Arnold Levin Considers Shooting His In-Laws

Arnold Levin Considers Shooting His In-Laws

Arnold Levin considered the punishment if he shot his in-laws. Would the shooting be considered justifiable or would he get a judge who never married and thinks all life is precious?

It's not that his in-laws were terrible people; in fact, they were good, loving people. That was the problem. Too much of anything is too much, even love. Especially the kind of love that wants to embrace you and share every intimate detail of their lives with you.

Arnold and Marie had made a solemn vow soon after they were married to always live at least one thousand miles from family. The number one thousand wasn't arbitrary, for they both knew that fewer miles than that wouldn't preclude Marie's family from weekend drop-ins. It would mean nothing for her family to hop in the old Ford and drive five hundred miles with baked ziti casseroles, sausage and meatball lasagna and a roasted chicken packed in ice in the cooler in the back seat.

But a thousand miles meant flying and Marie's mother was afraid to fly.

"God is good," Marie said to Arnold. "In His infinite wisdom He made my mom terrified of flying. This limits the number of people she can feed."

Now, to be fair, Arnold knew his family wasn't much better. When he announced to his parents that he planned on marrying Marie Taggliani, the Levins went silent. His mother encapsulated five thousand years of Jewish history into one question: "Tell me, does she put mayonnaise on a pastrami sandwich?" 

“No,” Arnold assured his mother. “Just mustard.”

“No cheese?”

“No.”

“Thank God.” 

"You could do worse," his father said. Which, coming from his father, was as close to a blessing as Arnold could reasonably expect.

After four years of marriage Arnold's parents warmed to Marie, and treated her like their daughter, who had married and joined Peace Corps and now lived in Peru.

“So when are you going to have children?” his mother would ask both daughters.

Arnold avoided telling them that he and Marie wanted to establish their careers before starting a family, although Marie tried explaining their decision.

“We know a good doctor,” his mother responded.

In lieu of children his mother offered Marie her “secret” cooking instructions, such as the proper way to make chopped liver. "You have to add wet challis and burn the onions."

"What's challah?" Marie had the good sense to ask Arnold privately after the first cooking lesson.

"It's bread made with the highest amount of cholesterol possible," Arnold told her.

Arnold's father watched television throughout most of their visits and when Marie would go to the den to visit with him, he'd point to a chair and say, "Sit." Arnold assured her this was a sign of affection.

However, Marie's family wasn't quite as subtle. Her family hugged. Her father hugged, her mother hugged, her three sisters and two brothers hugged. They hugged and they kissed. After spending a day with her family, Arnold became so self-conscious of the stubble on his face, he shaved twice a day.

"I never knew how rough a man's face is," he told Marie.

But the hardest part of being with Marie's family for Arnold was the talk. It came in three volumes: loud, louder and louder still. From the first shouted "hellos" to the final tearful "goodbyes," the decibel level remained loud enough to alter the sex of dogs if they wandered too close to the Taggliani front porch.

Visits by Arnold and Marie usually consisted of Marie's mother preparing some of the most incredible meals imaginable, and expecting everyone, especially Arnold, to eat everything on the table—the salads, the pastas, the fish, the sausages, the hams, the turkeys, the vegetables—while leaving room for dessert which meant home made cannoli.  

Leaving any morsel of food on the plate, Marie taught Arnold, was a cardinal sin, which the Taggliani family took very seriously.

And there was Marie's dad. Short, bald and pot bellied, he had spent thirty years of his life as a transit cop in New York City. That meant he had stories to tell and a voice loud enough to be heard over the roar of the trains to tell it with. He also had the ability to remember every detail, no matter how inconsequential, of things that happened twenty-five years ago, along with the inability to recall that he had told that very same story just ten minutes earlier.

Arnold sat at the dining room table, in the midst of a Taggliani holiday meal, stuffing his face with ravioli while Marie's brothers and sisters and their families all attempted to out shout and out curse one another. Little children ran around the table screaming and crying, as Arnold continued nodding his head and saying, "Uh-huh," to anyone who addressed him. Over the racket, Marie's father asked if he ever told him about the time he caught a man peeing on the subway tracks to see if it would spark, and when Arnold said, “Uh-huh,” he proceeded to tell him anyway.

That's when Arnold began considering the punishment for shooting the in-laws.  

Arnold's head ached; his heart felt like it had decided to stop backing up the other organs and take a solo. A young cousin, sitting across from him kept kicking his chair, while one of Marie's brothers told an embarrassingly racist joke with his wife interrupting to say to Arnold, “Oh this is a good one. Listen. You gotta listen.”

“Uh-huh.”

Arnold couldn't take it anymore. He closed his eyes and imagined himself pulling out a gun from under the table. The shock value alone would quiet everyone down. The brother telling his joke would stop mid sentence, the cursing would cease, the shouting, even the kicking under the table, but gradually it would start up again, like the wave at a ballgame, and he'd have to begin shooting, starting with Marie's parents.  

Ashamed at himself for such thoughts, Arnold vowed to never spend another holiday dinner with the Taggliani family again. He'd urge Marie to go and he'd spend the holidays alone in his quiet home reading and watching TV, like his father who had quit family functions years ago.

But when he looked over at Marie and saw her laughing and shouting and cursing and waving her hands while using a huge piece of garlic bread to soak up the last drop of marinara from her plate, he put away his imaginary guns, smiled at his wife, and nodded to Mrs. Taggliani who was already planning next year's meal.