Within Close Range: Tubular Bells

Built on a slope, at the end of a cul du sac, down a short, steep drive, everything about the holiday rental house feels dark, narrow, sunken, and really, really hairy.

The owners of the house on the outskirts of Snowmass, Colorado own several Huskies – or rather, several Huskies own this house as can be gathered by the Husky-related photos, ribbons, paintings and pillows.The neighbors next door also have one of these intrepid snow dogs, who sits on the frozen earth at the end of a chain by their front door, all day and all night. Quietly watching us come and go.

Everything about the rental house feels well-loved and lived-in – if not a little too; an ingenious plan (or a happy accident) to be staying where messes and mishaps can be easily forgiven. Easily hidden. With little worry of expensive damage or extensive injury.

So, determined to enjoy at least some of the family vacation (without the whole damn family), Mom and Dad make plans for dinner out, leaving the five of us with several pizza delivery menus, cash, and a warning to be on our best behavior.

By the time dinner is being noisily digested and discharged in a particularly fierce burping and farting duel between Jim and Mark, we’re already restless, as the explorable world around us shrinks to the cluttered rooms and narrow corridors of someone else’s life.

Someone who doesn’t like T.V.

That’s how Jim discovers the stereo.

Leaving him happily crouched over stacks of albums, Chris, Mia and I decide to get ready for bed before playing cards. Looking for a corner of the shared bedroom where spying eyes can’t see me in my undies, I find a spot between the window and bed where I shiver and squiggle into my nightgown.

A mournful howl just outside the window gives my goose-pimples, goose-pimples.

Peeking around the curtain and rubbing away enough frost on the glass, I see the Husky next door baying in the shadows of the bright moon. Receiving no reply to his woeful song. I linger at the window, hoping to hear an answer to his haunting moonlight serenade, but instead, hear strange noises from within.

Jim is up to something… We all sense it.

But before Chris, Mia and I even have a chance to express our shared concerns, the entire house goes completely dark.

Crap.

The Husky howls again, filling the pitch bllack room with his sorrowful song.

“Don’t be an idiot, Jim,” Chris shouts through the closed and now locked bedroom door into the dark and unknown. “Turn the lights back on!”

No reply.

There’s a tap on the door, but we say nothing.

There’s another tap.

Mark whispers meekly from the other side, “Come on you guys… Let me in…”

Now Mark has been Jim’s loyal minion many times in the past, so opening that door might very well mean an ambush. But Mark is a lousy liar – and an even lousier actor –  and his frightened pleas are a little too real. We feel our way, en masse, to the door, open it only slightly, and grabbing Mark’s skinny arm in the dark, Chris yanks the youngest through.

Rubbing his manhandled limb, he pleads innocence as we pepper him with questions, soon convincing us that he has no idea where Jim is, or what he’s up to.

Before long, we have our answer. From out of the pitch black, the familiar rise and fall of notes on a piano can be heard coming from the living room. The haunting song is “Tubular Bells”, better known as the theme music for, “The Exorcist”; a simple series of horrifically hypnotic notes currently sending shivers up millions of theater-going spines.

Even for those not old enough to see Linda Blair’s head spin, the tales of the movie’s shocking scenes (and cursed actors) have been playground fodder for months and it’s clear that Jim is committed to scaring the shit out of us, spending nearly an hour trying to figure out the house’s electrical panel so he could turn all the lights off, but leave the stereo playing.

Truly committed… or perhaps, should be.

As the terror-inspiring piano solo repeats for the umpteenth time, we feel trapped, defenseless, directionless. The longer we stay holed up behind a locked bedroom door, the longer Jim has to think of more ways to scare us.

It’s decided. We have to head into the dark. Face the music.

Find Jim, or he’ll find us.

Chris quietly unlocks the bedroom door and opens it a crack to see what she can see – which is nothing. She opens it a little wider. Still more black.

Tubular Bells is now flooding the bedroom.

He’s out there, somewhere.

Without ceremony, we shove Mark out the door first. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I watch his small, shirtless frame stall in the center of the hallway, not knowing which way to turn.

“Do you see anything?” Chris whispers.

If Mark replies, none of us hear it over the musical crescendo. He swivels right – as if he’s heard or seen something – and begins to head down the hallway toward the other bedrooms – away from all known exits. We feel obliged to follow, but as soon as the three of us step into the hall and turn toward Mark, a dark, moonlit, figure growls and lunges toward our tiny, hapless human sacrifice from a hallway storage closet half-way down.

All I see before pushing through Chris and Mia in a frenzied retreat is Mark’s body suddenly stiffen and spring a foot off the ground before collapsing into a heap on the hairy carpeting in the center of the dark, narrow hall.

Leaving Mark in the dark to fend for himself, Chris, Mia and I slam and lock the bedroom door.

Moments later, all goes quiet…

… too damn quiet.

We crack open the door to see what’s become of Mark, but he’s nowhere to be seen. His defection to the other side is neither unexpected, nor unwarranted. And very unsettling.

In the still, dark bedroom of the still, dark house, all I can hear is Chris and Mia breathing, and the Husky howling, long and sorrowfully.

Within Close Range: Mutton Stew

I’m in the middle of the pine-paneled restaurant at Boyne Mountain Resort (somewhere at the top of Michigan’s mitt), sitting in a large, carved pine chair – twice as large as it needs to be. 

Looking around the big, round table, there are siblings to the left and siblings to the right, with Mom and Dad straight ahead; and everyone capable of reading the menu, is. Scanning mine for a third time, my eyes keep returning to the word “stew”, which conjures a mouthwatering picture in my head – big, chunks of tender meat in a rich, dark gravy.

“How different could mutton be from beef?” a voice in my head insists – repeatedly – drowning out all inner arguments and already placed orders.

It’s my turn.

“I’ll have the Mutton Stew, please.”

The waitress looks up from her pad, hesitates, and then looks to Mom and Dad.

“Oh, Annie, you won’t like that,” Mom gently suggests. “It has a very strong flavor.”

But I protest.

“Anne Elizabeth.”

“Please, Dad,” I plead, revving the perpetually high-powered motor that drives most eight-year-olds.

Mom urges, once more, to reconsider, but I remain unflappable. The lady is waiting and “The Troops” are hungry and restless. Dad raises his eyebrows, then nods to the waitress.

“All right then, Mutton Stew for the young lady.”

Triumphant, I can already taste the dark, rich gravy. Minutes seem like hours. The baskets of crackers and breadsticks and the pats of butter on small mountains of ice in the center of the big, round, constantly spinning, Lazy Susan are rapidly disappearing.

Beyond the large, glass windows overlooking the resort’s ski hills, the slopes are ablaze and white and dotted with skiers still eager to slip and slide down the gentle, rolling, Midwestern hills. It’s a wonderful sight, but the hungry voice in my head has recently enlisted my stomach, now rumbling, low and loud. Until the waitress returns with her overburdened tray, all I can think about is stew.

Burgers and fries pass by my eyes. Mom has soup and Dad’s given pasta. It takes two hands to carry the large, shallow bowl heading my way. I’m so excited, I can hardly keep still in my seat. My eyes eagerly follow the large, round bowl to the place setting in front of me and I look down to see…

… a sea of grayish-brownish goo; its foul smell already invading my nostrils.

Pungent.

Powerful.

Horrible.

My hunger instantly retreats, but all eyes at the table are on me. Even the waitress is loitering nearby, which means I can’t possibly back down before the first bite and so, with reluctance, I grab the smallest spoon and in it goes.

Releasing more stink from the bowl of brown-gray gloom.

I scoop up a small, dark morsel; highly doubtful about this dubious-scented mouthful.

It’s instant repulsion. Unbridled revulsion. A funky chunk of grisly meat that my tongue and teeth want to reject and my throat wants to eject into the clean, white napkin in my lap. But it’s swallow it, or my pride. 

The mutton punishes me all the way down.

Without a word, Mom and Dad turn their attention to their own plates. All follow.

While I’m left alone to stew.

Within Close Range: Family Vacation in Ten Small Helpings

In the early 1970s, Mom and Dad take us on a Christmas ski holiday to Park City, Utah.

 Airplanes

Seven eager faces.

Shiny new snow suits. 

Plane bound for Utah.

Minor complications.

 Airplane sickness.

Brothers’ twitchiness.

Three hour restlessness.

Homicidal stewardess.

Snow Bound?

Five anxious, young passengers 

press noses against windows 

as we climb the mountain in the rental sedan.

Looking for that wonderful white fluff. 

But all we see is brown and green stuff.

Dad keeps saying, “Just give it time.

The more snow you’ll see, the higher we climb.”

We have little reason to doubt him. 

Bloody Mess

Quietly miserable, swabbing her bruised, stitched and swollen gums, and wanting no part of the fight over first-night bedroom rights, Chris waits for things to settle, then drags a blanket, grabs a pillow, and collapses in tears on the sofa til morning.

Raising myself from a battle lost and the living room floor, I’m at the ready with my couch-envy unpleasantries as soon as I open my eyes. But my intentions are met by Chris’s very pale face pressed against her blood-soaked pillow and all that comes out is “MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

Arriving at the grisly scene, Mom keeps repeating the same strange thing:  “She’s hemorrhaging!” she screams, hopping in place, “She’s hemorrhaging!” But Chris insists she’s doing okay – with trembling words, blood-encrusted lips, and a heartbreaking smile – better everyday.

Insensitive commentary and contorting faces are nudged toward the kitchen, before she has a chance to think differently upon seeing her reflection.

10-point Dismount

“Ka-tonk, ka-tonk” echo the steps of our rigid boots off the neighboring condominiums and mountainside. Though the surrounding snow looks old and icy, the skies are cloudy and promising and our spirits are high. Even Chris (who barely has enough blood to raise color in her cheeks) manages to perk up. 

She and I board the first ski lift together, admiring the birds’ eye view of our alpine surroundings, paying little mind to the conditions below until we reach the top of the run, where we see attendants shoveling meager remnants of old snow onto the chairlift landing. 

Clearly groggy from blood loss, Chris readies herself by putting her hand firmly on my left leg, then pushing off my thigh, shakily slides forward at the designated mark, leaving me involuntarily planted in the seat and quickly heading toward the 180 degree turn that will take me back down the mountain. With lightning reaction, one of the attendants yanks my arm and whisks me off the chair and onto the ramp they’ve been trying to repack with snow. 

“Scraaaaaaaaaap-p-pe,” go my brand-new skis over the exposed gravel, and down I go, into a pile of hard, dirty, grey ice. 

Lifted from the ground by the fellow who launched me there, humiliated and bruised, I grimace and sidestep over to Chris, who smiles weakly, revealing her black and blue gums and blood-stained teeth.

“Sorry.” 

I want to kill her, but her oral surgeon seems to be doing the job for me.

Albeit very… very… slowly. 

Oh Christmas Tree

Snow-barren slopes concede to an afternoon of hot crepes, holiday displays, a Scotch Pine and rekindled spirits. 

But the yuletide log is soon doused by the grunts and frustrated grumblings

of father and eldest son unsuccessfully attempting to level and stand a 10 foot pine without the aid of a saw – or a tree stand. 

Trying bowls and buckets, waste baskets and garbage bins, tempers are fraying.

Shying away from the ill-fated scene, Mark heads to the television. Click – OUR PRICES ARE INSANE!! – Click – and the lord said unto Mos – Click – BLAH – click – RAH – click – click – click –

“LEAVE IT!”, Dad ROARs. (Had there been any snow on the mountain, we’d likely have just been buried by it.)

This startles Jim, who lets go of the tree, which crashes to the ground, mere inches from Dad, who suddenly decides to take a long, walk, where he’ll cool off, giving Mom time to devise a tree-standing plan, leaning but triumphant.

Out of Order

We all stare wildly at the television, newly kaput. 

Jim and Dad fiddle futilely with its back.

Mom turns on the radio hoping to lighten the mood.

But the only thing she can find is static. 

No music.

No television.

No snow. 

No skiing.  

No reason to go on, really. 

If Walls Could Talk

“Eeeek!!,” comes a scream from the downstairs bathroom. 

With absolutely nothing else to occupy the hours, everyone runs to where Mia is standing, wrapped in a towel, dripping with soap. 

“Who’s using the hot water?” she cries out, shampoo stinging her eyes. 

But all who can be blamed stand before her. 

“Mom, are you running the dishwasher?” 

“I would be IF it was working!” she snaps, finally showing signs of strain. 

With the news of no hot water for days, the cursed family lets out a collective sigh – as if the condo sprung a leak.

Which, at this point, seems entirely possible. 

From Here On Out

After three hours in the car, searching unsuccessfully for snowier resorts, the mood has dipped so low it’s nearly impossible to think of what else could go wrong.

It isn’t long before we have the answer.

Pulling up to the condo, the rental car begins to sputter and choke, and then… it dies. 

We remain still and silent in the back seat, exchanging frightened side glances, waiting for the explosion. 

Dad and Mom sit staring straight ahead through the frosty front windshield.

Neither moving. 

Or speaking.

Then, as if a sweet, tropical breeze blew in through the now dormant air vents, they turn to one another… and start laughing.

Loud. 

And hard. 

Causing a chain reaction.

Drop Kick to Victory

At the suggestion of Charades, family members begin frantically looking for ways out – fiddling with the dead TV and staticky radio, pretending to read, or to die, suddenly. 

And even though total indifference finally sits itself down for the game, it isn’t long before everyone – including Dad (who rarely participates in such things) is wise-cracking and happily taking their turn. 

Teammates are syncing like well-oiled, mind-reading machines. Pantomimes are performed with dexterity and artistry. Guesses are made with certainty.

I’m up. My clue: “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” 

I begin by acting out the hand-cranked camera. 

“Movie!”, my partner, Mia, calls out. 

I tip one finger to my nose, then swiftly thrust forward a number of fingers.

“Six words!” she fires in succession.

I tap my nose and squeal with delight. My brain is reeling. 

Catching a glimpse of Dad out of the corner of my eye, his infamous intolerance and abhorrence for the family cats suddenly flashes before me. 

Meeting Mia’s eyes, I drop kick an invisible object, then point to Dad. 

“Cat on a Hot Tin Roof!” she screams, leaping from her seat to join me in a victory jig around the living room. 

Stunned by the veiled clue and breakneck victory, everyone is laughing. 

Everyone but Dad. He just looks confused.  

As One

Snowless.

TV-less.

Auto-less. 

No hot water or dishwasher.

No music or phone.

No one restless for change.

Just contented days together

in a world we,shape and shift 

with our individuality,

our familiarity,

our imaginations.