Decision time! Brought to you by several decades of American cliches that Al is trying to escape.
Al rang everyone he knew. His brother, Sam Jr., was the first.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“I thought all they did over there was drink beer and eat shrimps.”
“That was 20 years ago. Now it’s wine and shrimps.”
Some not overly distant gunfire came over the line. Sam Jr. cursed authoritatively.
“I’ve really missed that,” said Al, with an audible smirk.
“Yeah, I can imagine. What sort of tree hugging wimp are you anyway, not wanting to be massacred by the neighborhood maniacs?”
“I tried to join one of those cute Hate Everyone And Kill Them groups, but I have a chin, and our parents had different names when they married. Also I don’t own a banjo.”
“Just a totally inadequate specimen all round. You didn’t even try not to have a chin. I saw you, deliberately not doing it…….”.
A sudden loud ring came from outside Sam’s house, followed by an interested silence.
“I think they just shot my doorbell.”
“You hedonist, you.”
“Yeah, I planned it pretty well. Anyway, if that’s what you want, do it. Mom said ring, by the way.”
“Good idea. Wanna buy a doorbell?”
His mother seemed more amused than worried. She extracted his doings for the last few weeks like a small, friendly, but insistent, dentist. She pumped him mercilessly on the subject of Dorothy, and was quite prepared to bait him.
“What’s this poor girl done to deserve you, anyway? Even murder only gets the death penalty.”
“Have you ever wondered why I’ve never asked you to write me any references?”
“You said she was a vet. That may explain it. Humane instincts. Never really had any of those myself……probably mistook you for a lost puppy.”
He told her the story of Dorothy and the models. After a few discreet shrieks his mother said sternly,
“There are strict entry requirements for this family, you know. No bores allowed. I think she should fit in quite nicely. We made an exception for you, of course, because we needed someone to throw rocks at.”
Everybody seemed to take it for granted that they were going to marry….
“What about me emigrating?”
“It’ll improve property values and public hygiene, nationally. I don’t know what effect it’ll have over there. Now, what about inviting your delightful, youthful, unreasonably fashionable, effervescent mother over to Australia for an all expenses paid holiday? Also a good bit of noseying around in your private life and some excruciating reminiscences about your early youth.”
“What about Dad?”
A laugh heard off indicated that Sam Snr. was listening to him on speaker now. His father’s voice rolled in,
“I come with the luggage.”
“If he’d just put a handle on his head travel would be so much simpler.”
Al tried not to laugh and failed utterly. One thing Al had noticed about his parents since Sam Snr. had retired was that he’d never seen two people so happy to be together. His mother had dropped about 20 years and his father about 30. It occurred to him in passing that if he managed a marriage like that he was doing well.
“I’ll have to commission an environmental impact study. They’re a bit fussy about introduced pests over here.”
“You got in.”
“True. OK, let’s do it, I’ll have to do all the paperwork, and get some times and things.”
Sam Snr. scuttled over to the phone.
“Al, you do know that all we want is for you to be happy. Don’t make this a tougher decision for yourself than it has to be. Anyway, we may need to emigrate ourselves, what with your mother’s paper route under federal investigation…….”
“Still? They weren’t satisfied with getting Capone?”
“Elliott Ness was always a bit shy.”
Al then raved happily for about an hour to his parents about the business, getting a surprising number of grunts of approval from his father. That mattered, because Sam Snr. was a real expert. Eventually he rang off, smiling, and then rang David. David already knew what he thought.
“You’re mad if you don’t, Al. It might seem a bit half baked, maybe too sudden, and from the sound of it you and Dorothy have some way to go yet, but if it helps I was thinking of emigrating myself, and bringing Hannah and Rachel. That’s even with a partnership coming up. I like the place. The only reason I’m here instead of there is the White business. If I’d thought I could do it, I would have. If you just stick to your plans, you’ll get where you want to go…….. how about inviting us ……?”
The conversation with Sam Snr. was almost duplicated, except David kept cracking up. Hannah came on the line at one point to explain that her husband was incapable of speech, for which she would like to thank him……which got the two of them cackling happily for a few minutes as Al listened intrigued.
David and Hannah’s place was always one continuous series of laughs. He’d never visited once without finding himself in stitches. Rachel’s humor was getting as good and black as her parents’ too. Last time he’d seen her she’d been quoting Thurber to her father. David, a New Yorker to the heavily gnawed toenails, said he was hoping for a new Morticia Addams. Hannah had replied that was her job, and perhaps he should lurch off somewhere and fester more.
So it was that Rachel picked up the phone.
“Hi, Al. I thought it must be you. Have you seen my parents?”
Shrieks indicated that the girl had hit her targets. He heard the speaker come on.
“Hi Rachel. Whaddya want with those two riff raffs, anyway?”
“Us riffs have nothing to do with them raffs,” squawked David, evidently under attack.
“I thought they might be negotiable,” said Rachel.
“Nah. Depends who you know, anyway. They are collectors items, though. You’ll have to advertise……..”
“NO! Anything but that!” yelled Hannah.
“What’s an advertise?” asked David.
“It’s something people use to sell things by putting their products around people’s necks,” explained Al. “A lot of good nooses got started that way. Anyway, Rachel, vintage Domestic Manhattan Maniacs are usually good for door stops, coffee holders, household ornaments…..”
“Also Bagel-exterminators,” added Hannah.
“And Waffle vigilantes,” said David.
“What’s a fair price?” asked Rachel. “They are a bit shop soiled.”
“About a dollar fifty, plus sales tax. More if they’re still under warranty.”
“I have the receipt for the gift certificate. What does Factory Seconds mean?”
“It means the outworker still lives. Two fifty. Just polish them up a bit. Are they from a catalog?”
“Wouldn’t think so.”
“Ah……, wing it. Discontinued stock……….”
He did eventually ring off. He decided to emigrate when Rachel asked when he was going to invite them over. Purely subliminal, he told himself.