4/21/02

MARTINSBURG IS HELL

For the record, I love my dad immensely, as he does me, but we're a volatile combination at the best of times, as will become clear in such future essays as "The Day Bill And His Dad Scalded One Another Purple With Boiling Motor Oil" and "It Started As Fishing- It Ended As War", if this one doesn't make it clear already. Raleigh William Bitner Jr. + Raleigh William Bitner III = (enter symbol for chaos). These days, besides being pissy as hell, my dad's also gone deaf as a post, so not only do I get to argue with him all day, but we get to have each argument twice (No. I SAID NO, GODDAMMIT. Who's driving this fucking car? I SAID, WHO'S DRIVING THIS FUCKING CAR?). I took him up to the ancestral Bitner estate this weekend to get some stuff out of it before my cousins sold it. I've recorded a few of our conversations for posterity.

Friday

D: I hear they're having a drouth in Martinsburg. 
B: A what? 
D: A drouth. 
B: What does that mean? 
D: It means they're having a drouth. 
B: What the hell is a drouth? 
D: It means they're out of water. 
B: That's drought. Drought. Rhymes with trout. 
D: Smart ass.

B: Can I have my pack of peanuts now? 
D: They're all gone. 
B: You ate both packs? 
D: You said you didn't want any. 
B: That was when you offered me some of yours. See, I didn't want any of YOURS, because I had a pack of my own. You're really telling me you ate both packs of peanuts? 
D: You said you didn't want any. 
B: Jesus H. Christ. Well, can I have my Diet Coke . . . what?

D: Where's my sugar medicine? 
B: You talking to me? 
D: Yes. 
B: I'm sure I don't know. 
D: You brought the stuff in from the car. 
B: I brought your bag in. Was it in your bag? 
D: It's supposed to be, but it's not. 
B: Well, I didn't do anything with it. 
D: Where's my sugar medicine? 
B: Stop asking me that. I told you I didn't know. 
D: I need it. 
B: You need more than sugar medicine. 
D: Where's it at? 
B: I DON'T KNOW. You probably left it in Charleston. 
D: I wouldn't be that stupid. 
B: Oh, yes, you would. (He left it in Charleston) 
D: Here's my Metamucil. 
B: Good. 
D: Where's my tablespoon?

B: Do you have the room key? 
D: Yes. 
B: Are you sure? 
D: Yes. 
B: Show it to me. 
D: I'm not going to show it to you, dammit. I told you I've got it, come on. 
Later 
B: So, open the door already. 
D: I don't have the key. 
(This happened twice).

D: How's your crab cake? 
B: Fine. 
D: Mine's not fried enough. 
B: What? 
D: It's not fried enough. 
B: You mean it's not done? 
D: It's done. It's not fried enough. 
B: What on earth are you trying to say? 
D: I SAID IT'S NOT FRIED ENOUGH. 
B: Jesus Christ, quit yelling at me, I'm not the one who's fucking deaf. 
D: It's not fried enough. 
B: Okay, okay . . . 
Waitress: Is there a problem? 
D: My crab cake's not fried enough. She looks at me. 
B: Don't look at me. I have no idea what he's talking about. 
W: Sir, do you mean it's not done? 
D: I MEAN IT'S NOT FRIED ENOUGH! 
Every eye in the place is now on us. 
B: Man, that's it, I am out of here. I swear to God, I'm never eating another meal with you for as long as I live. You're fucking crazy. 
D: My crab cake's not fried enough. Why is that so hard to understand? 
B: Just drop it. I SAID, JUST DROP IT.

If he's a wild man during the day, at night he's a symphony. He snores like a goddamn caveman, and belches and farts like some four-stomached ruminant that should be left tied out in a field at night. He farted so loudly Friday night that twice he woke himself up. The first time, he goes, "Who's there?" Who's there?! You make a noise out of your asshole sounds like someone ripping a phone book in half, and you say "Who's there?"? The second time he sits bolt upright in bed, and even though my back was to him, I could feel his beady eyes on me. Sure enough, he reaches across the space between our beds and pokes me.

D: Hey. 
B: You did not just poke me in the back. 
D: What do you want? 
B: I want you to leave me the hell alone. It's 3 in the fucking morning. 
D: You woke me up. 
B: I never. 
D: You did too. You said . . . something. 
B: Yeah, right. I said (30 seconds of farting noises). 
D: You trying to say I've been farting in my sleep? 
B: Use your nose, Einstein. Big sniff 
D: It's that damn crab cake. 
B: SHUT UP!

Saturday

D: Woman that big shouldn't be having pancakes. 
B: You're having pancakes. 
D: Smart ass.

Cousin Joyce: Uncle Junie (short for Junior, it's a family thing), how've you been? 
B: He's been fucking crazy. 
D: Shut up, smart ass. 
Later 
Cousin Kathy Jo: Uncle Junie, how have you been? 
D: Shut up, smart ass. CKJ: I'm sorry . . . 
D: Not you. Him. 
CKJ: But . . . Billy (they all still call me Billy, another family thing) didn't say anything. 
B: Ignore him, he's fucking crazy. 
D: Didn't I tell you to shut up? 
CKJ: You two worry me.

D: I hear you all are having a drouth around here. 
CJ: A what?

My cousin Kathy Jo is 9 years older than me, and was always just a damn beauty, strawberry blond, green eyes, she's still a fine looking woman. Along about the time I hit junior high I started having these very uncousinly thoughts about her. Also about that time, the picture of her in her majorette outfit (wow) disappeared off my grandmother's mantle during one of our visits. It mysteriously returned a few years later, coincidentally, also during one of our visits. Nothing much was said about it at the time . . .

D: You like your cousin Kathy Jo, don't you. 
B: I like all my cousins, Dad, it's you I can't stand. 
D: Yeah, but you like her special, don't you? 
B: What are you trying to say? 
D: You took that damn picture of her, didn't you? 
B: Dad, that was 30 years ago. 
D: So you admit it. 
B: That's not what I said at all. 
D: She's your cousin, for Christ sake. 
B: When did you hear me say I took the picture? 
D: Son, that's sick.
B: That's hot mustard, you know. 
D: I know. 
B: I'm serious, that mustard's really hot. 
D: I'm fine. 
B: Whatever, it's your . . . HEY. You just spit that damn egg roll all over me. 
D: Water . . . 
B: It's right there in front of you. 
D: Can't see . . . eyes tearing up . . . 
B: Hold on . . . oh, for Christ's sake. 
D: Water . . . 
B: I can't, you just knocked it in my fucking lap. 
D: Water . . . 
B: Stop . . . God damn . . . you're knocking everything off the table, STOP IT! 
D: Water . . . 
B: Holy . . . stop for a minute . . . I mean it this time, if I live to be a fucking hundred . . . Ma'am, could we please have some water here, I'm sorry about- don't do that, that's a candle, DON'T- oh, for the love of God . . . 
Waitress: Is he all right? 
B: No ma'am, he's really not. 
D: Water . . .

D: So, what did you do while I was visiting Donald? Take a nap? 
B: No, I went up to Hagerstown and wrestled a match. 
D: You are so full of shit.

Sunday

D: Joycie's coming at 8 to get us for breakfast. 
B: Get you for breakfast. I'm going for a massage. 
D: You'd rather have a massage than have breakfast? 
B: I'd rather get my eyes poked out than eat another meal with you.

D: You ever heard of Duff Fields, WV? 
B: Is that one word, or two? 
D: Yeah.

D: Do you want to stop in Cumberland for lunch? 
B: We're not stopping for lunch. I SAID, WE'RE NOT STOPPING FOR LUNCH. I wouldn't eat lunch with you today if it was steak served on a naked woman. 
D: You would if she was Kathy Jo. 
B: And you have the nerve to call me sick.

D: Can you run me back up to Martinsburg this summer for the reunion? 
B: Sure.