Television

For Christmas this year my parents bought themselves an offensively large, high definition, flat screen TV. It takes up nearly half the living room wall. I never had a problem with the old TV; if you ask me Sister Sister looks the same in big size as it did in normal size. However, since its arrival three days ago, the gargantuan box has inadvertently become a sort of centerpiece for the entire house. The beating heart. It’s all everyone talks about: “Let’s get cozy in front of the TV!” “Time to pose for pictures around the TV!” “Everyone get down on their knees and thank Jesus for the gift of this glorious TV!” “Actually, fuck it, just pray directly to the television.”

My brother Rob and I–the only ones seemingly disillusioned by the house’s new addition–can’t escape our parents for ten minutes without them trying to lure us back into the box’s hypnotic thrall. “Come watch Elf with us!” they shout, both cacooned in a golden Christmas tree blanket. “It will be fun! All of us together as a family!”

“No thanks, we hate that movie.”

“Yeah but it’s big now!”

“We hate it even when it’s big.”

“But it’s 3-D!”

“HD mom. Not 3-D. Oh my god.”

“It’s not about the dimensions,” she frowns, looking either sad or confused or both. “It’s about spending quality time together. I wish you and Rob would realise that.” Her lip quivers and I reluctantly head upstairs to fetch my brother.

Rob is a very soft spoken, awkward creature. Emotionally and physically weak, potentially gay, vegan. Recently, however, Rob seems to be unearthing some formerly latent anger. It appears sporadically, mainly during holidays or any family oriented events. With this in mind, I give his door a light warning knock before pushing my way into his bedroom. I find him lying on the floor, taking a hit from a bong made out of a Gatorade bottle. He flashes me a look of disdain. “Must you invade my sanctuary?” he says haughtily between deep, weedy breaths. “I’m in the middle of something very important.”

“Sorry. Uh… mom and dad want us to come down and–”

“Mom and dad are in a state of complete mania,” he thunders. “All they do is talk about that evil, electronic box. They can not be trusted. Now either come in or get out–standing in the doorway like that is not permitted–but if you do come in you must shut the door behind you.” I enter apprehensively. Rob pulls a large wooden box out from under his bed, rummages though it frantically, then pops a tab of something shiny onto his tongue, sucks on it just a bit too hard, and half smiles.”

“Was that acid?” I ask. “Are you hoarding LSD in this room?”

“I might be or I might not be, what is it to you?”

“It’s nothing, I was just wondering.”

“Well can you take your ‘wondering’ someplace else please? Your paranoia is destroying my psychedelic ecstasy.”

“My paranoia? I feel fine. You’re the one who hasn’t left your bedroom in over four days. It can’t be good for anyone to be locked up in this weird, tofu-smelling hovel for so long. Why don’t you come out for an hour or so, watch a movie with mom and dad. All they want is for all of us to hang out for a while, to show them we still love them or whatever.”

“I do intend to show them my affection, abstractly,” he says, staring blankly at his nails. “However Sarah and I have a couples yoga session in an hour, so I really have to be going.”

“You guys go to couples yoga?”

“We do, yes. Feel free to respond with one of your sarcastic remarks if you like, but I must forewarn you that I’m not listening.”

“When did you become such a–” but he’s already left the room, ears sufficiently plugged by two scrawny index fingers. And even though he can’t hear me, I shout anyway, “I love you despite your unbridled teen angst!” And I really mean it.