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Sun - November 23, 2003


Talking Turkey With Reluctant Relations 



Ah, Thanksgiving! The fragrance of turkey roasting in an oven, the happy chatter of guests mingling around a table, the bonding of family, and growing of girth—but hey, who am I kidding? My family doesn't do holidays like Courier & Ives; we're the living embodiment of the Sopranos. 

Negotiating with my brother, Benjamin, to attend a family gathering is like coaxing Osama Bin Laden to dine with the Pope—lengthy, painful, and likely to prove fruitless. "He listens to you," my mother says, ignoring 35 years of contrary precedent. "And it would mean a lot to your father." "Will you talk to Ben?" my father pleads. "Seeing him at Thanksgiving means everything to your mother." So I request an audience with Osama "Ben Laden" himself, as he reclines in his apartment twiddling a thick cigar and a red lighter inscribed with a picture of Chairman Mao in either hand.

He looks like a progressive Jewish version of the Godfather.

"I know why you've come, Dear Brother," he says, as he sweeps empty pizza cartons from a chair and motions me into it. "I feel for you, really I do. But what can be done? As eldest son, you must plead the cause of family; as a younger son, I must thwart your every turn. It's the way things are and nothing can change that ... unless, of course, you're willing to make Thanksgiving worth my while?"

Rings of white smoke briefly frame his bearded face. The lighter flicks on, then off. On—. Off—.

"What do you want?"

"It's not what I want that's the issue," he says. "It's what you want: An afternoon of my valuable time. The only question is how I will be compensated for that time. I figure that my being there is worth—what? A few hours of complaints about how I never show up? That must get tiresome year after year."

"You could show up for love of family," I say. "You could show up because it's the right thing to do ..."

"I could do many things if I had the power," he says, "but as I said before, I too am a victim of circumstance. That iPod in your pocket amuses me. Perhaps we could make a trade?"

"I'm not giving you the iPod—"

"You see how you leap to conclusions before I've even finished? You must learn patience, Dear Brother. Patience is a virtue I have in abundance. I was going to propose a loan. Say, four weeks? One for each hour of interminable turkey banter?"

"I thought you excelled at patience," I say. "Four hours isn't very patient. Perhaps you could borrow the iPod for two weeks?"

"It's three weeks or nothing, Dear Brother. It would be such a shame for you to fail in your quest. I want you to succeed in this. Really, I do."

We settle on three weeks, toasting the deal with a shot of unfiltered sake.

"You see?" my mother says when I tell her Ben is coming. "He always listens to you."

 

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