Banana Seat Devil

Cousin Scott brings us out to lunch at Moosey Maroo’s. This is one of those restaurants that attempts to act as the transporter to some kooky universe full of obnoxious cocktails and severed moose heads wearing propeller beanies, like fear and loathing kiddy style. It really is the creation of a sick fuck..I truly believe that. So Scott has brought me and Chris here, for what I don’t know. Do I want to know? Shit no, I prefer to lose myself in the cajun delight of Funky Junk Chicken atop a bed of Good Golly Farfalle.

"You know you guys are just my favorite cousins?" Scott tries this full-of-shit smile and continues nursing his Bicycle Built for Two which is basically a huge boozed up milkshake with little old-fashioned bikes hanging around the rim. Two straws, meant to get two people shwacked, but that doesn’t really matter. Scott’s teetering along on his own mental bicycle toward the pit of alcoholic’s dementia. I can see Satan riding on the second seat, whipping up mixed drinks with his goat hooves and whispering shitty advice in Scott’s ear, "C’mon man, fuck your AA sponsor! Drink this, then we’ll go violate your restraining order!" Scott nods his head and pedals faster. Demon banners flapping in the wind and fire shooting out of the handle bars.

"So I have an announcement," Scott slurs halfway through his cycling adventure. "I’m moving out. Ridin’ the independence doggy! Curfew? Chores? No fuckin’ way man! I’m packin’ up this one man act and heading up to Canada."

Scott proceeds to pitch his plan of picking up the guitar again, maybe finding a good woman and doing a bit of snowshoeing and I just sit there smoking and jaded. Canada? This asshole can barely walk down to the Star Market without calling his AA sponsor or his mom. Here’s a dude who is 43 years old and lives in a van in our Aunt Maureen’s driveway. I shudder to remember the hours that Chris and I were trapped in that van listening to the endless and abnormal debacle that was Scott’s life. Hours we’ll never get back. A joyless shindig offering warm beer and pot as the consolation prize. In the dead of winter, middle of the night, he’d have us in there. He’d be telling these outrageously fabricated stories. Like the time he crushed the ribs of a Hell’s Angel at Robano’s Garage, or the time he got into it with Aerosmith’s lighting guy at Lucifer’s in Kenmore Square 1971, busted the guy’s head with a monkey wrench and stole his stash.

I would be pretty in-the-bag during these sessions, so the fiction would melt into the Stones coming out of the speakers and the howl of wind outside. It was just a situation where you couldn’t ask for proof. Aunt Maureen was always in the house crying about the fuck-up shantytown in her driveway. Uncle Gary would be cocked out of his mind and spinning Duke Ellington on the hi-fi with the lights off. The house was totally off limits for Scott. One time he tried to sneak in at like 2 AM for a cold one and Uncle Gary chased him around the house with a lawn dart in his hand. Shit like that was always happening.

"Scott you’re a god damn loser," Chris is getting all pissed like he usually does. He isn’t even eating his Mooso Go Loco Mexican Sampler.

"Hey f off Chris! I’m not treating you to lunch so you can squat and dump a steamer on my meal!"

Chris starts up ripping now, "Dump a steamer on what meal? You’re drinking your lunch you freaking cock mutant! I am so sick of you making me and Sarah listen to your bullshit. You’ve hit rock bottom, dude."

Scott slurps up the last of his drink and his eyes cross a little. "What may I ask is ‘rock bottom’ Mr. Meal Crapper?"

"Rock bottom is a van in Aunt Maureen’s front yard. You’re driving her to an early grave, man!"

Scott had this chick named Dory, maybe 2 years ago. She was actually incredibly promising, a music major at Suffolk University and a contributing writer to some snooty jazz ‘zine. With credentials like that, we still can’t figure out what the hell she wanted with Scott. But during her winter and summer breaks she’d move into the luxurious van-o-love with him and make love with a cowboy hat on, as according to Scott. She partied with us a lot and I remember she had buck teeth. This sticks out in my mind because Chris once made a joke that Scott could open his bottled selections on her front choppers. So having Dory around was pretty decent...until she died. I know, it’s morbid as hell, but one night during winter break, Scott made her sneak into the house for a cold one at like 2 AM. Uncle Gary thought it was Scott and started chasing this chick around the house with a spatula and donning one of those old fashioned Yalee football helmets. She freaked, fell off of the upstairs pool patio and right onto the sidewalk. That cute little beaver chick with credentials...snuffed.

We all drove into Boston for the funeral. When we got there, Scott was standing in front of the church with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

"Scott, man. I’m so sorry about Dory."

Scott shrugs his shoulders and swipes his arm in the air, "Oh, as’aright!" The whole shitty thing didn’t even bother him. Was he plowed? Very probably. He was probably down at the Sam Adams Brew House drinking those beer samplers that they serve up on bread boards. What a fuck...

4:07 PM at Moosey Maroo’s and things aren’t looking very f’n cool. Chris is bitching Scott out and Scott puts his cigarette out in Chris’s chicken burrito. Chris is screaming, "Dude! Scott! What’s your damage you psycho assbag?" Scott jumps out of his seat and waggles a shaky finger in Chris’s face, "Chris my sponsor warned me about dickheads like you. You are a spirit burglar! Trying to ruin my dreams and diminish my sense of worth. Well I am not havin’ it! You just get the fuck outta here if all you wanna do is tear me down." Chris pokes me in the arm and laughs, "I’m a spirit burglar? Oh that’s freaking rich, man! You are a loser. I’ve sat through so much of your bullshit...and that’s all it was! It was bullshit! Has it ever occurred to you that Sarah and me are the only ones who actually ever talk to you? You’re an f’n joke. That drink was made for two people."

Chris leaves and I follow him. I don’t even turn around to see what Scott’s doing. He might’ve been prying a moose head off the wall or burying his face in his hands. Either way, he was just a random drunk guy, defeated.

Two weeks after our lunch, Aunt Maureen kills herself, head in the oven like Sylvia Plath. Scott looks like a fucked-up Beatle with these stacked heel Cuban boots on and an uncombed bowl shape haircut. He’s just standing in front of the church, smoking. After this he’ll go back to the van and get ‘faced. And after Maureen’s in the ground, he’ll hop back on that tattered bicycle with the devil waiting on the rear. "C’mon Scotty, let’s have a drink, I got a plan and I need to know what ya thoughts are!" Then the horns will come out. They always do.

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