Musing: Lolita, Mexicans, and Won ton Soup

I sit here, poolside, writing this little number, quite enjoying the warm lounge chair I've recently usurped from my little cuss of a cousin. My cussin, if you will. Anyhow, I've finished my first ambitious summer read, that being "Lolita" by Vlad Nabokov. I've already finished the Poe, but that doesn't count, he's more of a soporific bedtime story for me. The book was entertaining, although after reading certain passages I felt the need to wash my hands. Pedophilia can be a rather uncomfortable read, you know. After awhile, you begin to feel like you're the one messing with a child's genitalia. HH admittedly was a pervert, however at times I did laugh at his quite witty and dark social commentary. Moreover, I was pleased to find that there wasn't much sexual symbolism and metaphor in his work (given the time period, I figured the Freudian voodoo would run rampant, but to my delight I found that Nabokov despised Freud and psychoanalytic psychology almost as much as I do, but perhaps I just have penis envy)...so when Humbert fondled Lolita, that's really all he did. Nice.

Anyway, I apologize for the banal review of a stellar piece, but I wanted to seem productive and ambitious before I venture into the bigoted existence of my grandfather. In secret, I fear it being assumed that I am also a bigot by association. I know that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but I hope that the apple that grew on the tree from the seeds of aforesaid apple falls further. Although, I would be lying if I said that his politically incorrect comments weren't the least bit funny.

Before I continue, I need to inform you of a few things. First of all, I'm vacationing in Nags Head, North Carolina with my family. For a week. My grandfather lives in Raleigh, which is approximately a three hour drive from the beach house. Considering that this past Sunday was Father's Day, my mother thought it best to visit him for the day. Oy. However, given the fact that the man did pay for my car and college tuition, I assumed it would be rather ungrateful and inconsiderate for me to not pay him a visit on this special Day of (grand)Dads. So, we stopped at a nearby inexpensive clothing shop, bought him one of those rather hideous hawaiian t-shirts and a father's day card that was almost as abundant in triteness as it was in metallic and italic lettering.

You see, he's a rather senile man now, his only interests being the Weather Channel and Rush Limbaugh (even though he is a democrat, but only because they did not free the slaves. He still regularly donates money to the GOP and refuses to call Obama his president. I kid you not.) So, unless I want to discuss cumulonimbus cloud formations or conservative media, I dare not open my trap. However, do not merely cast me aside as being ageist. I love my sweet and petite grandmother, Nezzie, to pieces and could spend hours doing crossword puzzles with her and watching TLC's "A Wedding Story." My grandfather, however, is a rather cold man who, for his cancer-ridden son's past birthday, sent him nothing. Funny then, that he was able to completely remodel his home and buy a new candy apple red Cadillac. But that is neither here nor there (I suppose).

So, my mother, the genial woman that she is, decides that we must embark on our journey early in the morning (for me, it was more akin to the Trail of Tears) and engage in "mother-daughter quality time." And, you know, that was nice. We listened to ABBA and discussed big corporations' dominion over the small farm community. We also discussed our favorite Johnny Depp haircuts. Mixing the deep with the vapid is something we do quite well.

And then, we arrived. And there he was, the 6'4" crotchety old man, standing in the middle of the driveway. For description's sake (he is a funny sight), I'll give you a little insight into his appearance. He is thin, and has knees that refuse to lock, so from the side he looks quite similar to a paranthese. His skin is the color of an uncooked turkey and has little to no elasticity. I would never know this otherwise, but he refuses to wear anything other than bermuda shorts. His unmatched socks are pulled up to his knees, only to be partially covered by his vanilla orthopedic shoes. His bald forehead (though, quick aside: a vain man, he decided to get hair plugs once and they were fastened in incorrectly, so the top of his head had an infection and began pussing and bleeding, and he had them removed. Now all that is left are the stubby remnants of vanity gone awry) is covered with a red baseball cap with a conservative group to which he belongs embroidered on the top. The lenses of his thirty year old glasses are about four inches thick, but they are endearing in a geeky and pathetic way. One might call his outfit "cute," actually.

Breathing deeply and dry-swallowing several aspirin, I got out of the car.

"W-we-well, Hi theyuh, Miss....uh...li-little lay-dee." The word salad had grown immensely.

"Hi, Grandpa Bill! How are you?" I winced, but stuck my arms out for a familial embrace. And, to my chagrin, he didn't almost collapse my ribcage in the process.

"I'm doin, doin' well, shoog. And Miss Pam (my mother), how are you?"

To spare you the length, I'll cut out certain dialogue. He quickly invited us inside, but told us that they were remodeling the house and everything was very unkempt. Unbeknownst to us, he has moved back into his home--he was once in an assisted living facility, but decided to return home because their soup was bland and there weren't many women he liked. My dad (who arrived a day earlier, my parents are divorced) sauntered out to the yard and pulled me aside, telling me that while he unpacked several of his bags, he found dozens of pistols, shotguns, and rifles, some dating back to the World War I. In his bag. That he had with him at the Old Folks Home. When we checked him into the place some years ago, we found several oddities in his bag including Magnum (get it?) condoms, KY jelly, a package of unopened "love briefs," and a cologne that was allegedly an aphrodisiac. We also found one shotgun, and swiftly took it home....Dad was shocked when he found all of the other firearms. A firearm is just as dangerous with an old person as it is a blind man, or even a little boy with ADHD. Or really, it's just dangerous period. But that's another story.

We enter, and as promised, the house was a mess. Susan, or as my grandfather calls her, Lil' Susie, hastily (or as hasty as her corpulent legs will permit) greets us with a faux smile, pink lipstick on her front teeth. She is younger than my father, and my grandfather is almost ninety. He has a lot of money, and somehow I doubt they share a mutual interest in cumulonimbus clouds. Fishy, yes. Do not cast me aside as overtly cruel, but I do not trust her at all for obvious reasons. "Oh, dear," she crooned, "if it isn't y'all arriving right now! Look how old you are! Pam, I love your shoes!"

We proceed to engage in the typical introductions and "how nice to see you's," and then commence the tour of the "new and improved" home. We first go into my dad's childhood room, now painted eggshell. Susan explained that she had some trepidation (ha!) about taking down his airplane wallpaper and tossing out his old things, but told the contractor to Go Ahead With It!, assuming that my dad wouldn't mind. Sweet woman. And then, we give Grandpa Bill the gifts. He loves the Hawaiian shirt (Sue remarks how much she loves bamboo) and pretends to read the card (I know he didn't read it for he left his glasses in the kitchen), and says thank you. And then, my dad, slightly resentful toward his oh-so doting father gives him a pair of Crocs. Happy Father's Day, Dad. Sue, obnoxious with her digital camera, captures this Kodak moment of male bonding and suggests that Bill put on the Crocs! With the shirt! Because they will look so nice together, boo-boo. That is her term of endearment for Bill.

And, seeing that it is 4:30, it is approximately time for dinner. Bill has a penchant for won ton soup, says Suze, and that if it was alright with us (how accommodating), we should go to a Japanese Steakhouse for dinner. I wanted to correct her ignorance immediately, and inform her that Japanese people don't do "won tons," that's Chinese, but I figured I would let her learn on her own.

On the way, we go under a recently constructed pedway. As we pass it, Bill so graciously says, "those damned democrats spent five million dollars of our tax payin' money on that damned bridge, and I never see nobody usin' it." My dad rolls down the window and points to a man riding his bicycle across. "What," he sneers, "that looks like some damned indian riding a bike with a feather in his hat. And close that damned winduh, I hate air." Playing along, my dad suggests the "indian" is a communist. My grandfather agrees.

We arrive at the Steakhouse, and don't have to walk very far at all. I must say, handicapped permits are quite incredible. Sit down, and begin perusing the menu. Bill doesn't need a menu though, he's having the won ton soup. While looking at the description of the vegetarian hibachi dish, I smile to myself. Our waitress comes to take our orders, and she gets to Bill. Susan speaks for him. "And he'll have the WON TON SOUP." She says this loudly and slowly, for obviously a foreigner can't comprehend English very well.

The waitress shakes her head. With eloquence, she says "we don't have won tons here, sir. This is a Japanese restaurant."

Bill has her repeat this several times. My pink cheeks begin to metastasize and soon my entire face is red in embarrassment (although I was still somewhat tickled). "Well I'll be damned," he finally mutters. "Then, uh...then uh...hell, just give me some white rice."

After the waitress leaves, Susan shakes her head in disbelief, feigning sympathy for her dear old boo-boo. "I'm sorry, Bill," she simpers, "who would have thought that a Japanese place wouldn't have won tons?"

To that, I wanted to sharply say that arrogantly assuming that since two groups of people are homogeneous in appearance that their food must be identical as well was not only insulting, but also ignorant. Alas, I held my venomous tongue.

Dinner was served, and my grilled and soy sauced veggies were delicious. Conversation was great--Dad and I discussed epistemology as well as Tyra Banks. Again, the juxtaposition is thrilling. Occasionally, Bill would butt in and gripe about the blandness of his white rice (imagine that!), but it's fairly easy to tune him out.

The drive back to the home was a bit different, though. Bill begins discussing the remodeling project. Susan has to stop to clean the front windshield. And then, in true Bill fashion, he begins discussing and denouncing minorities. This time, it's the Mexicans, or as he likes to call them...the Mexis. "Those damned Mexis," he scowls, "they can't speak any English, and they take so god damn long to do anything at the house. I reckon they stole from me, too...damned illegals."

Susan gives her clever quip, "yeah, I know, boo-boo. I can't understand how they have licenses either. They are terrible drivers in their trucks, and they all pile in together, it's a wonder to me."

I chime in, just to see how far I can take this. "Yeah, they probably just steal those, too."

"Damn straight," says Bill, "and them and their damned old crotchrockets (that's what he calls a motorcycle) they park in my yard. Damned tacky Mexi's. I-I say."

"Yeah, Bill," she laughs, "those are some awful vee-hick-ulls. Nothin' like yours."

"You got that damn right," this time, he throws his liver spotted hands into the air, "I drive a damned Cadillac, and they got their crotchrockets."

At this point, the racism and ignorance has lost its horrid sting and has become delightfully absurd and hilarious. I cannot contain my laughter any longer. I cackle and shriek, and then Bill and Susan join in, she so tenderly shaking her round head in reverence, "those damned Mexi's."

Wait, did we just bond?

The evening wound down to long winded conversations about Amelia Earhart and her drunken mechanic (Bill was quick to say that she was not a fine aviator, but an aviaTRESS, and not even that fine in the least, she crashed. Although he conveniently omitted the fact that as a pilot himself, he had crash landed several times in his career), and how he hated the outdoors because mosquitoes with their "damned proboscis" (or as he pronounced, "pro-BASS-uhs) would bite him all the time. Always the scapegoat, my mom said that it was time to go, for I was about to fall asleep. And for once, I didn't mind playing that part. The zucchini was beginning to get to me almost as much as the old raconteur's verbose stories.

The duo bade us adieu from their eggshell home, and we were free at last. Now, please point me in the direction of my 40 acres and a mule.

Nabokov said he was inspired to write Lolita after he read a story about a chimpanzee's first drawing. Said simian creature chose to draw the iron bars in which he was imprisoned. And today, the first access I've had to a computer in days, I chose to write about the encounter with my grandfather. Funny the things we choose to convey to others.