3 posts tagged “cruelty”
I've been thinking a lot about my Aunt LaJuana these days. Nothing nostalgic or sentimental, but every time I hike up my pant leg or skirt to check on the progress of my bike-wreck scab, I can't help but think of her.
Aunt LaJuana was a scab picker. One of those people who love to scrape off the dead, battered skin of injuries. She didn't just pick her own scabs, though. She liked to pick other people's scabs. She loved to peel sunburns. As a child, this always frightened me. Like most kids, I was a walking scab factory. Always with a scraped elbow or knee. Some crusty half-healed contusion or abrasion. So there were few things as creepy and terrifying as going to Sunday dinner with a banged up knee. Invariably, someone said, "Oh, and little Redz took a spill on her bike/on the roof/on the monkey bars/on her own two stupid feet. Really banged herself up."
Then Aunt LaJuana descended upon me with her long, vicious claws extended, ready to pick. She didn't care if it hurt or bled or made you squirm, and she was big enough to hold you down if you tried to resist. Plenty big enough. She clocked in around 500 pounds when I was a child, so the only real chance of escape was to run. Unfortunately, my grandmother's house was small and filled with many ornery uncles and cousins who were happy to capture and return an escaped scabbee.
When I was very young, four or five years old, the worst part wasn't even the scab picking. The scariest part was the proximity of the Blood Ruby. Aunt LaJuana wore a ring with a large, dark, glossy, evil-looking ruby in it. She said that if you touched it without her permission, you would disappear. I was predisposed to believe, because my other grandmother had a ruby ring that she claimed had killed someone every time she wore it. Three times she'd worn it since her mother-in-law gave it to her and three times someone she loved died: her mother and two of her sisters. That ruby was remade into a ring for my grandfather, who as far as I know never killed anyone with it.
As for Aunt LaJuana's Blood Ruby, I knew what she said was true, because I'd seen it happen.
My cousin, Stu, touched it once. Stu is eight years older than I am and he was one of the ornery cousins. So ornery he was dangerous. The kind of kid you wanted to keep your distance from. One Easter, he decided he was too old to believe in things like the Blood Ruby, so he marched up to Aunt LaJuana and touched it. Laid his finger right on it.
Aunt LaJuana let out this terrible moan. A sound of anguish and mourning that made my grandma run in from the kitchen. "Oh, he touched it! He touched the Blood Ruby!" Aunt LaJuana said and she put her head in her hands and sobbed.
Grandma took up the moaning and crying and pulled her apron up over her head. Stu, who'd been laughing and strutting until then, looked concerned. Everyone got involved, crying and carrying on about what a reckless fool he was. He never could obey and he was always in trouble, but they loved him! It broke their hearts what he'd done.
"That's bullshit! That's fucking bullshit!" Stu said, knowing he'd get smacked for that. Only nobody smacked him. Nobody said, "Watch your potty mouth!" Nobody but us other kids could hear him or see him, but none of the adults believed us.
When lunch time came, Grandma set the tables for 18 instead of 19, even though I told her, "I can see him, he's right there, Grandma."
"Don't you tease me, Redz, I know he's gone," she said. "If you try to pull my leg, why I'll pinch you."
That was no idle threat. The mothers of scab pickers are natural pinchers and vicious, to boot. The rest of the kids kept their mouths shut about being able to see Stu.
So while we ate fried chicken and mashed potatoes, with chocolate cake for dessert, Stu stood in the kitchen and cried. The adults just went on like he was invisible. They couldn't see him or hear him, and after a while they stopped talking like it was his funeral and just went on with their usual conversations.
Stu's disappearance lasted all day, until dusk fell and everyone got ready to go home. We packed up our leftovers and started out toward the cars. Some of us looked back at Stu, still huddled up in one corner, but after a moment, Uncle Jack got up from the sofa and put out his cigarette.
"Come on, Stu, let's go," he said.
"You can see me?" Stu said.
"Of course I can see you. The Blood Ruby wears off after a while. Have you been there all along?"
Oh, we wanted to believe it wasn't real. We wanted it to be a cruel prank the adults had played, but as we hurried across the gravel drive to our cars, Aunt LaJuana stood on the stoop and cackled like a witch. None of the rest of us ever touched the ruby, except perhaps the mortician who prepared her for burial. Yes, it was buried with her. Stu didn't learn his lesson. He went on being a disobedient, reckless fool, until adulthood snuck up on him, like the delayed effects of the Blood Ruby. In that sense, maybe we all touched it.
On my walk to work this week I've seen this same item that the trash guys declined to pick up:
Yes, my people, that's a treadmill for dogs. A treadmill for dogs. A treadmill for dogs. A treadmill for dogs?
Or more accurately, a treadmill for the dogs of people who are too lazy to take their dogs out for a real walk.
Revolutionary? Sure, if your idea of a revolution is having your dog chew your favorite slippers, crap on your rug, and maul you while you're sleeping. Gee...I wonder why the Jog A Dog is sitting out at the curb.
Thank you to Spucko for giving voice to the existential crisis this device would surely produce in a dog accustomed to being walked in the park: "How am I supposed to take a crap on this thing?"
Never mind keel hauling. Never mind walking the plank.
I just went down to the little food court in the basement and discovered that the university is making all of the food service employees dress like pirates today!!!!!!!! I know you think I'm pulling your pegleg, but I swear it's true. They're all wearing head scarves and eye patches.
