The Big Apple Circus Tears Families Apart

We pile into the car to drive towards another train station (20 minutes away so that my frugal father could save a buck or two on the train fare). We are shuttled via the Metro North, bound south to NYC. Once in the city it’s subway to sub -away from the advice of my worldly, community college schooled 21-year- old brother who smokes Newports, spits openly, (regardless of threats of tuberculosis) and starts most dinner conversations with either “ I hate” or “I love the Da Vinci Code”. With all do respect to Dan Brown’s faithful followers of Neanderthal prose: I am never impressed. Although I am the only sibling who has been to NY without the company of a teacher or parent; my anatomy decides me ill-equipped to give any advice in the department of direction or erection. I’m forced to behave as a barefaced mime trapped in this invisible box named NYC. We trudge through Times Square towards the big top. It consists of families with toddlers and a trailer full of toilets.
I try, sincerely from the bottom of my heart. I try the entire day to combat the frown that my thin bologna lips keep falling unto. I try to feign excitement when the dog lover lady makes her poodle ride a unicycle. She reminds me of Tori Amos. Finally after hours of fake not frowning (which I wrongly believed to be strong enough to appear as enjoyment), I can feel that my trouble is forming like a twister in a green Kansas sky. After the circus I foolishly hoped I would be able to at least choose my lunch/dinner (remember Dad is frugal). Wrong! My mediocre intentioned stepmother keeps smiling like a sheepish child letting us know that a treat is in store. Fucking shit, I think, I just want a slice of pizza and a chunk of curb, anything to get me back to reality and out of this day camp of an excursion. We end up outside of a blaring jetson font diner. Full of stardust and bee bop. I recognize some of the strollers from the circus and realize that this family NYC trip has not finished with my tolerance or dignity
Did I mention that this was a family Christmas present? She told us over Christmas coffee that we were going to a show in NYC and that we should guess. I first guessed Phantom of the Opera, hopeful fool that I am…then I would only use my guess to say Cats, because in my world that would be hilarious and impossible. When she showed us the $60 itickets for our family to see the circus I think my face dropped to underneath the underneath of the green and red candled Christmas decorated table.
We wait 45 minutes in the peak of NY winter cold with screaming children strung our on cotton candy and sno cones- to enter the sing-song musical diner. The servers are Broadway wannabees who sing at the top of their lungs on a bad P.A. system. Songs from Grease or any Roger’s and Hammerstein musical. Some songs I actually like but I am not sure if it is the invasive nature of people singing at the top of their lungs or the white-socked penny loafers dancing on top of the soon-to-be lunch/dinner table, that turns me off. It’s so cheesy I can’t even bare it. I make the mistake of entertaining myself- by asking my brother if he wants to have his birthday party here. We both think that is very funny but my dad continues to pout and mutters to himself or Jesus, that he can’t make anyone happy. (Typical familial trait of feeling sorry for yourself) We may have different mothers but it is in all of our DNA’s. Our waitress approaches a few songs later and she is obviously really sick. It’s not her red chapped runny nose that is indicative of this; nor is it the crumbled boogerstained toilet paper she has bookworming out of her apron pocket. It is just her general demeanor of poor health. I make the mistake of telling my sister that it is gross. My dad a grown man and Cancer survivor transforms his pouting into sulking. Our “meal” is not without a 20-something guy with an Elvis hair style singing to my sister in front of everyone…my worst nightmare but she seems to like it (different mothers, I presume).
After our meal we return to Times Sq. Why? I have no idea. We are cattle driven via holiday ambulatory traffic to the ESPN sport zone. I learn this is Dad’s ideal destination to have a beer. The plan has been all day for the men to get a beer while us girls help “mom” look for her favorite Spode Christmas china that is located somewhere in the basement of Macy’s. Sport zone, or whatever they call it is packed and it is painfully obvious that dad will not get his penis/scrotum/ sporty dream. My stepmother stupidly tells him to “go in any way”, silly fool, how long has she been married to this man? He tells her something like he is a ‘big boy and will get a beer wherever he damn well pleases’. This appears to be the right answer. My sister and I naively believe that is where the confrontation ends…when in reality it has only begun. We continue to walk sans ESPN beer and head towards Macy’s, where my sister and I selflessly plan to help our matriarch look for china with Christmas trees and overweight American children on it. I earnestly peer into boutiques through my peripheral vision. I think I am doing the right thing. I’m not invited to get a beer with the “guys”. Not because of my vagina. I am the drinker my father relates to, perhaps because I am the eldest. I think it’s because I’m from his first marriage and he thinks of me more as a peer (You know, an old buddy from his past who received the brunt of his parenting mistakes the hardest …everyone has one of those friends right?). Always telling me the detail that I never would want to hear about his marriage, childhood, scrotum, etc…but I am not invited because a week before Christmas we had an argument. Me, the child who never fights with him, never disrespects him. Sandwiched between a sibling who writes him letters of his awful parenting bi-weekly and has tried to fistfight him more than once and a sister who in case we all forgot: didn’t show up last Thanksgiving! She also refused to visit him at Sloane Kittering after his cancer operation because of “her fear of hospitals” which in 19-year-old speak translates to an acute desire to have friends over to their house (which she had run away from the month before) to play beer pong and smoke pot. So, 26 years and no blowout: I get upset with him on the phone because, I, his confidant, un-daughter, disagreed with him that my sister’s boyfriend is the reason for all of her erratic behavior. My sister’s boyfriend who beat the piss out of my barely emo -kind of top 40- but all around gentle guy-brother two years prior. I simply stated that I think that his Thanksgiving-ditching baby daughter was responsible for her own actions. And it is not appropriate to attribute it all to her current beau. He did his usual which is to disagree loudly. I said that I wasn’t going to sit there and have him smoke me out with his nastiness (You can feel free to add Fuck or bullshit wherever you deem the least appropriate.) He then asked me if “I took a piss pill” and it was on. We fought, and he hung up on me. Then my stepmother called me to make sure I was still coming to Christmas. And to tell me how I should apologize and that my father hung up the phone in tears. I know that I should apologize but I wasn’t ready.. and isn’t that what holidays are for? To ignore what is brewing within your family or relationship, put on some panty hose and mascara and sit down for a meal that will make you hate your body for the rest of the winter? I still know that I should have apologized but I was running with two bad ass siblings (so I thought I could bide some time I could never had been more wrong).
Back to NY.
We traipse through the streets of possibility, and my sister and I lead the pack. We are trying desperately to appear as if we are having the time of our lives, as to ward off any evil spirits of conflict. We start to play a game similar to Punch buggy where we incorporate face punching and capitalism instead of VW bugs and dead arms. I tell my beloved sister that the next time she sees a Duane Reade, I want her to punch me in the face. Duane Reade (kind of like CVS) is more omnipresent then pretzel vendors and cabdrivers. So we think this is very funny. She rebukes with that every time I see a Starbucks I am to return the favor. Good clean fun it seems, but in my DNA description of feeling sorry for yourself and temper tantrums I forgot to mention paranoid schizophrenia as another family trait. Because we are having fun in the front of the family pack out of earshot we are clearly being mean or disrespectful or the worst of all possibilities: Talking about them! So therefore, we are public enemy # 1 and #2: For the criminal offense of enjoying ourselves in the company of others.
When we all meet up again Dad is clearly intoxicated, and they have clearly been talking about me the entire time of our split. (See, it is in our DNA) My dad smartly tries to smooth things over with me by insisting repeatedly with one boozy lazy eye and a pee bag in his pants that I should have a pint. I decline, again and again ‘there’s no place like home’ I silently say to myself. He asks me what my problem is 500 times. He is distracted by the ‘my aged’ waitress and becomes her best friend, hoping to make me jealous I presume.
Somehow silent motivation happens and it appears to be that the general consensus is that we all want to return to our beloved CT. As we walk back to the train I can faintly hear my father murmur about not being able to please everybody or something to that effect. I maintain dutifully what I thought was grace and thankfulness but apparently it wasn’t.
My sister and I begin to walk in the darknes towards our car. We don’t know where we are going but something about walking forward brings of some comfort that this awful night may be over. The trio follows behind us..
“ Do you even know where you are going?” they ask.
No but we’ll turn up at the car…we think. We’re just walking
Next scene is my stepmother telling me that I have been a bitch all day.
My brother starts fighting with me and I inquire of this tough macho exterior is result of his liquid courage. And I tell him how proud I am that this effervescent liquid provides him with a sac in between his legs. That’s it, its over. And everyone except for my dear sister hates me (It’s always been this way). We get into the car thanks to my brother’s great navigational skills. The fun continues and my brother is spitting literally with anger into my face of every wrong I have ever dare commit unto to him. His fervent supporters are hip hip hooraying to every dastardly deed he delves up from our childhood. Yes, I was pissed when he was born. He was born in my month. He smelt like cheerios and was a very ugly baby. Think Frank Purdue if he were anorexic. But isn’t that normal sibling rivalry? shit happens, life is hard, and this needle dick of a brother of mine is boohooing every normal childhood rite of passage to the sound of nearby violins. I finally split into two like Rumplestilskin and release my wrath. I was the one who was the second-class citizen in our family. I was the one who missed parties, play dates, and all-star baseball games to watch a three-year-old swing a bat on a tee. I was the one who got the shit end of the stick and this pansy is crying over the fact that he has two sisters. My father then interjects if that’s what you call bellowing anger, and decides to rename me Tracee Anne. My name is Tracee Elaine. Not only did the bastard leave my mom when she was pregnant with me for the woman sitting shotgun in this car…the same woman who told me that I sing like my nose is plugged when I was five…but now he isn’t even calling me by my right name. He then decides that this is the time to get angry because he signed an agreement in 1980 that requires him to pay some money towards my college education. Lucky for him he forgets that it was my mother who paid for his.
I tell him that honestly that has nothing to do with me. It is then that I realize that we aren’t heading towards Connecticut. We are going south bound on 95 the very same direction we just came on the train. I keep trying to tell him that we are going the wrong way, peppered by my name is not Tracee Anne but no one listens. Thank goodness that my astute brother realizes that I am right and says, “Hey dad we are going the wrong way.”
To which my father replies, “Oh great thanks buddy.”
It is then that I give up.
The rest of the ride is a blur, my sister and me crying because we know that this is not normal and that I finally am old enough to step away from the car and never come back. I inform them that it is now in fact that I quit them. And that it is not normal to speak to people in this manner, and I am all set. It kills me more than anyone can imagine to think about how after they dropped me off, they probably told my 23 year old brother, (who lives with them and works at Jiffy Lube, sans any college credits) they were proud of him. It tears me up to think that this is the dynamic of our sister brother sister sandwiched family. The moral of this story is to never, regardless of someone’s therapists’ suggestion, bring a family over 5 years of age to the Big Apple Circus, ever.