Dylan Jack James
Guest Contributor
My 30-year-old girlfriend, Sharlene, decided to spend Thanksgiving with her brother and sister-in-law in New Jersey that year.
We had been dating for a little over a year, and lived together in her bungalow in the city. I’ll never forget the first time she picked me up at my parents’ house on her metallic blue Harley Davidson Sportster. We rode off into the hot summer night, her curly jet black hair blowing in my face, my thighs wrapped tightly around hers. My arms encircling her waist, her Oscar De La Renta perfume arousing my senses. I held her closer as she sped off toward the waxing crescent moon, a Sex Pistols tee hugged my pecs, safety pins pierced my ears.
I was 18 and I was in love. She didn’t want to leave me alone in her house when she left that Thanksgiving week. Why? I don’t remember, so she asked her best friend, Pat, to let me stay at her house while she was away. We had all hung out together many times.
Pat was cute and very busty, yet extremely obese. She lived in a lower flat a few blocks over from Sharlene’s house. Her household consisted of two black poodles, one male and one female, named Noodles and Toodles, a yellow Labrador retriever by the name of Chuck, and a recluse mother who rarely came out of her bedroom and made me think of the mother in the movie Psycho.
I loved the dogs, especially the poodles, but they had really bad breath. Toodles loved to snuggle up with Noodles, but when she tried getting frisky, he ignored her so she took to mounting the arm of the couch, humping it vigorously every chance she got. This sent everyone in the room into fits of uproarious laughter while Noodles remained uninterested.
Chuck opened one eye and glanced at the horny canine then closed it again preferring his cozy spot in the corner. Pat’s mom would yell into a bull horn for her dinner at 5 p.m. every day on the nose. She demanded the dogs be kept out of her room when she ate. Pat would purposely let them into her room when she served dinner causing her recluse mother to rage at her daughter who was tired of her incessant demands to be waited on hand and foot.
So, I’m here with Pat and it’s early morning and Sharlene is in Jersey and it’s Thanksgiving day.
“Well there she is, isn’t she a beauty!” Pat exclaimed joyfully as she opened the refrigerator door to reveal the largest turkey I had ever seen. It was obscenely large. My eyes widened at the sight of the obese bird.
Pat laughed at me. She slapped my ass hard and then demanded: “You, my dear boy, are going to cook it.”
“I’ve never cooked a turkey in my life!” I growled.
“Well there’s no time like the present, get her outta there and put her up here on the cupboard,” the bossy woman snapped. I removed the giant bird from the grease-stained yellow refrigerator and did as she said. She proceeded to read me a recipe and explain the basics then left the sheet on the table and retreated into her room for a nap, dogs in tow.
“And do it right, I’m starving!” she yelled.
I didn’t want to ever go back to living with my parents so I cooperated with Pat as she would surely report my misdoings to Sharlene, the Batman to her Robin. I had it cushy with Sharlene in her city bungalow and all the sex I was getting from her. This was a huge perk that this kept man didn’t wish to fuck up! I could cook this big bird, no problem! In between checking on the turkey and stuffing it, I let the dogs out of Pat’s bedroom to do their business outside. After they had finished, I took a break from cooking to lie on the couch in the living room with them. The kitchen had gotten quite hot, and the cooler air from the living room sent me into an instant sleep, curled up with Toodles and Noodles and Chuck on the floor beside us.
A few hours later, I was rudely awakened by Pat screaming and coughing from the smoke-filled kitchen, the dogs following her lead with their barking. I dashed after the dogs and caught a glimpse of her recluse mother who quickly shut her bedroom door when she saw me.
“Dylan, what the hell? Pull it out of the oven right now!” Pat demanded, throwing the potholders at me. I did as she said, and as she opened the two kitchen windows to get the smoke out, the dogs jumped up on my legs, threw me off balance. The burnt turkey fell out of the pan onto the floor at my feet. The mutts attacked the giant bird; like ferocious beasts they struggled between the three of them to take down the whole turkey. I froze for a second in shock at the sight.
“OMG! Do something, Dylan!” Pat panicked. I threw the pan and potholders on the cupboard and started pulling the burnt bird away from the beasts, and in the process burned my hands. The dogs growled at me and our tug-of-war ended with each of them retreating with a piece of the turkey.
Pat stood over me and scowled. I sheepishly hauled the mangled bird back up to the cupboard, minus two legs and a wing, then ran my hands under cool water to ease the pain.
“What the hell we gonna do now?” Pat screamed. “Umm, McDonalds?” I offered. She groaned and picked up what was left of the mangy bird, shoved me out of the way and ran it under the water faucet washing off all the grit and dirt from the floor.
“At least the stuffing is untouched!” She scowled at me as she washed the dirty bird. “You set the oven too high and you didn’t baste it!” She directed a string of expletives my way.
We made instant mashed potatoes together, opened a few cans of peas and carrots and plopped the dilapidated bird and the rest of the food on the center of the dining room table. Pat pulled off the burnt skin, sliced the turkey, put it on a plate and doused the dried-out slices with several jars of cold gravy.
Pat called out loudly: “Ma, dinner!”