The Humiliation at Thanksgiving

Content warning: Derogatory slurs, offensive language



Anthony Losani hated Thanksgiving because every year, his Uncle Dom and his family would come to visit. 

Dominic Losani was his father’s brother, and was the epitome of everything that Anthony hated. He worked construction, though over the years he had risen in the ranks to the point where he barely had to do any heavy lifting; the massive gut that hung outside of his jeans was a testament to this, as well as his appetite. He was greasy - it seemed to roll down his body from his nearly bald head and coat him in a sheen that made Anthony’s stomach turn. 

Above all else, Uncle Dom was an example of the classic small-minded, stubborn man. He thoughts ran the gamut from the ‘natives’, to the ‘blacks’, to the ‘gays’ and the ‘immigrants.’ It didn’t help that he was constantly on Facebook, downloading memes made by other like-minded people who knew that ‘woke lefties’ were the ones destroying the country.

It wasn’t only Uncle Dom that made Thanksgiving unbearable. His wife, Angie, was quiet enough but wouldn’t miss a chance to remind everyone what the bible had to say about ‘Sodom and Gomorrah.’ He didn’t dislike her as much, though, because he sensed some compassion when she would look at him across the table, during one of her husband’s rants about how Canadian values were being destroyed by the left.

Their sons, Nicky and Frankie, were just as bad. They were round, like their parents, and looked as if their bodies were formed of bags of flour stitched together and were as cruel as their father wanted them to be.

It was on the way back from lunch with his parents in September that they started talking about Thanksgiving. He could sense his mother’s eyes rolling from the back seat, and knew his father was thinking about how much food they would need to buy. Anthony blurted out: ‘Do we need to invite them? They are just so - ugh.’ 

‘Anthony,’ he mother said. ‘You know better than that. They are our family. We may not see eye to eye with them on most - or really any things - but they are family. And that’s all that matters.’

Anthony did not respond to this rebuke; his father’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror and told him that wouldn’t be a good idea. 

Later that night, Anthony lay in bed and looked up into the darkness. Something still wasn’t sitting right with him - because Uncle Dom and his family were their family, that meant he had no choice but to grin and bear their belittling behaviour? In high school, sometimes there was no other choice but to take the shots - it was a world of retribution, and snitching or fighting back could often make things worse. Usually, bullies got tired of picking on someone who didn’t fight back. But this wasn’t high school. This was the real world. And he was almost an adult.

 In the darkness, that night in September, Anthony Losani decided that he wasn’t going to take any more of his Uncle’s shit. That he was going to do something. As he fell asleep, the wheels in his mind were already turning.

*

The stroke of inspiration came from a memory of a squirrel and a Christmas tree from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. 

From there, the plan wrote itself. The cage and remote-controlled door was the easy part but the voice for the basement took some time. Anthony was what you might call a prodigy with robots, machines and computers. From an early age, he would stare at the computer screens, tap at keyboards and put his ear against the humming tower of the family desktop. As he grew, he picked up the languages of coding, the world of wonder that was information technology until he was able to create his own photo-sharing app that he shared with some of his friends at school. 

The capture of wildlife was out of Anthony’s comfort zone, but all it took was some research, gloves and the right equipment to get what he needed and have it sleeping under the deck the day of Thanksgiving.

*

Anthony’s Uncle and his family arrived around two pm on Thanksgiving. Anthony was nervous, and hoped his plans for humiliation would work.

It was like a whirlwind rushed into the house as they entered: his uncle handed him a cooler, kicked off his shoes and said: ‘It’s a long time between drinks around here, eh?’ His Aunt shuffled in meekly, already looking apologetic. The boys came last, kicking off their shoes and shoving each other, already knocking into walls and displacing photo frames. His Uncle turned to him and gave him a long look: ‘Antonio! You gotta get some meat on those bones, eh? You’re startin’ to look like a chick! Unless that’s what you want!’ He guffawed and clapped a bear paw-sized hand on his shoulder. Anthony’s reaction didn’t change. ‘Just jokin’! Jeez. Can’t a guy make a joke anymore? Where’s my brother?’ 

He walked through the hall and stopped in the kitchen. ‘Leo! You’re a sight for sore eyes. House looks great. Looks like the college is paying you well, eh? Must be nice!’ Dom’s eyes flitted around the kitchen and he whistled; the judgement in his voice was palpable. That his brother would work in academia was a joke to him, and that he was well-compensated was even worse. 

‘Hiya, Dom. Good to see you.’ 

They exchanged a brief hug before Dom hugged Anthony’s mother, Sylvia. Dom always squeezed her a little too tight for comfort, and she tried not to grimace. 

‘Lookin’ good as always, Syl.’

‘You too, Dom. You guys have a seat, dinner will be ready in about an hour.’ 

‘Thank God. I’m starving. I feel like an Ethiopian kid at a buffet.’ Frankie and Nicky laughed as Frankie said: ‘Good one dad.’ Dom looked to Anthony, who had put the cooler outside and was returning with a can of Bud for his Uncle: ‘Ah, you know me too well. Keep em’ coming.’

‘Sure, Uncle Dom,’ said Anthony, thinking about the quiet movements he heard under the deck and trying not to smile. 

*

Down in the basement before dinner, the boys were running around the basement with Anthony ‘supervising’. After wrestling for a few minutes, Frankie turned to him and asked: ‘Are you one of those gays? Is that why your voice is all weird?’ 

Anthony smiled and thought about what he would like to say in response. Instead, he asked them both: ‘You guys want to do something scary?’ Emphatic nods. ‘Well, I heard there was a ghost in this basement. Some guy was murdered here before we moved in. And -’ He looked around the basement, feigning confusion, ‘There was this game I used to play when I was kid. Where is it… Oh! There it is.’ He walked over to grab Ouja, and blew the dust off. ‘So, you just sit there, we light a candle, and if the spirit is there, it will communicate with us.’ 

Nicky didn’t speak but looked scared, and Frankie said: ‘Yea. Alright. We ain’t no pussies. Let’s do it.’ 

Anthony ‘found’ a candle, lit it and dimmed the light. He slid his foot to the front of his shoe, felt the switch he had made last week at school - it was a rudimentary circuit that would play a WAV file on his phone (hiding conveniently upstairs) through a speaker wirelessly. He put the board on the floor and spoke slowly: ‘Spirit. If you can hear us, make yourself known.’ He held the planchette loosely and it moved to Y-E-S. Nicky gasped, but Frankie said: ‘No fair. You’re moving it.’ Anthony shrugged and let go of the planchette. He said: ‘If you are the ghost of the man who lived here, tell us something.’ The planchette didn’t move and Frankie scoffed - Anthony clicked hard with his left big toe. A rasping sound echoed through the basement and both of the boys gasped - Nicky started to cry. Frankie looked at Anthony and said: ‘Your using your phone. It’s just a soundtrack.’ Anthony stood up, opened his pockets, held his hands up. Frankie patted him down with shaking hands and Anthony clicked his toe again. 

‘WHO GOES THERE? WHO DOES DISTURB MY SLUMBER?’ The voice came from a speaker hidden in a pile of junk, and was just Anthony’s voice through a modulator, but was booming and full of hate. ‘GO FROM THIS PLACE AND PRAY. BE KIND TO OTHERS AS REPENTANCE FOR YOUR SINS. REPENT!’ 

Both of the boys were crying now and Nicky ran upstairs. Frankie stood still - there was a dark stain running down his jeans. Anthony’s satisfaction wavered - hadn’t anticipated that. Frankie ran upstairs.

Anthony followed them up to furious glances from his parents: ‘What the hell happened?’ his father asked. 

‘We just… played a game. They got a bit scared.’

His mother glared at him. ‘Frankie. Go upstairs and get cleaned up. Anthony, we’ll be talking about this later.’

‘No,’ said Dom. His voice was thick with booze and anger. ‘No son of mine is gonna act like a pussy around his family.’ He looked at his son with narrow eyes. ‘What, you got scared from a stupid little game? Man up. He can sit in those jeans for the rest of the night. Teach him a lesson.’ 

Silence fell and Frankie sat at the table for dinner with his head hung. The smell of pee was thick and nauseating. Anthony’s father went back to the kitchen to cut the turkey and Dom took a swig of his rum and coke - his greasy face was still red with anger. 

*

Dinner was fantastic - as always, it was a Canadian and Italian fusion. Conversation was a bit stiff at first with the awkwardness from the basement and the smell of urine hanging in the air. Sylvia asked Angie about her church, which opened up a monologue about the new ‘father’ and how he took too many liberties in his homilies. Anthony was asked about school and gave a short, rehearsed response about exam pressure and his love for the Robotics club. Frankie and Nicky were asked but said very little; their father didn’t seem to mind. Hearing the topic of school, Dom chimed in, his mouth full of chicken parmesan: ‘These schools these days, I tell ya what, they are programming these kids worse than Russia in the 50s. Everything is ‘trans’ this and ‘gay’ that - I mean really, what happened to our values? I don’t want my boys hearin’ this wacko’ shit. It ain’t none of my business what people do behind closed doors, just keep it out of our classrooms,’ he said with an air of finality. 

Dinner was nearly over, seconds and thirds were done (Dom always took as much as he could physically manage - there were never any leftovers),and Anthony started to feel nervous. The final phase of the plan was about to start, he just needed to wait for his Uncle’s visit to the bathroom. His Uncle’s post-Thanksgiving dinner bathroom visits were the stuff of legend - in recent memory, Anthony could recall three times that the toilets had been clogged. It was obvious enough with the smell that was like the inside of a sewer, and yet he still chose to close the door behind him and say, every time without fail, ‘I wouldn’t go in there for about 30 or 40 minutes.’ And after that, he always went outside for a post-dinner smoke. 

When dessert was being prepared, his Uncle stood up and cleared his throat: ‘If you’ll all excuse me, I need to-’

Anthony stood abruptly: ‘Sorry, Uncle Dom. I gotta go real bad. I’ll be back.’ 

His Uncle looked at him and held his gut: ‘Alright, kid. Hurry up. I can’t make it up those stairs after that feast.’ 

So Anthony went to the bathroom. Under the sink, he had hidden a ‘special’ roll of toilet paper that was doused with pheromones, swapped it with the current roll, waited a minute and flushed the toilet. 

After washing his hands, he opened the door and could barely squeeze by - his Uncle was standing there. 

‘Took ya long enough,’ he said, starting to unbuckle his jeans. Anthony moved quickly to the table and heard the bathroom door close. His Uncle took a while and small talk went around the table about the weather and how the Blue Jays would do this year. The bathroom door opened and a smell of sulfur crept into the kitchen. His Uncle followed: ‘I feel ten pounds lighter! I wouldn’t go in there for a while,’ he said with a wink. He pulled his smokes from his pocket and went to the patio door. 

Anthony reached in his pocket for his phone and opened the custom app he had made for the occasion. With one tap, the door to the cage under the deck would open. The patio door opened and closed, and he saw his Uncle light a smoke. Anthony’s hand shook slightly as indecision coursed through him - was he doing something wrong? It only took a second to remind himself of about thirty-five things his Uncle had said that evening deserving of some humiliation. So he tapped his finger. 

*

Dom Losani puffed his cigarette and scoffed at the garden around him. A garden was a waste of space, he thought. They had all this money and didn’t even put in a pool? Typical of his idiot brother - all the money in the world can’t buy common sense, he thought. He puffed again and heard a metallic creaking from underneath him. He looked down, saw nothing, and chalked it up to his imagination, or the booze. He heard movement, next - scrabbling claws beneath him and he looked to the end of the deck and saw a raccoon running towards him. Its eyes shone red in the night and everything that happened next happened very quickly. 

From inside, Anthony watched as his Uncle turned to run to the house and slip. His cigarette flew into the air, forming a neat parabola until it landed in the back of his shirt which then landed flat on the deck as he fell. The raccoon was on him, made vicious by the pheromones and hunger, and scratched and clawed at him. It went towards his groin and scratched and clawed - from inside, Anthony could hear its growls. He couldn’t help himself from laughing, and tried to hide it. Dom’s screams started next - the raccoon had shredded his jeans and was now working on his legs and thighs. Angie jumped up and opened the door, running to her husband. She grabbed at the raccoon and it jumped to her, somehow landing on her face, clawing and scratching in self-defence. Screaming filled the house, from his parents and Nicky and Franky, and even Anthony. This hadn’t gone as planned. Leo grabbed a broomstick and ran outside, sticking the end of it into the raccoon and prying it off of Angie’s now motionless body. It turned towards him and made to move forward until Leo thrashed at it, smacking it in the face. It growled and turned towards the bushes, a white froth forming at its mouth and its red eyes fading in the darkening night.

By the time the police arrived, the back deck was streaked with enough blood that it seemed like a murder scene. 

*

After the ambulances left, Anthony confessed straight away, explaining his various endeavours with technology and wildlife. His father’s face was pale: ‘I can’t even speak to you right now. Go upstairs and pray that your aunt and uncle are alright.’

And so he did.

Laying in bed that night, he felt numb. He had hoped that the humiliation his Uncle would have faced might have brought him some relief, a sense of justice achieved for the people in the world who couldn’t stand up to bullies. But it didn’t. He just felt shame. 

*

The next morning, it was a quiet house. His parents drank their coffee woodenly and Anthony sat down at the table with them. 

‘Look, I’m really sorry. I know what I did was wrong, okay? I barely slept. I just keep thinking about the sound Aunt Angie made… I can’t believe I thought it was a good idea. And I know I need to apologise.’ 

His mother gave him a steely look. She picked up her phone and tapped. ‘There’s your Uncle’s email address. Go ahead.’

And so he did. 

*

Anthony didn’t expect an email back - perhaps it was a selfish endeavour to expect to be forgiven after such a malicious act. But the response he got was… well, to be expected. 

How fuckin dare you email me and apologise? The balls on you. If you werent my brothers son I would kick your ass myself. You know my wife might not be able to see again? And my balls are hanging by a thread? All those rabies shots? And for what? So you could have a little joke? Kids like you is whats wrong with this world. Think you have all the answers. But you dont know shit about anything. Youll get what’s comin to you one day. My boys will take over the world from pussies like you thinkin you are all tough but cant even do a thing with your fists. Youll see. 

Anthony shook his head and put his phone down. He deserved that response. And it confirmed what he really knew. That there wasn’t going to be a union of people who thought differently or looked differently or acted differently, that it was only going to get worse, that the divide would widen, even with the younger generations who were meant to be more understanding. None of it mattered, anyway. People would always be lousy to each other - he was no different. 

At least Thanksgiving would be bearable next year, he thought.