The Hatchetts

... this commonality is the loathing and spite toward the event, manifest in all involved parties. These parties are as follows: The host and hostess, the senior Reverend and Mrs. Hatchet, of Montgomery, Alabama, or just on the outskirts thereof. It is a farming community for the most part. Which brings us to the next two Hatchets, the Reverend and Mrs. Hatchets' children, now fully grown, Arthur and Sue Beth. Arthur, at forty years old, still lives on the premises - not in the house but in a ramshackle fort in the backyard, set up (loosely) like a classic, American frontier fort with the fence all round and watchtowers and such. Arthur is an imbecile. His sister, Sue Beth is somewhat more intelligent but cursed with downright awful decision-making skills. She is married to a full-time rodeo clown named James but he insists on Jimbo. Jimbo, the clown. Rodeo clown, excuse me. For those of our audience who perhaps live in non-bull-riding countries, a rodeo clown is employed at a rodeo competition to act as a distraction for the animal if a cowboy is in danger of being trampled. Jimbo is an all-right fellow in the sense that he has no concept or intent approximating to evil but instead he simply wishes to enjoy himself and stay out of trouble.

The problem, from Crysal Briarcliffe's point of reference, is that he is a nincompoop and a hideous conversationalist. What's their relationship, you wonder? Well, she is Sue Beth's nineteen year old daughter but not Jimbo the clown's. She is his step-daughter. I understand this is all rather confusing. Like many southern family trees, its branches are many-forked and heavily gnarled. It's a third marriage actually for Sue Beth - but three of a great many bad decisions over a short lifetime - and she is encouraged, if by nothing else, by her son-in-law's distinguished surname. Sounds British she thinks, which must be "good blood." Perhaps he has connections to the royal family she thinks with genuine hope, like the ridiculous fool that she is.

So, at the base of things we are talking about an annual congregation of fools. The faces change on occasion but that certain foolish milieu never does. This Briarcliffe fellow, Justin Briarcliffe is a fool because he has indeed squandered his distinguished surname on a nineteen year old from god-awful Texarkana, Arkansas. Even after the baby she is still, for the most part, a cute and perky, sexually vivacious young woman. However, for Justin Briarcliffe, an affluently raised, college educated boy, her finer qualities do not overturn my opinion that he, too, is a fool. For god's sake, he is an affluently raised, college-educated boy with his entire life in front of him and he is here amongst all these fools. Not only that but he feels guilty for facilitating the introduction of new life into this mix. He looks down at his beautiful infant named Frankie (named after Crystal's late cousin who died honorably defending American shores from the scourge of wildlife-threatening lucrative oil ventures).

Frankie is asleep and Justin pities him when he is really more deserving of pity himself. Is it any consolation that the likes of Jimbo the Clown and Sue Beth and Arthur Hatchet and even the Reverend and Missus are fools in the most innocent sense, doomed from the start by genetics and a viscous cycle of foolishness perpetrated by their ancestors before them? Hardly.

Anyway, at the current time, Sue Beth is listening to the senior Reverend Hatchett, because that is what one does in the company of the Reverend. He or she listens, nods, and pretends they have not heard the same story over and over about the dog who could spin a basketball on his nose. Crystal has baby Frankie in arms and, again, is talking to the horribly banal Jimbo the Clown, who is not even a good listener. A truly wretched conversationalist is one who cannot even listen and stay on topic. Crystal has just finished an anecdote, albeit irrelevant, about baby Frankie having freckles on his derriere, and Jimbo cannot even reply with an, "Isn't that nice." Or "Interesting." Instead, he says, "Ya'll ever seen that cheese in a can? I didn't think it would taste like cheese but it does. It's perty gosh darned good."

Crystal gives up and turns to dote on Frankie. The Reverend is still talking about the dog who can spin a basketball on his nose and he is laughing hysterically, eyes squinting behind his tri-focals and giant yellow teeth squarely borne to the room. Sue Beth feels queasy from the stale coffee and tobacco smell billowing from his mouth with every hoarse guffaw. Then Arthur, who has been staring at a spider on the ceiling, pipes up - much to everyone's chagrin. To recap, Arthur is the son of the Reverend and Missus Hatchett and is unmarried, living in the ramshackle fort in their backyard. He is also a man of idiot-level intelligence.

"Man, I tell you what ya'll. I've got a little turtle poking his head out! You know what I mean! You know what I mean? Huh-huh, huh huh huh. Know what I mean?"

"Don't make me wash your mouth out with soap young man!" the senior Mrs. Hatchett says. The reverend looks more incensed than the Missus and immediately thereafter reacts in a knee-jerk type of manner. He rises from his seat, his near-permanent smile turned to a deep scowl and he says, "I'm fixing to beat the stuffing out of you, boy!"

"Now, honey." The missus says. "Don't hurt yourself."

Arthur is oblivious to this conversation, as he has already sealed himself in the bathroom, which is separated from the living room by a flimsy door. The door is right behind the folding chairs where Crystal, her son Frankie, her husband Justin and her stepfather Jimbo the Clown are seated. Since the Hatchets are too foolish to appreciate music, they do not even have a corny Christmas album playing in the background. The upshot of this factor, combined with the paper-thin door to the bathroom, is that everyone becomes privy to a most graphic account of Arthur's bowel movement. The rookie observer might surmise that a small concussion grenade had been detonated and that Arthur's moans and grunts resulted from burst eardrums. This crowd, on the other hand, knowing Arthur's crudeness, are all too familiar with the sounds as well as the sour smell now filling the room like a bloated, gaseous jellyfish. The toilet flushes and he emerges a moment later, having obviously skipped hand-washing, and he says, "Woo! Man! Hey, let me see that little bastard!" His outstretched hands and his enormous bucked teeth are headed straight for little Frankie and Crystal shields him like an elephant mother shielding her baby from a charging boar. Do boars really charge at baby elephants? No, as far as we can tell, but one never really knows what the animals do in private. We think we observe them secretly but no, we do not.

"Fuck off!" Crystal says, for lack of something more polite and holiday-spirited.

"Come on, let me see 'em. I guess he's got a teeny little pecker inside them shit shorts, huh? Man, I bet it's small!"

"Why you son of a bitch!" The Reverand shouts. He breaks loose from the Missus and clamps one of his large, coarse hands onto Arthur's ear and twists his head down to the floor. Then he releases his son and stomps his head into the floor with one of his thick-soled clergyman's shoes. Ironically, such footwear shares many of the same properties as those worn by military men.

Arthur whimpers and, without another word, gets up and moseys off to the backyard. The Reverend kisses Crystal on the forehead tenderly and says, "I'm sorry sweetheart. Look at my great grandson! He's so precious! Look at him Mabel."

Mabel is the Missus, and she has slipped into a daydream about her youth, when she used to kiss boys down by the creek behind the school during recess. She does not hear her husband's comment but is subconsciously ejected from her stupor by the sound of her name.

"Why don't we have some cocktails." She says. Would anyone like a cocktail?"

Almost all at once, Crystal, Justin, Jimbo the Clown, Sue Beth, and the Reverend say, "Yes!" Most are thinking, thank god we're breaking out the booze. Indeed, sweet liquor will perhaps quell some of the pain and suffering of family togetherness.

So whisky and gin are had by all in great quantities over the next several hours and, after a shoddily prepared dinner of boiled meat and cornbread, the Reverend announces that presents will be unwrapped. Without delay, the drunken family members scramble to the tree and Arthur, back from the fort, plows shoulder-down into the browned, scraggly Christmas tree as though it were a football blocking sled. The Reverend pauses briefly to scold him but then jumps back into the fracas himself, clawing indiscriminately at colored paper and ribbon. The family strategy, or lack thereof, has always been to open all the presents first and ask questions, about "to whom" and "from whom," at a later time. Often the packages contain nothing more than junky thrift merchandise - or bona fide junk, like hubcaps or half-used bottles of catsup - so the vast majority go unclaimed anyway. The scene looks very much like a farcical Christmas snow globe with scraps of paper and ribbons flying round a bunch of poor, drunken rednecks. When the unwrapping is complete, they root around in the debris to find anything of marginal value. Strictly utilitarian value, that is, because it is given that nothing is worth much money. There are cheap tea-pots and sweaters and toothpaste, but Crystal's attention is drawn to a tiny newspaper clipping. It is nestled in some shredded wrapping paper and she reads what looks like a classified advertisement:

INHABITANTS WANTED

Do you have a penchant for the impossible? Yearn for the day when the oppression of authority miraculously wanes before your eyes? Do you consider yourself superior to all others yet trust your safety is in their compromising hands? Do you want to survive the impending revolution or die a fool or, at best, a martyr. The martyr is overrated, one might argue, because he is dead. Finally, do you fear death enough to elevate safety to a level of chief importance?
If you answered all these questions correctly, you may qualify to inhabit a place which defies even your wildest preponderances. This place will shelter you, feed you, clothe you, sustain you, nurture you, and keep you safe from all the world's evils. Can you say goodbye to the world as you know it? Families up to three welcome. Submit credentials to: Operation PYRAPOT, P.O. Box 2890-22-23-8, Sunnyside, New York.

"What the hell is this?" she says. Everyone glances to see the item in question but only her mother, Sue Beth, pays her any mind.

"Oh, yes, would you believe it? I put that little 'ole thang in a box for you and you done found it. She done found it James."

Her husband grunts and continues scavenging the rubble.

"What the hell is it, mama?" Crystal says, in a mix of emotion ranging from irritability to intrigue.

"Well, I saw that there in the paper the other day and I thought it looked real innerstin'. I mean, I thought it might could be somethin' you and Justin and little Frankie might be innersted in. It says families up to three, don't it?"

"But what the hell is it?" Crystal says.

"Let me see that?" Justin says.

"Is that the thing about the-" The reverend says to Sue Beth.

"That's the one. Your granddaddy thinks it might be some govament experimint, like the ones that pays folks to live in a bubble or somethin'."

"I'm not living in a bubble." Justin says.

"I don't understand what that's all about." Crystal says. "What kind of freaky ad is that? Operation what?"

"Operation PYRAPOT." Justin says. "It sounds French."

"Listen you two." The Reverend says. He reaches for his whiskey cocktail and swills half of it down at once. "As a man of the cloth, I like to believe I've got a feelin' for when things is good or evil and I believe this one's good. Come on, now, look at y'all. Y'all're young, smart folks with a little'n to look after and look at y'all. Livin' in that crap hole Texarcana, just scrapin' by - excuse me Mabel. Lookie there! That thar address's in New York City!"

"We'll think about it grandpop." Crystal says, thinking he has gone completely senile, but Justin has silently tucked the clipping inside his shirt pocket.