The Mock Dock

Last weekend I I got in to a fight with my aunt. As I nestled in to the sagging third cushion of Aunt Debbie’s floral print sofa, I noticed a medium-sized green box strategically placed under the rattan coffee table, obviously purchased at a Pier 1 sidewalk sale. As the night fell and the tiffany-style knock-off lamps gathered control of life’s illumination, I became transfixed on the corner of this box.

Finally, after exhausting all of possible pathways of communication surrounding the election, the papal attack on NYC and whether or not Andy Griffith was the first choice to play Ben Matlock, I shifted in my seat, cleared my throat, looked at my cousin and uttered, “What is that?”

Phil jumped from his seat, gleefully interrupting his mother, “Holmes said he wants to play. We were hoping someone would want to. Our night is perfect now, mother.”

As Aunt Debbie nimbly leapt to her feet, she pulled open the box showing to all of us in the room the pencils, timers, sharpeners and all other accoutrement` necessary for a ravishing game of Win, Lose or Draw.

You remember this game…don’t you. One team member is given a clue and is forced to ply his or her artistic capability in front of a room of family members or friends, regardless of humility or the adroit use of carbon and paper to reasonably portray any number of asinine topics.

As each of the soiree’s attendees move from one side of the room to another, formally aligning in teams, I remained cradled in the crushed colorful cloth of the couch.

Phil, my convivial cousin, vaulted to the easel, clapping both hands. He turned to me, and those that had gathered behind attempting to fail in the tiffany shadows, and uttered, “I will go first…so get ready, Holmes.”

At this point, the timer was flipped and a flurry of fancy illustration festered. As Phil quickly drew an oblong circle with short-necked water-fowl proudly swimming in this now wavy, pond, I bellowed triumphantly (as my competitive side always wins out over my apathy), “A Duck on a Lake…a Loon!” Knowing that my “team” had won this puzzle, I rested back in my seat and opened a fresh bottle of Leinenkugel’s Original.

It was then that Phil’s ire arose from the depths of his plaid-shirted soul, and he screamed, “Holmes, it was Chicken Soup…you are an idiot…I hate you.”

As I sat, now feeling the glare of both Phil and Aunt Debbie, knowing that I had ruined the first round of this glorious game, I knew I had only one chance to diffuse the situation in an adult, civilized way. So, I said very plaintively, “Shut up, you’re gay.”

As Phil ran to his room (yes..he is 32 and living with his mom), Aunt Debbie walked up in front of me, splashing her Strawberry Mojito in my face, and slapped me squarely across the face. She then stammered, “He isn’t ready to come out.”

As I stood to my feet, I flexed my awesomely developed calf muscles and realized that I had ruined my family’s “together time” and outed my cousin by simply being a fan of northern water-fowl.