brett

Two things I hate: people who don’t just come out and say what they mean, and strawberry anything. And also when something that’s supposed to be simple and a break from the grind becomes a clusterfuck. So that’s three.

Each year brings the Foster Family Autumn Barbecue—some say Famous, but I’ve taken to saying Notorious—and Layla’s famous (I say notorious) strawberry-rhubarb pie, made with strawberries and rhubarb that she grows in a scrubby patch of dirt in our backyard. It was charming for a while, her playing Young MacDonald in the back forty square feet, but like all things charming, it eventually started to irritate the shit out of me. I don’t want to sound like an asshole; it’s not the idea of growing things in the backyard that gets me. It’s the sanctimony, the “look at me.” And then she puts strawberries in everything. Strawberry shortcake, strawberry cheesecake, strawberries and cream. I swear, one cold night we had strawberry stew. I know everybody else in my family loves the stuff and eats it up, but what about me? I’ve given up saying anything, because it does no good. I just live with it.

The family barbecue is something of a legend around town. Mostly because there are only nine Fosters—my mom and dad, Scott, Trish, and me; Layla (Foster in name only); and then my dad’s brother, Nate, his wife, Allison, and their daughter, Lucy—yet our little event has over the years morphed into a block party for practically all of Los Angeles.

Nate and Allison are crunchy granola folks. Allison refused to go to a hospital when Lucy was being born and gave birth underwater with a midwife and a lot of bad music playing. They believe in holistic medicine only, which essentially means no medicine. Lucy wasn’t even vaccinated, and she’s never had a shot in her life. I guess if she’s healthy, that’s all that matters, and she is. I call it dumb luck. Just not to their faces.

Now, I’m not one to judge—or, rather, I try to keep my observations mostly to myself—but they don’t feed the girl breakfast. They give her chicken noodle soup or purees of vegetables and brown rice in the morning. That’s not breakfast. I mean, that’s just un-American. As a favorite uncle, I find it my duty to corrupt her whenever possible. Therefore, the barbecue is one of her favorite days of the year.

But we’re not why it’s legendary. Rather, it’s because the entire neighborhood and several crashers from adjacent neighborhoods come every year, resulting in the transformation of Riverside Park into the Foster “Extended Family” Zoo. It’s become not just a family tradition but a local convention, so busy that food trucks and vendors show up like clockwork and generally make a killing.

Layla and I roll up to Riverside Park at eleven-thirty a.m., and it’s already packed. She’s telling me again about this great deal for her and my sister, something about PETCO maybe franchising her photo-booth rights, but it doesn’t sound like it’s set in stone yet. I nod, thinking I’ll believe it when I see it. I’m still thinking about my team’s last game and how they’re not doing as well this year as last.

I bust out my mitt and head over to the baseball diamond as Layla heads toward my dad’s annual poker game. Layla’s been a part of that game since we were juniors in high school, and she and my dad’s friends take their card playing very seriously. As seriously as anyone can take a poker game where there’re potato-salad droppings on the table.

Layla says that they all have certain tells and she knows when someone’s bluffing nine times out of ten. She says my dad purses his lips and flares his nostrils and tries to look worried when he has a good hand. When he has a bad hand he massages his earlobe and smiles. Get it? He does the opposite. She says that Crazy John DeMarco will hum Sinatra when he has shit for a hand to bluff happiness, and if he’s quiet he may actually have something. Elvis Presley songs can go either way. Rick Bennett keeps looking at his cards if they’re bad, and looks around the table if they’re good. And so on. I think she’s full of crap—but then again, there’s a reason I’m not part of the game, which involves a serious losing streak that began as soon as I started playing and ended when I retired. I prefer my sports to require the movement of all four limbs, anyway. I don’t even consider poker a sport, honestly, though the poker activists insist that it is. And with all the money it’s generating these days—as was the case with the British Empire, the sun never sets on Texas Hold ’Em—I guess they can call it whatever the hell they want.

“Your wife is taking Dad downtown,” Scott says when I return from the baseball game, with a head nod to signal that he’s impressed. As if that would be a shock. As I said, Layla is Scotty’s dream girl. Unfortunately, she’s also his sister-in-law, so that ain’t gonna happen. It’s sweet, though. Sometimes when I see the way he looks at her, it reminds me of what I have. He’s measured every girl he’s ever dated against the Layla stick, and sadly, few measure up for more than a couple months.

“I know, little bro. She’s the wind beneath your wings.”

Scott takes my cue and starts to sing the tired Bette Midler classic. “‘Did you ever know that you’re my’—hey! How awesome would that be for a gyro commercial?” he asks, all excited.

“Like the Greek sandwich?” I question. “Did you ever know that you’re my gyro?” “It’s genius.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Except not.” “Put down the Hateorade, dude. That is gold!”

“They don’t make commercials for gyros.”

“Because they don’t know me,” Scott says. “Maybe that’s my new career.”

“Writing commercials for products that don’t advertise?”

“Milk advertises!” he says. “It’s not a brand of milk. Just milk. And cheese does. In fact, so does soup. ‘Soup is good food’?”

“That’s Campbell’s,” I correct.

“Milk still does,” Scott points out, with a little less oomph than before. Then he mutters, “And so does cheese.”

I’m already over the picnic. I’m ready to go home and have a nice quiet day with my wife. Maybe we can get over the tension that’s been dogging us lately with some time on the couch. And on the kitchen table. And on the rug. It’s hard not to get bored having sex with the same person year after year, but I will say this: Layla rocks the bedroom when she wants to. She and I always had sparks. Which is probably why I get so frustrated with the way things are now. Because they were so mind-blowing once upon a time and they’ve really faded.

But when I glance over at Layla and catch her laughing—no doubt at one of my dad’s stupid jokes (the newest one’s about a beer, a mop, and a skeleton who can’t hold his liquor)—I know I’ll be stuck here all day. She’s got Lucy on her lap, and she’s throwing a disgusting mud-and-saliva soaked tennis ball for Sammy Davis Junior, my parents’ black Lab-terrier mix. She looks over to Scott and me and smiles.

Great. I guess we’re skipping the table and the rug tonight. What a surprise. She’s going to want to stick around for the long haul.