Sitcom - David McGimpsey

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insurance. I can hardly wait to give that thing a whack. Conversation’s the most important thing to me, you know, and I want to hear all about your trips to Barcelona, your remodelled homes ‘not far from the city,’ the radio quizzes that you gamely won, and all about the tipsy, week-long adventures that involve the bronzed thighs of lovers old and new. You need not censor yourself from questionable phrases such as ‘bony pony’ or ‘nipple burn.’ I live for those stories but, FYI, I have instructed many friends to steer away from the following potentially harassing topics: old hairstyles, jokes picked from Dave or Jay, that time I thought flammable and inflammable meant different things, the summer I said I would ‘concentrate on my portfolio’ and ended up taking extra shifts at a frozen-yogurt stand, enduring a long season of conversations that were all fro-yo this and fro-yo that.

      Let’s not talk about those heartfelt novels

      that try to adduce the spirit of a dead

      father, novels period, pyramid schemes

      and most things that stink of the eighties.

      So, the music will be lighter on eighties

      nostalgia than many of these gatherings

      tend to be, but my mixed tapes will astonish

      you with their blend of intemperate jug

      bands, wounded young princes on their brand new

      Stratocasters, logo-savvy DJs

      flowing trip-hop bright beat jungle, Hawaiian

      slack-key guitarists who are so laid-back

      they make Rastafarians sound like aerobics

      instructors. There’ll be celebrations of

      Gabrielle Destroismaisons, who’s known as

      ‘the French Britney Spears,’ and Lorie,

      who’s also known as ‘the French Britney Spears.’

      Don’t worry, if you get a strong desire

      to hear ‘a little ditty ’bout Jack and Diane’

      we’ll see what we can do. It’s all going

      to go smoothly, there should be enough space

      for your coats and shoes in my little room,

      and I hired a Portuguese interpreter

      just so I could tell the person who lives

      below me there’ll be no need this time to call

      the cops; muito pesaroso, dancing will have to be done in your stocking feet as the linoleum in my place scuffs quite easily. If it gets late and I start singing along to Mariah Carey’s ‘Never Too Far,’ do not get embarrassed, just let me go for the high notes and, as a rule, assume all sexual confusions are your own. Do not be surprised if, by sheer miracle, my beloved should accept my invitation and show up at my door; you will no doubt be awed by her fine glow, by a bone structure that is right now waking Rodin from the dead, by a voice you will stop to listen to, as if it were about to reveal a secret you’ve been searching for since you turned thirteen. My beloved will then lead us all in a heartfelt round of ‘Happy Birthday,’ and we’ll share cake! – coconut pillow divine – and stories of past anniversaries where we’d turn out the lights, dabble with the leftovers in the medicine cabinet, lie on the sofa and play a whole year’s tape of phone messages. If, unexpectedly, I excuse myself from the party and walk into the cold air, even forgetting a jacket, you can rest assured I will not be gone for long, no matter how tempting it would be to go see a movie uptown, alone. I would never think of abandoning the beauty of your friendship. Répondez, and, please, BYOB, just to be safe.

      Reunion

      What is my news? Well, since graduating,

      I’ve raked it in and I’ve tossed it off,

      I’ve plucked the green peach and sodded the pitch.

      That is, aside from noticing the moon

      shimmering on saw-bladed ferns in redwood

      groves, I have learned two valuable lessons:

      always floss, and nobody wants to see

      your collection of shot glasses. Mercy.

      I did not cry when Henry Blake died, though

      I died every time Kinch deferred to LeBeau.

      ‘That is so you!’ I’m sure we’ll hear that: ‘You were locked up nine months for passing bad cheques? That is so you!’ Of course, my high school band never made the big time, never backed up Thin Lizzy on their ‘Boys are Back!’ bus tour. Maybe our band name, Wee Willie Nelson, doomed us and I regret insisting on it, regret writing it in Magic Marker on the ass of my best acid-wash jeans. I enrolled at Buford Business College and just let the cocktails do the talking, left the academy under green clouds of vodka slosh and ended up working on the busy side of the phone: ‘But, sir, your agreement says you should pay us now.’ Today, I supervise a fleet of young phone hawks in both technique and bamegab. Admiral, that is just so you. Romance came around for me more frequently than Ernest movies and, alas, was almost as annoying. There was Becky Plover (do you know if she’ll be reunioning?) who wrote poetry about fast horses and father figures in undershirts. It was a miracle she was with me, always pressing for what she called ‘the truth,’ as long as the truth never again involved a story that ends ‘whacking off with Hazmat mitts.’ Who knew she’d serialize novels about the hot hot sexual awakenings of Toronto: ‘She kissed his smooth tanned chest and felt free.’ O my asthmatic princess, wringing your hands, your knock-off purse full of neatly printed scheduled coffee dates. Then there was salty Kathleen, who thrived on confrontation, who grew with each ‘piss off!,’ who sprawled on rank sofas and drank Pepsi while sitting in the tub. Thank God she won’t be there! I can see her coming through the gym doors like a tank through the palace gates in Saigon, flying high on her own mix of Jägermeister and milk, screaming, ‘Where is that stupid fag?’ And, finally, Pamela, who I used to love but who now says she has to try to work things out with her husband. I asked and she just laughed, saying, ‘I really love reunions, except for the part about murder being a crime.’ That is so her. ‘It’s been so long,’ they’ll say before turning to say, ‘It feels like only yesterday.’ My father thought the best way to fight heart disease was to simply ignore it, my sister yelling about his yellow pills.

      I’m not so sure his approach wasn’t wise;

      my mother sits patiently by herself,

      makes her own tea, her own little cheese plate,

      and still laughs when a TV ad begins

      ‘Do you have diarrhea?’ Through the years,

      while the economy boomed and bulldozed,

      while computers made life much easier

      for secretaries and Jar Jar fans alike,

      while doctors fought AIDS and cancer of the neck;

      while populations across the globe soared

      and citizen geeks fought to save marshland

      and limit greenhouse gasses for the sake

      of the dooming tear in the ozone, while

      geneticists promised the dawn of the clone

      and the Hubble Telescope took pictures

      of galaxies that folded neatly into

      other galaxies, I took time to perfect

      the art of the bummed smoke, the hindered dream,

      the delayed comeback zinger, the late lunch,

      the jealous funk, the revenge fuck, hollow

      vows, saggy jowls, long happy hours,

      debit cards, loose-fitting pants, nighttime soaps

      (don’t bring up the past), the hyena’s laugh,

      blaming it all on nice people like you.

      That

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