Thanksgiving Day 2024

The power's out and we're off to a bar.

The smell of wet earth is settled in the air. It’s Fall, Thanksgiving day. My mom and I bundle up and head out into the first rainy day in over a month. We head over to Shane O’Connor’s, a local bar/restaurant, where we pick up meals to deliver to low-income families. Our assigned meals are for senior housing, Hartley House, right down the block from our own home. The people are cordial; we chat a little, and two of those cute, crusty white dogs run around the halls. The power goes out. The generator kicks in. But our house, right down the block, has no generator. When we get home, sure enough, the power is out. There is no way to cook the turkey or anything else.

We (my mom, my uncle Tony, and me) sit in the living room, waffling about what to do. My uncle is on his way out to a bar his friend owns. They have food for people who don’t have anywhere else to go for the holiday. We stop at Colossus Diner for turkey sandwiches on the way there, not wanting to take food out of the mouths of the needy. My mom chats with the diner host, talking about being the youngest of 13, her usual opener.

My uncle calls us (he’s already at Bourbon Blue’s). He sounds excited.

“There’s a surprise here for your mom.”

“Is it food related? Should we not get this stuff?”

“No, just come now.”

We take our food to go but don’t hurry.

The bar is in a strip mall on Hempstead Turnpike on Long Island. There’s a father and a daughter playing pool in the back. My uncle is at the bar.

“Look who it is!” He smiles as he turns to the bartender.

“Patty Tilman?!?” My mom says in disbelief.

I’d heard many stories of Patty and my mom growing up.

Like when they would make up dance routines to “Please Mr. Postman” by the Marvelettes.

Or when Patty convinced my mom to do shopping cart races, it tipped over, and my mom got a big black and blue across her thigh.

Like in high school when Patty got drunk and threw up on my mom’s boyfriend’s expensive suede jacket.

Or the time they signed up for a charity walk when they were 12 and Patty bailed, leaving my mom to walk 22 miles on her own. She didn’t have to walk them; nobody would have known, but she did it on the principle of commitment. One of the sponsors refused to give my mom what she owed her, so the March of Dimes with a sheriff showed up at my mom’s door the next day, demanding the money. My grandmother, my mom’s mom, wrung them out for coming after a kid for a couple of dollars. “Here’s your criminal,” she gestured to my 12-year-old mother.

John Mellencamp is playing on the bar radio, well-chosen by Patty. Her bartender persona is reflected in her plunging neckline and choice of music.

A man in his 50s walks in.

“I need a drink before I make a cameo appearance at my sister’s.”

He sits in the corner table, quietly nursing a beer, steeling himself.

Another group enters. Two heterosexual couples, the wives are twins.

My family eats our sandwiches at the bar as my mom and Patty catch up. They haven’t seen each other in over 30 years since a mutual friend’s wedding. Patty is exactly the same, and my mom is, too.

Patty is offended that my mom doesn’t remember she was also in Kathy’s wedding party.

Then, the conversation turns to me.

I tell her I’m studying to be a librarian. She is gobsmacked.

“I’ve never met anyone who wants to do that!”

She makes a side remark about my mom being controlling. I disagree.

Patty turns to tend to the other barflies.

My uncle and mom strike up a conversation with the two couples.

The seating order, from left to right, is: me, my uncle Tony, my mom, husband #1, husband #2. The twin wives are at a table on the side.

No one is acknowledging me, so I turn to my book (The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion), but I can’t engage with it. I’m listening to the conversation going on to my right.

There’s a picture on the wall of Mike, a guy Tony played lacrosse with in high school. The photo is of Mike when he was named MVP his senior year.

Tony points out the picture and says he played lacrosse in school. My mom mentions she works at a bank and leaves it at that.

Tony says something about them both going to Cornell. He mentions playing lacrosse there.

“Oh, you didn’t say you played lacrosse in college?” Says husband #1.

The husbands’ backs get straighter.

Husband #1 takes out his phone to take a picture of Tony and mom.

My mom cringes, “What’s the purpose of this photo? What are you going to do with it?”

“Oh I’ll post it to Facebook.”

“I don’t do that stuff. I don’t want you posting it anywhere.”

He takes the picture but backs down on the Facebook thing.

“I actually had to get off Facebook myself cause I was getting too many unsolicited pictures from women,” he smirks.

My mom’s disgusted face makes him change his tune.

“I’m just kidding.”

“Oh I know,” My mom quips.

The corresponding wife laughs tentatively.

Everyone but my family starts to get drunk, and the mood is beginning to turn. The liquor is loosening up their facades. Politics start to come up. It’s time to go.

We wish everyone a happy holiday. My mom, a bank executive, leaves $100 bill for the tip.

We stop at a grocery store to pick up a cooked chicken and by the time we get home, the power is back on.