I had to start with the phone call I wanted to make last —it was the only way to do this thing. I drew in some breath and pressed the digits, my fingers shaking, jumping now to the wrong row, now to the wrong column. She’d slammed the phone twice already.
“Grandma, will you talk to me? You’re coming as Chewbacca…yes…a large, furry character from her favorite movie…no, I have not been sticking needles in my arm…it’s already paid for —we have size and all, Grandma…it’s only for 2 hours or so…everyone is donning something…I don’t know why Chewbacca….no, it’s not because of your facial hair…no, Marisa loves you, really…her grandma is Grand Moff Tarkin…yes, human, but pretty unimportant…everyone loves Chewbacca—he is affectionately known as Chewy…yes, I am serious.”
Dunking my head right under the tap, I lapped up the warm, soothing spray of fluorinated water. One down. Fifty-five to go. Our Judaeo-Catholic matrimonial alliance carried with it the curse of two large families —and, necessarily, gave Marisa the opportunity to dip into Lucas’ extended universe —including cartoon and book characters so obscure I couldn’t dig them up without the help of some friends in the IT trade. Now there was room for Clegg Holdfast, Stass Allie, and Gizor Dellso.
The sheer breadth of the cast of characters/guest list made me wonder how my wonderful Marisa —the girl who was always too busy with mock trial, animal activism, and psych experiments for long phone conversations or horsing around in our dorm suite —had found the time to study the most trivial and arbitrary details from the mind of an overgrown sci-fi nerd. I suppose we all have private pockets where no hand but our own can gain admittance.
The bell rang. It was Mom. Luckily, Marisa was out shopping for art supplies with her former roommates to build a set from the forest moon of Endor. Kids from both sides of the family, whom I’d projected as my easiest targets, were in a silent revolt against Marisa’s unilateral decision to cast them all as Ewoks. “What’s an E-Wak?” my youngest nephew asked. “Is it an iPet?” Clearly, Marisa and I were the Lost Generation here. Half the brood wanted to be Harry Potters. The other half wanted to be home playing video games.
Without greeting or a customary kiss, Mom stepped through the doorway and proceeded to the bathroom, dropping two large shopping bags to the floor. “What’s that, Ma?” I inquired.
“This?” she asked, with histrionic ire. “This, is what you think of us, and of yourself.” Without another word, she pulled out a peasant robe. With the limited number of female Star Wars roles, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Marisa wanted my mom to be Shmi Skywalker.
“Oh, get out —you think that’s bad? This is the easiest role in the whole wedding party! Uncle Borya is going as Jabba the Hut. Jabba, Ma! He’ll probably need time off from work to start putting on his costume if he wants to make it for the wedding.”
“I’m no fool, Vitya. I saw The Phantom Menace. I saw the Attacking of the Clowns. This Shmi, she is some sort of floozy, no? Is that what Marisa thinks of me?”
“Well, no, not quite…she’s a slave —it’s different. She’s sold to the Tusken Raiders, and it’s not really explicit about what she does.”
“Marisa wants me to be a work slave, that’s better? Funny, I don’t see her parents going as a Tuscan prostitute or Mandalorian pimp.” It was plain as day; Mom had been brushing up on her Wookiepedia.
“Dad’s not a pimp, Ma. He’s Jango Fett, a very important bounty hunter. Very powerful. And you know it was Marisa’s idea, so, you know, her mom is Queen Amidala and her father Bail Organa. Woman’s prerogative, and all that.”
She looked at me blankly, without reproach, blinking wordlessly, now pathetically, the fire in her eyes extinguished. Sinking into my Goodwill-acquired couch, Mom buried a doleful look in her weary hands and sobbed.
No comments:
Post a Comment