HORROR PARTY

The Birthday Party

A homecoming to never to forget — as much as I try

The drive back to my hometown is always a bit of a nightmare, but today it was pleasant enough. Happy memories, instead of the sad, flowed through my head.

I had my sunglasses on, blocking the sun and hiding my hungover eyes. The top was down, and birds were singing, or I assume they were. I was going far too fast to hear them. Farmhouses speed by in a blur of colour, as did the fields of cows and sheep. Corn seemed to stretch into the horizon. The back roads were empty, except for the occasional tractor or jogger, and I could zip by them.

It surprised me that the drive was pleasanter than usual. The last time I had come, the hour trip had taken four hours because of a raging January blizzard. When the winds come off the Great Lakes, they dump their snow hard, fast, and heavy. My parents lived in the middle of what the locals referred to as “the snow belt”. I referred to it as hell freezing over.

When I arrived at their townhouse — they moved from the country into town about a decade ago — the street was filled with cars.

Fuck! They lied. I told them no party, but they didn’t listen. I never wanted to turn fifty, and I didn’t want to turn fifty with their friends and neighbours. Probably some distant relatives, too. I knew I should have stayed in my apartment and drank the week away. Booze. Fuck! There was never any booze. This was going to be hell on a summer afternoon.

Fortunately, there was a parking space for me in the driveway. While I felt the panic rising, and anxiety telling me to run — run far away and fast — I pulled into the spot and parked my car. I easily find my traveller, cleverly hidden under the passenger’s seat. I open it, take a big swig of whiskey. Emptying the bottle. Enjoying the burn, as it makes its way to my stomach. My nerves settled. I religiously put it back in its hiding spot. I know enough to pop a stick of gum in my mouth to cover the smell of the devil’s drink. Presbyterians…

Sigh…

I tossed my jacket into the driver’s seat. It’s never needed, as the heat is always blasting, even in the middle of a heatwave. I guess we all get to look forward to ending our lives feeling the cold deep down in our bones, if we live that long. I grabbed the flowers for my mother out of the backseat — roses, since she loves roses — and my latest novel for dad. He pretends not to enjoy them in front of mom, but always wants the latest.

“Have you been drinking?” are the first words out of mom’s mouth when I walk in the front door. I sigh to myself, but say, “Of course not, mom. How are you? I brought you some flowers.”

“My arthritis is flaring up, and I haven’t pooped in three days. The neighbours are having some sort of get together and have filled the street with their cars. I hate that. Your father’s outside, with the BBQ. Go say hello.” Her stock response. Complain about some non-existent pain, and then tell me to go see my father. It never changes. Strangely, I feel disappointed the cars weren’t for me. That it wouldn’t be a big party.

I take off my shoes, but mom tells me to keep them on, and to just go straight on through the kitchen to the deck. Dutifully, I head out back to the hell I know awaits me.

Dad’s at the BBQ, a humongous propane monstrosity that could cook forty steaks at once, even though there’s just me, mom, and him. Imagine a giant chrome Edsel turned into a BBQ, belching fire and smoke. That would be way cooler than this Walmart special. But it’s big, and there are lots of flames. There probably shouldn’t be the flames, but that’s Dad’s specialty. Burnt steak and underdone baked potatoes, with a side of green fucking beans. We’ll probably have a raspberry pie for dessert, which is the one saving grace of the meal. We’ll have it with vanilla ice cream, not French vanilla because mom thinks that’s “too much vanilla.” How can it be too much vanilla?

I am trapped in the land of beige.

Dad offers me a beer — he's trying out some local craft beers, which is a blessing. I prefer them to the mainstream brewery water, which gets pumped out as beer to the unsuspecting hillbilly.

We drink a couple of beers. We chat. He tells me about the lodge. I tell him about work. Mom interrupts, and talks about the latest Judge Judy. It’s the usual get together.

Nothing evil or menacing, but nothing special. Nothing to set it apart. It’s another meal with family. The steaks overdone, the potatoes underdone, and the raspberry pie is great.

They have a birthday cake — I’m not a fan, but they are, so we have it. More ice cream, and then the presents. Socks, a gift certificate for a middle of the road clothing store, and a card. They try their best, and I try mine as well. We’ve grown apart, after I moved to the city, but we try to keep close.

I help dad clean up — mom’s arthritis is flaring up again. We cleanup, do some chores. He shows me the newest shop gadget that he’s bought, and we bond over manly man's things, even though if I were to build something, I’d probably chop off my fingers on the saw.

Working with my mind has always been easier for me. Maybe that’s part of why small town life never fit. They value physical labour, and not mental.

I survived. Barely, but I survived. It’s not that bad when it’s over. It’s the anticipation that kills me. The anxiety. The stress.

Now to put the top down, crank the tunes, and get the hell out of here. At least I don’t have to go back until Winter solstice, which they continue to call Christmas. I’ll burn some blue sage to drive out the demonic spirits of boredom and heal my traumas.

I hate the small town I grew up in, but my parents are there. They need me, so I’ll keep coming back.

October is my birthday month, and that’s why I wrote this piece, which includes one of my photographs of the main street of the town where I went to high school. Obviously I have mixed feelings about my hometown, but it is where my roots are.

Paul Mansfield is a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all. You can follow him on Twitter @pmansfield.

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