I lived with my family throughout much of college, for financial
reasons. The university I attended was an hour from my parent's house, so
after a semester of commuting, my whole family packed up and moved closer
to school (it only sounds creepy). A few years later I finally
moved into my own place, but I still made frequent trips to the folks'
whenever I was running low on cash or crippling insecurities.
My brother took a different approach--only leaving for short
periods of time, returning eventually with heart broken, hopes dashed, or pocketbook
hemorrhaging. Finding his need for independence superseded by the practical
allure of free rent, my brother relied on a combination of on-the-fly diplomacy
and occasional outright deception to maintain domestic harmony. We called it
the "deny and conquer" method, and it saw him through many a tight scrape. Never
was there a more perfect example than the following incident:
It begins innocently enough. One evening, my dad takes the dinner
leftovers to make his lunch for the next day. His meatloaf sandwich is delicately
prepared and wrapped in cellophane so carefully even Christo would be impressed.
He leaves it in the fridge with every expectation that it will be there waiting
for him when he gets up in the morning. He sleeps soundly this night, satisfied
with a job well done, blissfully dreaming of unwrapping tomorrow's lunch before
an audience of jealous coworkers.
Then my brother comes home.
Drunk, or high, or maybe just fucking hungry, he follows the
established protocol: open fridge door, stare blankly for a few seconds,
check the usual suspects (top shelf, cheese drawer) for new arrivals.
Finally he spots the sandwich on the bottom shelf, almost hidden from view
(that's odd...). Without hesitation he removes the plastic, and with a
lusty and guttural, "Aaaannnghhh!" the sandwich is broken into pieces and
swallowed with minimal chewing. Some straight-from-the-jug milk washes
down the remnants, and a moment later he stumbles into bed, belly full,
completely unaware of the plan he has unraveled.
He wakes a few hours later amid some sort of commotion; his eyes adjust
to the light and he slowly realizes my father is standing over him.
"Did you eat the meatloaf sandwich?"
"What?" he thinks to himself. "Meatloaf how? What time is it?
Get out...
"No."
This isn't the answer my father expected. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm sure." And it's back to bed; crisis averted.
Except that a few minutes later, my Dad returns.
"Well, if you didn't eat it, and your mother didn't eat it, and
I didn't eat it, what could have happened to it?"
Now fully awake, reality is starting to sink in and my brother hastily
assesses the situation. He recalls seeing the sandwich. Dammit! He
did eat it. It would have been trivial, but now he has lied about
it. There's only one thing he can do. Staring calmly into the face of
overwhelming evidence to the contrary, he continues to deny having eaten
the alleged sandwich throughout several minutes of heavy and direct
interrogation. Finally my father leaves for work, granting my brother a
temporary reprieve.
But the jig is up, you're thinking. My Dad has now made it his mission
in life to solve this mystery. He knows my brother is the culprit. There
isn't any other possible explanation. My brother eating a meatloaf
sandwich doesn't exactly top the list of nature's most improbable
occurrences. He has to confess now. Doesn't he?
Amateurs.
Eleven a.m., I am resting comfortably in bed when the ringing telephone
disturbs my sleep. "Hey, it's Todd. I need a favor..." This is followed by
a lot of indignant eye rolling on my part, and some pretty effective
bargaining on his. Suffice it to say that if I ever need to dispose of a
murder weapon, there's someone I can call, no questions asked.
Ten minutes later I am on the phone with my father. "Hey Dad...
What? Yes, I did come over last night-- I needed to pick up some video
tapes. How did you know?... Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I did
eat a meatloaf sandwich."
My father remains skeptical. "But you hate meatloaf."
"Correction: used to hate it, Dad. Used to... Sorry 'bout
your lunch, but that was a gooooood sandwich."
And so my father relaxes and explains the whole amusing mix-up. He's
relieved to have some explanation other than that my brother is a totally
lying liar-face. I laugh at all the right moments, as if I am hearing this
all for the first time. And once again, my brother walks away
scot-free.
I, however, have been pretending to like meatloaf ever since.
Darci Ratliff is the editor of the online
magazine Kittenpants.
This story is part of a series called MY FAMILY IS BETTER THAN YOURS: Tales
Which, Unfortunately for Me, Are Completely True. Read more of her adventures
in The Kittenpants
Daily Scoop.
