FAMILY BUSINESS

Terence Winch

My brothers won’t even talk to me any more.
The oldest one glares at me and wants to know
what I’m doing on his doorstep. “You invited me over,”
I tell him. “You said you were having a party for you wife,
that she just graduated from military school!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he says.
“I donít have a wife. Thereís no party, and I didn’t
invite you.” He has the door open a crack
and I can see his wife Marge, resplendent
in her uniform, gabbing with a houseful of guests.

There’s an enormous cake on the dining room
table, and the smell of coffee and expensive cigars
wafts out to the doorstep, scenting the atmosphere.

I call my other brother to tell him what happened,
but he hangs up without saying anything when
he hears my voice. I wait a while, then try again.
As soon as he hears itís me, he begins talking
in a fake Italian accent, pretending he’s someone else.
“Ima sorry. Dere’s no sucha person by thata name,”
he says. I tell my shrink all about what’s going on.
“You know,” she says, “I’ve been in this business
a long time, and, let me tell you, people are sick.
They’re mental. We give them pharmaceuticals
but to tell the truth, there’s no cure.”

Whenever my life starts to fall apart,
I get bombed out of my mind every night.
I bought huge bowls of pasta and ate and ate until
my cholesterol hit the top of the chart and a bell rang.
My doctor got back to me with the results of my tests
and said I should consider a warm climate where
oranges, lichees, and other fruits abound. Of course,
I immediately thought of the Tibesti Highlands, known
for its brass products, cows, yaks, and rubber footwear.
I’m headed there right now, soon as I finish this fruitcake
that came in the mail from my cousins in prison.