I sat at the newspaper covered table along with my ten other relatives. This is a small gathering in comparison to the standard Saturday celebration, where every member of our kin that lived within a two hundred mile radius of Crescent City, Florida would arrive at my grandma, Meme’s, doorstep. Directly across from me is Gary (my grandpa’s best friend and the family pervert), and I watch as his deformed hand with short, broken looking fingers clench and unclench as he stares at the steaming pile of potatoes, corn, and crabs in front of him. Next to Gary is Steve, the towering and diet challenged son of step great grandmother Vivian. She sits to Steve’s left, and has already begun the suppertime ritual. Grace has already been spoken, much to my immediate family’s (my mother, father, sister and I) relief. Step Great Grandmother Vivian spoons a giant glomp of yellow butter that has already partially melted from the summer heat onto her giant, shiny red plate. She takes the giant wooden crucifix that hangs below her droopy breasts, and swings it past the angel carrying an American flag pin and over her shoulder, so as not to dip it in the butter or Creole sauce. My cousins Bizzy and Kelly are here, and i haven’t met them before today. (This happens frequently, for folks down here like to breed, and they do so rapidly). Uncle Bobby sits next his wife and my Aunt, Dawn, and he begins to sip his second rum and coke for this evening (I look forward to his tipsy wisdom. He has a tendency to reveal lessons and life values that philosophers spend years to discover, but only while drunk). My parents sit across from eachother, and my Grandpa Jack (or Bumper Jack, as we call him) is at the head of the table. He is a tiny, fidgety man, and he already begins to shout for the salt and pepper, in case the folks sitting four seats down couldn’t hear him. Meme waits patiently, sitting on Jack’s right, but we all see she is at the real head of the table. She smoothes her white blouse before standing to spoon out the coleslaw to all of her guests, and I crack open a blue crab that Jack, my sister, and I caught in the traps earlier that day.

“Well it’s been a while since I’ve eaten crabs, and I ain’t talkin’ about the kind that comes from the sea,” snickers Gary, winking at me. I taste bile in my mouth and scoot my chair away automatically, but not enough so anyone notices. I see Meme squint angrily, but she regains her stoic gaze as she spoons the coleslaw down the table. She pauses before Gary and stares him right in the eye. Gary slowly opens his mouth to reveal a mismatched set of yellow and brown cracked teeth in what I think is a smile. Meme reaches across his wrinkled, sun burned face and plunked her side dish right on Uncle Bobby’s plate, leaving Gary’s slawless.

War!

Suddenly, Step Great Grandmother Vivian clasps her hands together as if she were beginning another grace mid-plate, and says, “OH GREAT LORD ABOVE, IF ONLY YOU COULD SWAY ONE OF MY MOST GRACIOUS SONS TO PASS THE SALT.”

Steve sighs. “Do you want me to pass the salt, mother?”

“IF ONLY JESUS, OUR SAVIOR, WOULD HAVE HIM DO SO.”

“Here’s the salt, mother.”

“OH MARY, THANK YOU.”

“C’mon, now, Steve, you ain’t gonna let her boss you ‘round like that?” says Bobby.

“You don’t understand, Bobby, mother’s mind’s going.”

“OH LORD IN HEAVEN, PLEASE FIND IT IN YOUR AWESOME POWER TO TELL MY MOST DEAR SON, STEVE, TO SHUT HIS TRAP?”

“See? Now how would you take it if your mind was startin’ to head South?” says Steve.

Bobby, in response, leans back in his wooden chair, scratches the “We the People” portion of his Constitution polo, and says, “Well Steve, I am who I am and that’s who I’m gonna stay no matter what happens to who I want to be.”

Steve replies, “What?”

Dawn stands up after Bobby yawns dramatically. “Anyone want something? I’m going to get more butter.”

“OH SWEET JESUS CHRIST, WHO FORGAVE US OF OUR SINS, WOULD YOU PLEASE ASK DAWN, POLITELY, TO FETCH ME A WHISKEY?”

“How would you like that, Vivian?”

“OH LORD, ICED.”

“Now, mother, you know that booze doesn’t go well with your medication.”

“DEAREST GOD, PLEASE FIND IT IN YOUR ENDLESS POWER TO TELL STEVE TO SHUT HIS DAMN TRAP? SORRY FOR TAKING YOUR NAME IN VAIN.”

“And I want a Bunny to come give me a lap dance, but we all know that ain’t gonna happen,” says Gary (of course). I watch Steve puff up like one of the roosters Jack keeps near the garage.

“Another Budlight it is, Gary,” says Dawn, as she disappears into the air conditioned haven of the house.

I hear the sickening crack of a crab leg come from Meme’s seat, and I notice she is glaring at Gary’s broken smile as she cracks and smashes another crab.

My cousin Kelly tries to break the silence that commences. “Well, we had a fun time on the boat today, didn’t we Bizzy?”

“Uh huh.”

“You didn’t mind goin’ swimmin’ in that warm water up by the Oklawaha, now did you?”

“Nuh uh.”

“And it sure was exciting pushing the boat out of the reeds. Now why didn’t you jump in and save me, Bizzy?” Kelly teased.

“Well, I would have, Kelly, if you didn’t have a bra on.”

“Gary!”shouted Meme. Gary just flashed his broken teeth and waved his broken hand at her.

Dawn returned with everyone’s drinks, and a clip for the tortilla chip bag. She sest it on the table, and accidentally brushes it off with her elbow as she hands Step Great Grandmother Vivian her drink.

“Oh, whoops. Must be drunker than I thought. I dropped the clip!”

As Dawn bent down to get it, I could see the wheels turning in Gary’s brain. It was like a gambling machine, one flick of a lever and ding, ding, ding!

We have a winner!

“What was that you said, Dawn?”

“I said that I dropped the clip.”

“Oh. I thought you said...”

Meme stands up faster than a cottonmouth bites, rushing over to Gary’s seat and yanking him up with the strength of a thousand bulls.

“We need to have a talk, Gary.”

She pushed him inside the kitchen and out the front door, where I could hear muffled scoldings coming through the glass.

We all thought she killed him and tossed his remains into the river for the gators to snack on, but he just wasn’t allowed to come to parties anymore.

“Well, that word is filthy. He deserves whatever comes to him. He needs to get his drinking under control,” my mother says as she brings a glass of red wine to her lips.

Bobby sits up, fetches his rum, leans back down and says, “Well, that may be true. But he’s family! You gotta love him!”