end up plastered beyond belief by the end of the day, or more accurately, 4pm.
Tom would help us collect our coats, say his goodbyes, and then head into the dining room to finish cleaning up, leaving Jean to escort us to the door. She’d be swaying as she stumbled forward, barefoot and braless, with at least one massive tear in her stockings. Her make-up would be smeared everywhere, and her hair like she’d just gotten off of a roller coaster, all the while slurring her words and screaming “yum-yum, gobble-gobble.”
Sometimes she’d cry.
We would all head for the elevator, and once in, we’d stand in silence. That was protocol. However, Allison broke that silence that Thanksgiving as she turned to ma and said, “maybe we shouldn’t invite aunt Jean to Christmas mass after all.”
“Why not, sweetie,” ma asked.
“Why not?” Allison shot back, seething. “Geez, I mean, we can’t have a drunk prostitute running around church, barefoot and braless, balancing a toy hat on her head with her make-up smeared everywhere like some sort of a clown, yelling, yum-yum, and gobble-gobble and making slurping noises. It’s inappropriate.”
Ma grimaced and turned her face away.
The doorman closed the door and began to judge us.
Peg stared effortlessly into the invisible.
I thought about when I might get laid.
Jill brushed her hair.
Allison struggled to reconcile the present.
We returned to silence.
Status quo.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Gives?
