Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea

  “There she is!” my father exclaimed. “How’s my Black Magic?” he said, dropping his duffel bag and suitcase next to me and crossing the street, stopping traffic. I picked his bags up and stumbled over to where they were standing. They were embracing each other like mother and child penguins.

  My father loves Shoniqua because she can listen to him talk for hours on end. But mostly he likes her because they both share the belief that the less money they spend, the better. They met when she and I were on a television show together years earlier, and their fondness for each other was based on the fact that they are the two cheapest people I have ever met in my life. My father also revels in the fact that, by having a relationship with Shoniqua, he is somehow in with the black community.

  Her mother, Latifa, had never met my father before, and when he went in for a kiss on the cheek, he somehow managed to spray the entire side of her face with his saliva. Latifa grimaced, looked at me with her glasses pulled down on her nose, and without whispering said, “Well, that was disgusting.”

  I’ve known Latifa for as long as I’ve known Shoniqua, and consider her to be my black mother. Mostly because I only have one black friend, and Latifa is her mother. She has raised ten children of her own, has fostered more than a hundred other children, and runs a childcare center. She supplements this income with donations from Shoniqua, myself, and anyone else stupid enough to give money away to someone just because they ask for it. “It’s fucking hot,” she said as she wiped her forehead.

  My father started speaking Spanish to one of the drivers and before I knew it we were in a cab on the way to a smaller airport, where we had to take a puddle jumper from San José to Tambor. We pulled up to a single-engine, five-seater plane.

  “What the fuck is this?” Latifa muttered upon seeing the size of the plane. My father’s head jerked around with wide eyes upon hearing the word “fuck” come out of her mouth.

  “It’s a private plane we have to take to Tambor,” I told her.

  “Nobody said any motherfucking thing about a private plane.”

  “The language!” Melvin said, looking shocked. “This one’s worse than you, Chels.”

  “Mama, I told you we had to take a little plane; driving there would take eight hours and a one-hour boat ride,” Shoniqua told her.

  “I love boats,” my father declared.

  I walked my father, who didn’t take his eyes off Mama Latifa, over to the seat next to the pilot, assuming that was the only seat with enough room to fit him. The pilot and I helped him step up into the seat, and after trying to get his seat belt around his stomach for a full two minutes, I gave up and walked to the other side of the plane to sit down.

  “Hold up,” Shoniqua said. “When are we going to check in with the embassy?”

  I looked at her and then looked back out the window, shaking my head.

  “Chels, I’m serious. We need to check in with the embassy. What if our asses get kidnapped?”

  “Shoniqua, you are six feet tall with an ass the size of a giraffe. Who the hell is going to kidnap you? And furthermore, I doubt there is an embassy where we’re going.”

  “First of all, bitch, my ass has gotten a lot smaller since I started acupuncture.”

  “Fine,” I replied exhaustedly. “A baby giraffe.”

  “That’s better. And of course there’s an embassy. Every country has an embassy.”

  “Yeah, I know that, but they’re not usually on the beach.”

  “Listen, if one of these little Costa Ricans fucks around and tries to get my ass, don’t think for a second I won’t fork the motherfucker.” Apparently, along with my father’s bag of artillery, the dinner fork that Shoniqua travels with everywhere in case of an attack also managed to make its way through airport security.

  The plane took off with about as much control as a whitewater raft in a Category Five hurricane. I put my headphones on and stared out the window, trying not to vomit.

  Forty minutes later, the plane started its descent and, from what I could tell, looked like it was headed for a landing strip not much bigger than the ones you see in Playboy.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Latifa said with a moan, looking out the window.

  Minutes later we were on the ground. We were greeted by a young Costa Rican boy who led us all to his mini-SUV. Right before my father got in, he walked ten feet away to a tree, turned his back to us, and peed.

  “Shit, I gotta go too,” Latifa said as she hopped out of the car in the direction of another tree and squatted behind it.

  “Well, looks like we got a pair of fuckin’ winners here,” Shoniqua said. “These two must have been separated at birth.”

  The dirt road leading us to Santa Teresa couldn’t have been more bumpy if we were driving through the outback in a rickshaw. Ten minutes into the ride, I grabbed my carry-on bag, rifled through it until I found two sports bras, and put them both on over my shirt. During this time, my father and the driver were deep in a Spanish conversation, with the driver hysterically laughing at everything my dad was saying—a clear sign that he couldn’t understand a word of it.

  An hour later we arrived in Santa Teresa, and pulled up to the two villas I had rented. The villas were one hundred feet apart from each other in front of a beach, and separated by several dirt paths and what looked like a mini rain forest. At least a dozen dogs gathered around our taxi, wagging their tails.

  “If one of these motherfucking dogs comes near me, I’m gonna kick him in the fucking neck,” Latifa mumbled.

  “Relax, will ya?” my father said as he craned his neck back to look at her. “These dogs aren’t going to do anything to you, they’re all half-breeds. Look at ’em. That one in front of the car looks like he’s got a little horse in him.”

  Isabel, the property manager, greeted us and gave us a tour of the two villas. Each one had two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a sitting room that looked out onto the beach. Each villa was beautifully crafted from the most gorgeous wood I had ever seen and, once you got upstairs, hot as fucking hell.

  “I’m going to need a cocktail,” I told my father as I came back downstairs covered in sweat.

  Isabel was in my father’s room showing him how to turn on the air conditioning, which was only available in the master bedroom of each villa. Upon discovering this information, I spent the next thirty to thirty-five seconds considering sleeping in the same bed as my father. I wondered if it would be possible to avoid any and all physical contact if I slept on top of the covers and positioned myself at just the right angle. It seemed plausible, but after serious consideration, it was not a risk I was willing to take.

  After settling in, we collected the girls, and the four of us made the three-minute trek along the beach to the “hotel” that Isabel had recommended for lunch. The “hotel” consisted of four bungalows, a swimming pool, six tables looking out over the pool onto the ocean, and fifteen Costa Rican gardeners. The one thing I could tell for sure was that Costa Ricans are very serious about their gardening.

  Four hours later we were on our fourth pitcher of the best margaritas I have ever tasted and about two drinks away from making a four-person pyramid. My father has never been a big drinker, and I’ve certainly never witnessed him having a margarita, never mind eight of them. Latifa really starts to loosen up after a couple of drinks, and in the past hour had used the word “pussy” three times, and followed that up with her theory that men are good for one of two things: “dick or money.”

  Bitch Tits sat there frequently widening his eyes and elbowing me in the ribs, as if we were at a live concert performance or the circus. It’s very rare to see my father so quiet, as he has a very high opinion of his own opinion and loves to share it with anyone who is breathing. To see Mama Latifa having such an intimidating effect on him was more than mildly amusing. Only upon hearing Latifa’s assessment about men and dick or money could he contain himself no longer.

  “Well, I think that’s a bit of an oversta
tement,” he said, crossing his arms with the same seriousness a congressman would use when trying to pass a new law.

  “Shit.” Latifa moaned. “I didn’t get ten kids from not knowing what men are good for, that’s for sure.”

  “You got that right, Mama,” Shoniqua chimed in as they high-fived each other.

  “Well, Papa Handler, why don’t you tell me what your forte is?” Latifa asked.

  “Well, that’s private, darling,” my father said in a very flirtatious tone—one he unfortunately usually reserves for my sisters and me.

  “I know you got that summer house in Martha’s Vineyard, so I guess that answers which you’re good for,” she said, inferring that my father was either bad in bed, or wasn’t well endowed. I didn’t know which was more nauseating: the thought of my father having sex, or the thought of my father having a small penis.

  “Let me tell you girls something,” he said as a gob of spit flew out of his mouth and landed in my eye. “My wife was a very passionate woman, and she and I would make love for days.” Then he raised his voice so all six of the other people in the restaurant could hear too, and repeated, “Days! We would go for days, and—”

  “I’m going to bed,” I said as I got up and headed for where we were staying.

  “She really needs to relax. Let her go to bed and sleep it off. She’s very stressed out,” I heard him tell them as I walked away.

  I walked back to the villa, popped another Ambien, and sent off an e-mail to my brothers and sisters.

  DAY #1

  Shamu and I have arrived safely in Costa Rica. He was stopped by airport security because he carries enough artillery in his pants pockets to construct a sawed-off shotgun. Evidently, he thought we were headed to Iraq.

  I just left him at dinner with Shoniqua and her mother, who he now calls Black Magic and Black Magic’s Mama. For the third time today, he has referenced his lovemaking with Mom, and the only respite I see from these conversations is to physically tape his mouth shut. I will have to ask him how to ask for duct tape in Español.

  His head seems to have gotten bigger. Not sure if it’s swollen from the plane ride. I will keep you apprised of all new developments.

  The following morning I woke up at around eight thirty and looked out the window to see the back of my dad’s thirty-pound head. He was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs in front of the beach, holding up binoculars, with three dogs lying next to him. I put on my bathing suit and walked over to where he was sitting.

  “How these surfers come out of the water after partaking in such a beautiful sport and then light a miserable cigarette is point-blank astonishing,” he said without looking at me. I looked over in the direction his binoculars were focused to see what he was talking about.

  “Dad, that isn’t a cigarette,” I said as I saw the guy pass what he was smoking to his girlfriend. “It’s a joint.”

  “Oh, is it?” he said, putting down his binoculars. “Well, that I can understand.”

  “Oh, really? That you understand?”

  “It’s the reefers. Everybody here loves to smoke the reefers. I just had breakfast at the little Rastafarian joint next door. Beautiful girl working there, like a goddess; she smokes the reefers too. By the way,” he said, looking me up and down, “you look very sexy in your little swimsuit.”

  “You already had breakfast?” I asked him.

  “That’s right,” he replied.

  “By yourself?”

  “Of course by myself!” he exclaimed. “I am an adult, you know. Black Magic and her mother aren’t up. Those two were up yappin’ until two in the morning. Shoniqua’s mother’s really got a mouthpiece on her. And Shoniqua, oh jeez! She’s got one story after another story, and then there’s another story. Those two can talk each other under the table.”

  “I’m surprised you were quiet long enough to hear anything.”

  “Oh, please,” he snorted. “Like I could get a word in edgewise. By the way, tomorrow is Father’s Day. I don’t know what you have planned, but I’d like some swordfish.” Then he barked something in Spanish to the dogs. “These dogs only respond to Spanish.” One of the dogs looked up, while the other two made absolutely no movement. “This one’s trying to make a name for himself. Follows me wherever I go. Not a good-looking dog, but what are you gonna do? How did you sleep?” he asked, and before I could answer, interrupted me. “The ocean is like a symphony, Chelsea. The waves undulating in and out, then back in again, it’s like a beautiful symphony. Do you know what I mean by symphony?”

  “I’m going to make some coffee,” I said, and turned to walk back to the villa. Two minutes later he walked in and slowly made his way upstairs to the kitchen. “I’d like some decaf,” he declared once he reached the top.

  “There is no decaf.”

  “Well, then, half-and-half.”

  “Half and half of what?” I asked him.

  “Half coffee, half cream, same thing as decaf. I’ve been thinking,” he went on. “I want you to take a picture of that tree, Chelsea.” I turned and saw him standing next to my bed, holding up his binoculars to look at a tree that you could touch if you put your hand out the window. “I want pictures of all the trees around here. This one right here is just about three hundred years old.”

  “How do you know it’s not just two hundred years old?”

  “You can tell by looking at the base of the tree. The width of the base, Chelsea! That tree is coming up on its three hundredth birthday, goddammit!” You’d think I’d asked him if a vagina could be used as a pencil sharpener. “Go ahead, take a picture, for crying out loud,” he ordered as I emptied coffee grounds into the coffee maker.

  “In a minute,” I said, gesturing that both my hands were occupied.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Chels,” he said, lowering himself into an armchair. “Have you ever thought of getting some lowlights?”

  Day #2

  “The ocean is like a symphony” is Dad’s new catchprase, along with “surfer’s paradise”—and coming in third is still his old standby, “Arabs are the scum of the earth.”

  After I made him coffee, he said he was going swimming and had plans for lunch. We’ve been here for less than twenty hours and he already has lunch plans with the female Italian landscaper. He said it’s good to brush up on his languages. I was tempted to ask the landscaper how to say “shut the fuck up” in Italian.

  There are several dogs on the grounds who are all following Dad around. “Dogs love me, even these half-breeds. Keep ’em away from Shoniqua and that mother of hers, though. These dogs do not like blacks.”

  Shoniqua’s mother used the n word after four forty-ounce Coronas last night, and Dad, who was appalled, said, “Black Magic Mama, please don’t use language like that. I prefer schvartzeah.”

  If any of you want to come here, everything is paid for.

  Once my dad returned from lunch, he passed out in his bedroom and didn’t wake up for four hours. Going for a swim earlier had completely exhausted him. And it occurred to me that in order for me to get any writing done, it would be necessary to get him swimming every day to completely wipe him out. It seemed to me that caring for a seventy-five-year-old wasn’t much different than caring for a toddler. Once they go down for a nap, it’s important to get as much done as possible.

  At around seven my father walked into Shoniqua’s villa, where I was having a cocktail with the girls, and proclaimed, “It’s time to eat.”

  “Hi, Papa Handler!” Shoniqua exclaimed, running over to give him a kiss.

  Latifa slurped down the remains of her forty-ounce Corona, grabbed another, and the four of us walked over to our new favorite restaurant. The same waitress from the night before came over, and before she had a chance to even say “hello,” Bitch Tits announced, “I’d like some swordfish.”

  “Dad, we haven’t even ordered drinks yet and no one has even looked at the menu. Will you please take it down a notch?”

  “I’m sorry,??
? the waitress said. “We don’t have swordfish.”

  “Margaritas,” my father said, staring at the table. Apologizing for my father had become part of my daily routine early on in life, as he makes a point of having no social skills whatsoever. This is a man who can give you the meaning of any word in the dictionary, the history of any war that has ever taken place, the geographical location of any city in the world, but has never in his life learned the words “please” or “thank you.”

  “You look good in red, Papa Handler,” Shoniqua said, admiring the shirt he had put on for dinner.

  “Do you think so?” he asked, turning his head and looking at her sideways. “Chelsea and my wife always liked me in red. Red, yellow, and chartreuse. You know, my wife was many things,” he said, apparently picking up in the middle of a conversation no one else was having. “She was an artist, a painter, a carpenter, an engineer; she could sew, she was a mechanic, a cook, a baker, a lover, a painter, a gardener, a landscaper, a mother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, an uncle, a volunteer…”

  “Okay, Dad, she wasn’t an uncle.”

  “Chelsea,” he said. “You really need to relax. You seem very stressed out.”

  “I’m gonna get me some filet mignon,” Mama Latifa announced. “You’re paying, right, Chelsea?”

  “Of course she’s paying,” my father replied.

  “Dad, do you want to split a salad as an appetizer?” I asked him.

  “I’ll take my own salad, and then I’ll take the ribs,” he replied as a mango fell off the roof of the restaurant and split open on the ground.

  “They’re not going to have ribs, Dad.”

  “Of course they will. What restaurant doesn’t have ribs?”

  The waitress came over with the menu, which was written on a chalkboard and was different each day and, of course, did not include ribs.