Chuck Palahniuk - Doomed

Seeing my words, she and my dad could only stare in disbelief.

“‘I commit my eternal love,’” my dad would continue, “‘to my supreme lord and master…’”

“Lord and master,” my mom repeats.

“‘Jesus,’” reads my dad.

My mom says, “Jesus Christ.”

Gentle Tweeter,

Jesus Christ made the best fake boyfriend ever. Wherever my family traveled, at our homes in Trinidad or Toronto or Tunisia, the doorbell would ring, and some aboriginal delivery peon would be at our front step bearing a vast bouquet of roses from Him. Dining at Cipriani or Centrale, my dad would order me the lapin à la sauce moutarde , and I’d wait for it to arrive at the table before regarding my plate in pretend disdain. Recoiling, I’d signal the waiter, saying, “Rabbit? I can’t eat rabbit! If you knew anything about Leviticus Two, you’d know that an edible beast has to chew a cud and have a hoof .”

My father would order the salade Lyonnaise , and I’d send it away because pigs didn’t chew cuds. He’d order the escargot bourguignon, which I’d reject because the Bible book specifically forbids eating snails. “They’re unclean,” I’d insist. “They’re creeping things.”

My mother would put on a serene Xanaxed mask. The buzzwords of her life were tolerance and respect , and she was trapped between them as if crushed in an ideological vise. Keeping her voice calm, she’d ask, “Well, dear, what can you eat—”

But I’d cut her off with a “Wait!” I’d fish a PDA from the pocket of my skort and pretend to find a new message. “It’s Jesus,” I’d interrupt, making my parents wince. “He’s texting me!” Their own dinners cooling, I’d make them bide their time. If either of them said a word of protest I’d shush them as I pretended to read and respond. Without looking up, I’d squeal, loud enough for the assembled diners to overhear, “Christ loves me!” I’d frown at my little PDA screen and say, “Jesus disapproves of the dress you’re wearing, Mom. He says it’s too young for you, and it makes you look slutty….”

My parents? I’d become their worst nightmare. Instead of hoisting the ideological banner they’d so proudly bestowed upon me, instead of accepting the torch of their atheist humanism, I was scrolling through the messages on my phone, telling them, “Jesus says that tofu is evil, and all soy is of the Devil.”

My parents… in the past my parents had put their complete faith in quartz crystals and hyperbaric chambers and the I Ching, so they didn’t have a credible leg left to stand on. Throughout this dinner stalemate the waiter had remained steadfast, standing beside our table, and I now turned to him and asked, “Do you, by any chance, serve locusts and wild honey?” I asked, “Or manna?”

As the waiter opened his mouth to respond, I’d turn back to the PDA in my lap and say, “Hold on! Jesus is Tweeting.”

My father caught the waiter’s eye and said, “Perry?” To his credit, my dad knows the name of every waiter in every five-star restaurant in the world. “Perry, would you give us a moment alone?” As the waiter stepped away, my dad shot my mom a look. Almost imperceptibly his eyebrows arched and his shoulders shrugged. They were trapped. As former Scientologists and former Bahá’is and former EST-holes, they could hardly question me as I merrily keyboarded my devotions to my own choice of belief system.

Resigned, my father lifted his fork and waited for my mother to follow suit.

As they each put a first bite of food into their respective mouths, I announced, “Jesus says I should publicly support the next GOP candidate for president!”

Hearing that, both my parents gasped, inhaling food and choking. Swilling wine, they were still coughing, everyone in the dining room watching them wheeze, as my dad’s phone rang. Breathless, he answered it. “A product survey?” he asked, incredulous. “About what? About the toothpicks I buy ?” Almost shouting, he demanded, “Who is this?” Sputtering, he demanded, “How did you get this number?”

And for that, MohawkArcher666, I thank you wholeheartedly.

Gentle Tweeter,

This, this is how the precious little kitten, Tigerstripe, came into my life.

Post-upstate, post-Nana, my parents and I were staying at the ever-lovely Beverly Wilshire hotel. We were eating breakfast in our suite, meaning: I was watching my parents eat. Meaning: My dad was playing his deprogramming games, withholding apricot Danishes and cheese strudels to make me renounce my torrid hookups with Jesus. In retaliation I kept my phone cradled to one ear, billing and cooing and otherwise ignoring my parents’ withering glances as I giggled. “Stop it, Jesus! Stop being such a tease!” I allowed my girlish eyes to flit across the white tablecloth, bypassing the flowers and the orange juice, and rest on my mother’s glaring expression. Pointedly, I examined her, scrutinizing her lips and neck before resting my attention on her bustline as I said, “No, they’re not! No, Jesus, she didn’t!”

My mom shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She lifted the napkin from her lap and daubed at the corners of her mouth. With elaborate Ctrl+Alt+Casualness, she looked at my father and asked, “Antonio, my love, would you pass me the sugar?”

Speaking to my fake Jesus boyfriend, just as I’d spoken to my entire fake circle of girlfriends, I laughed and said, “She’s not!” I said, “I’m sitting right here, and she’s not that bad !”

My father passed my mother the sugar and said, “Maddy, dear, you need to not talk on the phone at the breakfast table.”

My mother began, with the utmost Ctrl+Alt+Sadism, to spoon copious amounts of sugar into her coffee.

The phone still pasted to my head, I bulged my eyes at my dad and mouthed the words I can’t hang up . Silently I screamed, It’s Jesus!

How to rebel against parents who celebrated rebellion? If I did drugs and pulled a train of outlaw bikers and venereal-warted gangbangers, nothing could make my parents happier.

Acting as if breakfast were sacrosanct family time, my dad was such a hypocrite. Open on the table beside his place was the usual stack of orphan dossiers, among them a photo of two flinty eyes that stared out from a glossy head shot. These stone-colored eyes, they seemed to despise every silly luxury they could see in this sumptuous hotel setting. For the length of a gasp, the trill of my schoolgirl giggling fell silent as my own eyes were held spellbound by the craggy features and churlish expression of that particular Slavic foundling. Entranced was I by that coarse thuggish sneer.

At last my mom broke the silence by saying, “Hang up, young lady.”

Turning on her, I attacked with, “Jesus says you’re the one who’s fat.”

“Hang up now,” said my dad.

And I told them, “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” Into the phone, I said, “JC? I need to call you back later.” I said, “My imperious, all-powerful dad is being a big booger; you know how that goes.” As my coup de grâce, I told the phone, “And you’re right about my mom’s belly.” With exquisite Ctrl+Alt+Deliberateness, I switched off my phone and placed it next to my empty breakfast plate. For the record, Gentle Tweeter, at that repast I’d been served nothing more than a halved grapefruit, a sliver of dry toast, and a meager poached egg. A quail egg, mind you. Such death-camp rations had hardly gilded my mood. Affecting my best Elinor Glyn attitude, I thrust my face at my father and announced, “As you seem so determined to make me suffer…” Here I closed my eyes in the style of a true heroine. “… I’d rather you just lashed out and struck me!” As other preteens might long for a large allowance or shiny hair or friends, I wanted my parents to strike me. A punch with a closed fist or a slap with an open hand, I dreamed of it. Whether the blow came from my mom or dad, those pacifist, idealist, nonviolent do-gooders, it didn’t matter. Across my cheek or into my stomach, I yearned for the impact because I knew that nothing else would shift the parent/child balance of power as effectively. If I could goad them into slugging me just once, forever afterward I could cite that incident and use the memory to win any argument.