My last night in Oklahoma my parents took me out for Mexican food. I love Mexican food, and there are a lot of Mexicans in Oklahoma. The state is kind of a straight shot from the Mexican border and there are lots of ranches and farms and such that need cheap labor. The Mexicans, both legal and otherwise, tend to be less picky about stuff like wages so they are easily exploited.
Anyway, said Mexicans have a tendency to open restaurants that serve Mexican food. It's awfully plentiful. Here in New Jersey, it's just not the same. I've found one really good Mexican restaurant in my area. It's called The Mexican Food Factory and it's a big purple building. It's kinda pricy and run by people from the Slovakia, which, to me, makes it both notable and less than authentic.
When I go home, the first thing my parents do is offer Mexican food. They tell me of new restaurants and offer to take me before we even go home. Usually I take them up on it. They love me that much.
Anyway, they took me to have tacos one last time before I returned to the land of the cheese steak. In attendance: me, mom, dad, Christine (the sister), Peter (the sister's fiance), a beloved aunt, my grandmother, and my grandfather. I have told you a little about my grandparents before. I have told you, for instance, that I love them dearly. I have also told you that they are certifiable. I stand by both statements now.
When my grandparents retired, they were forced to spend all day together for the first time in their lives. This has led them to love and despise each other simultaneously. They have degenerated to the point where they fight ceaselessly without regard to company, location, or topic.
My grandfather spent his career as a machinist. Working in the shops robbed him of a large percentage of his hearing. My grandmother has filled in the gaps for him for the past thirty years. She's just tired of it. She hates repeating everything everyone says for his benefit. I can't say I blame her. This means that she communicates the words others have said, but also a degree of contempt that my grandfather astutely picks up on and it leads him to bark right back. Now, my grandparents have been married for more than fifty years. I'll not pretend that their relationship can be summed up in these few sentences. It's understandably far too complex for treatment here. But this is a significant aspect of the interaction we witness.
So back to dinner. My grandmother and my grandfather both chose similar, but different entres. Both received exactly what they asked for. My grandmother was delighted by her choice. My grandfather was delighted by my grandmother's choice as well. He was less happy about his own.
"We'll split them." he announced.
"No, Joe. I don't want to split mine."
"Here. Take a bite of mine." My grandfather was going for the old bait and switch. He figured if he could force her to eat some of his, she'd have to surrender some of her more desirable meal. "Just taste it."
"Joe, I don't want to taste it. I know what it tastes like already." My grandmother stabbed a bite of her meal and lifted the fork carefully to her lips where she took a big bite and pretended to savor every flavor as it worked its way from lips to gullet. The only problem, of course, is that she can't taste. Twenty-five years ago, she was injured in a tordado that left her brain damaged. It robbed her of her senses of smell and taste and altered her personality a bit.
Grandpa saw what she was doing. She was trying to get to him and it was working. She stabbed another forkful and lifted it gingerly to her lips. "This is just delicious!" she announed quite loudly to ensure he could hear. "The best I've ever tasted."
My grandfather was fuming a bit. She stabbed a thrid bite and as she was hoisting it to her mouth, my grandfather made his move. "Gimme it!" he shouted and tried to snatch the fork from my grandmother's hand.
"Joe! Stop that! I don't want to share it. Stop that! Joe!" She smacked at his hands, trying to defend her entre. He kept advancing.
No one at the table was eating any more. We were all transfixed by the patriarch and matriarch of the family playing keep away with a morsel of fajita meat. They had a sissy slappy fight in slow motion. Right there at the head of the table. I assume it would have been faster but for his heart condition and her arthritus.
The server came by and asked if there was a problem with my grandfather's meal. He did not hear her. My grandmother went on autopilot. She continued trying to pry his fingers off her fork while yelling, "Joe! The waitress is asking you a question!" She twisted his thumb back and he grunted in pain.
"You'll have to speak up" she said to the wiatress. "He can't hear a fool thing!"
We were all thunderstruck. My sister, who is a first grade teacher and is accustomed to dealing with such things from her children all the time, was the first to snap to. "Papa! Eyes front, hands down! We don't act that way."
He let go of his wife's fork and after a minute or two ate his meal in silence. My grandmother was quiet as well, but her eyes betrayed that she was delighed to have been victorious.
The rest of us tried to pretend it hadn't happened. Especially poor Peter, the newest member of our family.
But it did happen. I saw it.
Posted at 1:28 a.m.
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