Turtle Dreams: NCAA Tourney Revelry

"I dream I never know anyone at the party
but I'm always the host."

-Counting Crows  "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby"

The fog is thick and damp and it is beading up on my windshield as I motor West on I-40. It is early in the morning and I’m on my way home from work. The mist caught me by surprise rolling off the river and into this valley. There is something weightless and timeless about being in a dense fog. Motion seems to cease and sound is distorted and muffled, as if I have taken a left turn into the pages of a bad English novel. There is blood on my pants and I'm pretty sure it isn't mine.

Up ahead there is the glimpse of taillights. Red and fading away from me like the backpedaling eyes of a playful demon they appear and disappear as if by magic. I start to chase them. I want to catch the lights, those eyes, before I get home. I begin to think my sanity depends on it.

“Can you hear me now?” I ask my brother. It is 5am in his part of the world and he is awake feeding an angry and embittered child. He calls me to share the experience.

“YES! I can hear you. Don't yell.  You have to trust the Bluetooth headset or just not wear it. Is it that little crack pipe looking one they sell with your iPhone?”

“How do I sound? Is my voice crisp and authoritative? Is there any static on the line? Can you tell I’m already drunk? I need the sort of advanced technology that lets me remain inebriated throughout the day yet allows me to sound urbane and knowledgeable.”

“No static and NO you DON’T sound drunk. That is one sweet phone. It might even be worth the $500 you paid for it.”

“$600” I correct him. “I was an early adopter.”

“Hey, play some music. How does Miley Cyrus sound on that thing?” my brother asked. “I bet even SHE sounds good on that phone.”

“Nope. She still sucks. Even Apple can’t fix her.”

“When does she reach the age of consent anyway?”

“Dude! That is borderline inappropriate.”

“Hey we need to know these things. One day the Olsen twins were cute little girls looking at cue cards on tv with John Stamos, pushing him to acting heights he only dreamed of as “Blackie” on “General Hospital”, and before I knew it they were slutty lushes with eating disorders, boyfriends ODing in their apartments, a staggering array of sexually transmitted diseases and really large heads teetering atop frighteningly tiny bodies”, my brother gushed as he ducked cheerios being thrown at him by his own devil-spawn. “And the younger Spears sister – she didn’t even make it to 17 before she was knocked up, had a drinking problem and was generally considered the most “adult” member of her family. You have to get in early if you want a shot with these girls.”

I nodded my head silently. My brother often brings wisdom to the gray area between teen sex and pedophilia. “Should you be talking about this stuff in front of Fletch?” I asked.  Fletch is the little creature that haunts my brother's house.  He knows one word, "turtle", and uses it to describe everything from the dog to his own poop.

“He has to learn about skuzzy chicks sometime. He thinks the Olsens are skanks anyway.” There was a high pitched "TURTLE!" from Fletch in the background.

“He just turned one”, I argued.

“Yeah but he’s very advanced.” Lawson said. “Chicks dig him already. He RULES daycare. Friday he pushed off his diaper and peed on the rug. Everybody just stood and watched. It was a powerful moment for me as a parent.” He paused. “How’s your girlfriend, what’s-her-face?”

“As good as can be expected.” I answered. “I just bought her a new set of dentures and she LOVES them. She hardly ever goes without her teeth anymore. She has almost completely stopped going outside with no pants on. And we set up a neighborhood watch type thing in case she wanders off in a meth dementia again, just the usual girlfriend/boyfriend stuff.”

“What about the restraining order against her ex-husband?” Lawson asked. “Is it still valid now that he’s off parole?”

That’s my brother, always thinking about the little things. That’s why I love him so. “No worries,” I said. “He got picked up for felon in possession of a firearm. Unfortunate traffic stop.”

“Good times!” said my brother, smiling and clapping his hands like a trained monkey to amuse his son.

“Good times!” I agreed while I swerved because traffic seemed to be coming AT me from the fog.

“TURTLE!” said Fletch and dumped a bowl of milk on their sleeping dog’s head.

"So you're ready then?" asked my brother.

"Packed and booked" I told him.  "Fletch should be excited.  This is like his first one."  Last year at this time he had just been expelled from my sister-in-law's uterus in a bloody gooey rush of funk, an event the whole family has watched enough times on videotape that none of us can look Lawson's wife in the eye anymore.