One Limp Finch - Beta Finch Blog

Running into someone you used to be friends with but haven’t spoken to in years is an experience unique to humans, I’m sure. Especially American humans. From an early age, we’re trained to pretend to care and be polite and optimistic, which works in many brief interactions but isn’t too good for those that drag on or require improvisation. For other cultures, the enthusiasm may be genuine but not in the state of New York. Not at seven in the morning in the middle of winter. There, it’s a paper thin veneer barely hiding insecure monsters and a generalized bitterness.

It’s no ones fault. We just don’t know how to go all in with our feelings or commit to a rapid exit. We’re stuck, then, in that unpleasant middle ground where there’s the awkward small talk and imposed familiarity. Continuing a conversation from decades ago that no one can remember. I don’t know you anymore, and you don’t know me, but here we are pretending like that isn’t the case. Funeral intimacy.

This is how it played out for me earlier:

 “Heyyy you. Wow, I almost pretended not to recognize you,” I began.

 “Same here. It’s been a busy morning. Busy twenty years.”

 “I see you’ve completed sexual intercourse at least once, if I’m to understand that this is your brood presently screaming and clawing at the Count Chocula?”

 “Yes, this is Steven. Steven, say ‘hi’ to- No! I told you we’re not getting the chocolate ones!”

 “The chocolate ones are delicious. I’m getting three boxes myself. There’s an amazing toy surprise at the bottom, I heard. That’s why I’m getting three. I don’t want to be the only person without one. Supplies are limited.”

 “Don’t, you’re not helping - Steven, Steven, no. I don’t see a wedding band, but - oh, that doesn’t matter - have you neglected to pull out whilst virile and joined the parents club, or…?”

 “I dunno, probably. I never stuck around long enough to find out one way or the other. Ha. I’m kidding.”

 “Steven, put that down!”

 “I’m not kidding.”

 “That’s great to hear, even though I’m not listening. So, what have you been up to? God, it’s been, what? More than half our lives since we saw each other.”

 “Emily’s party. Right.”

 “Oh yeaaaah. You threw up in the bushes in front of her parents house, didn’t you? That was you, right? You were so wasted!”

 “Right. I took a handful of pills and downed them with a wine cooler. I think I was hoping to end things but just got sick. Maybe it was a cry for help, I don’t know.”

 “Lows like that really benefit from a teenage audience. We were all watching when the neighbors called the police and you wound up in the back of the cop car yelling, ‘I’m guilty! It was me - I killed the perennials!’”

 “I forgot about that. Memories are fun.”

 “Fun fun fun. We used to have a lot of fun. What happened?”

 “Who can say? I mean, we could obviously sit down and go over what happened and it might be good for both of us in some way. Unexpected contact with another breathing, sentient entity. Different histories and viewpoints. Validation.”

 “Oooh. That is tempting, but, like I said before - busy busy busy.”

 “Of course. Grocery shopping and spawning. Not enough hours in the day.”

 “Time does go by… until, one day, we’re dead and gone. I’ve fucked a middle class dynasty into existence here with Steven, and you’ve got… your thing. The rest is gravy.”

 “We’ve won, truly. So. Uh.”

 “Even though you’re obviously not married or have any asshole children, and we have nothing in common, let’s exchange phone numbers and agree to never ever call one another.”

 “Sounds good. Another name to skip over in my contacts list. Hey, if we cross paths again in fifteen years do you want to pretend not to see one another or have this exact same exchange?”

 “Ooh, tough call. I’m leaning towards the same exchange, except older and sadder, but - we should probably have trusted our instincts earlier, let’s agree to look off at literally anything else until we’re out of each others sight line.”

 “Awesome. I’ll see you - whoops - I won’t see you then.”

 The scene ends with a weird hug - handshake - hug misunderstanding because neither of us knows what to do. Funeral intimacy. Sorry for your loss. We went our separate ways and I left feeling sad after putting the three boxes of chocolate cereal I didn’t want back on the shelf. Not because of jealousy or anything like that. She didn’t have anything that I wanted other than a seeming satisfaction that she had made the correct life choices. I felt bad because these cereal aisle run ins with the past always play out this way.

“Okay, Finch. Please remove excess clothing and put it over ‘mya.”

“I have a t-shirt on under my sweater, should I remove... oh, you’re not in the hallway anymore.”

“Sir, no, put your pants back on. The hook is there.”

“I found the hook.”

“Truly remarkable. I’m going to give you this cup. You will have four minutes to fill it to the line.”

“The top of the text on the cup? There isn’t really a line.”

“The imaginary line above the text, yes. If you flush the toilet in that time you will be forced to start again.”

“Can I close the door or do you need to verify the parabolic arc with some kind of measuring device?”

“There is no pee arc device, sir. You can close the door, but I’ll be holding my ear directly against it and breathing loudly.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, Finch, please wash your fingers seductively first. It puts the soap on its skin, remember?”

“Oh, right. Don’t want to get the hose again. Done. I’ll just go in now - <shut>

...........

“Sir, it’s been two minutes. I’m going to begin singing the wiener song.”

“I’ve been thinking of all the things that used to excite me but I don’t feel anything anymore.”

“That’s very sad, sir. But we’re peeing, yes? Pee Pee Pee. Wiener Wiener Wiener, Please don’t disappoint! Wiener Wiener - Sir, you’re not reciting the state capitals in reverse alphabetical order. That’s one electric shock. Don’t convulse and accidentally flush the toilet.”

“Fuck me! Ah, oh, some pee came out. I filled it to the top of the text!”

They’re back. No hyperbole, geese are the avian equivalent of a 9/11 AIDS diagnosis. If a funeral could hiss, bite, and cause you to step in a pile of its poop while you backed away in grief-stricken horror, it would still be more charming than these little bastards. 

There’s an island near India that you shouldn’t ever go. The uncontacted tribe is made up entirely of Chads and Tiffanis and they’re all assholes. The economy on Sentinel Island is built around Necco Wafers (objectively the worst candy) and rape (also pretty bad). How is this possible? Well, say a Chad wants to buy Necco Wafers from another Chad, who has no Necco Wafers to trade back. They might agree that two packs of “candy” are worth one rape and shake hands on it, flexing the whole time. 

Now, they don’t just get on with the sex right then and there, because that would be consensual, totally gay, and sort of make sense. Instead, both Chad’s go on their way. The Chad that sold his Necco Wafers must wait until a time when it’s apparent the other Chad absolutely does not want sex, at which point he collects what is owed.

I remember when I was 8 years old in the fall of ‘89. It was a few days after Halloween, a Friday or Saturday, and I was excited to be spending the night at my friend’s house. 

That night seemed to have it in for our plans for Genesis and VHS movie rentals, as a bad storm came through the area and the power kept going out. Having our plans ruined and being kids, we turned our attention on terrorizing my friend’s younger brother. Jump cut to a lot of tears and me being driven home.

When I arrived, the lights in the house were out, and I fumbled my way in through the door. It wasn’t that late, maybe 8:30, so I expected to find my parents up and around doing whatever parents did when the power was out. Talking about taxes or my achievements in Cubscouts or whatever, but they weren’t. 

Confused, I made my way to their bedroom, kind of feeling along the wall with my hand until I reached their door, which was mostly closed but not all the way, Madonna’s “Cherish” clearly emanating from within.

I opened the door and before me was something I will never forget. In the half-light of a dozen candles were my parents. My mom on all fours, a Nerf Fencing sword retrofitted as an animal tail butt plug dangling between her and my father, who had managed to squeeze into the child sized Batman costume I had worn for Halloween. Surrounding them were old family photos, presumably fashioned as a surrogate audience. My dad was pointing at my grandparents wedding photo, panting and thrusting, he extended a finger to the portrait and said, “You see that, George? You like what I’m doing to your daughter?”