BoyJake's Florida Adventure - Directed by David Lynch

I'm in Orlando, Florida at a work thing and life has taken a surreal turn.

Part I: The Company VIP Dinner

Saturday night I attended a company VIP dinner with those lovely medical professionals that fill my heart with such joy . Many of them are great people that I enjoy seeing at these functions, but none of those people were there. The only one that I ever actually came close to punching (I hadn't been in therapy very long then) showed up with his notebook computer, dropping it in the middle of the dinner table and demanding that I fix it. I clicked around a bit, came up with nothing, shrugged at him and shoved it aside. It was a similar incident that almost got him punched three years ago. The boss took over and I was free of that, but it got worse...

The storms in the midwest and a big conference opening ceremony kept a lot of our VIPs from showing up so we were at two-thirds capacity for our reservation.

One of the VIPs, an older guy that I don't know well, showed up with the biggest, geekiest looking camera I've ever seen around his neck. "My whole family's out in the dining room getting ready to order. I sure feel sorry for them."

"Bring them in," I said. "We've got a minimum to meet. There's no reason why they shouldn't join us." The guy left and came back explaining that they had already ordered. The server came around and asked us for more drink orders (I was already well into a second or third glass of wine, or maybe I had already lost count at that point).

Dr. Camera Guy pipes up "Well, since we have a minimum to meet, I guess I should have some FRESH-SQUEEZED ORANGE JUICE!" He said FRESH-SQUEEZED ORANGE JUICE like it were some magic, exotic, orgasm-inducing fluid that sold for a thousand dollars an ounce. The server brought the juice in a big water goblet with the longest straw in the universe sticking out of it. "That's FRESH-SQUEEZED orange juice isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. I squeezed it myself." The server seemed like a cool woman, used to dorks like Dr. Camera Guy.

"That's great!" he said before regaling us with tales of his midwest college football glory. We made it through the salad, mostly without incident - lots of football stories and lip-smacking comments from Dr. Camera Guy about his FRESH-SQUEEZED ORANGE JUICE. When the primi patti (bow tie pasta with tomato sauce or pesto risotto with shrimp) came out Dr. Camera Guy piped up "Hey! We've got a MINIMUM TO MEET. Bring out a couple extras of each of those!"

The server did and he proceeded to pass the dishes around the table. Dr. Camera Guy and Dr. Yellow Shirt (has NO personality - I wondered if it were possible for a comatose person to walk around and answer simple questions) dished some extra into their bowls but the rest of us just kept passing. "Isn't this fun! It's just like ITALIAN FAMILY STYLE!"

I continued to breathe deeply, knowing that I wouldn't be the least little bit surprised if a midget (sorry, little people) rode in on a goat to serve pigs' feet for dessert. I kept drinking the wine poured for me and I smiled for Dr. Camera Guy's photographs. I was a good company boy and I earned the 5% raise I learned about this week.

Part II: The Family Dinner

My mother has four brothers and two sisters. One of her sisters lives in Orlando. I get out here once a year for this work thing and when I do, I usually end up having dinner with her immediate family, which now consists of her second husband (she was widowed by her first husband years ago) her granddaughter (my cousin, Prison Guy is doing state time for probation violations he committed after being convicted of DWI, Driving on a Suspended License and Statutory Rape - my little cousin is Prison Guy's six-year-old daughter and the reasons my aunt is raising her are numerous) and Daisy, a little Yorkshire Terrier Shi Tzu hybrid.

My uncle picked me up at the resort and drove me toward their comfortable home somewhere on the other side of the Disney property (I don't know Orlando geography and I don't intend to learn). We stopped at the Publix super market to get eighteen bottles of Killian's Irish Red (my uncle LOVES Killian's Irish Red) and I arrived to find a table laid out with a good old-fashioned southern meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cream corn and green beans. I also found a very agitated Daisy barking and growling at me like she might take a chunk out of my ankle if I got close enough.

Eventually Daisy was imprisoned in the bedroom and we had a quiet meal until Horny Tennis Gal came over. HTG is my aunt's fifty-five-year-old neighbor whose father was a professional tennis instructor/trainer. Arthur Ashe was apparently one of his protégés and HTG seemed to have an overwhelming enthusiasm for all things tennis. She also had an enthusiasm for white wine which she poured liberally from a big double fifth. Her husband is a commercial painter who was away on an out of town job. "Oh! Do you know who you look like?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Roger Federer," she blushed and smiled real big and it was a little unnerving how intent her focus on me was. I shrugged, not knowing who Roger Federer is. The conversation continued, mostly about HTG's hair and how my cousin, Baby Mama (my aunt's daughter) had dyed it the bold burgundy color we were experiencing. "I'm not sure I like it," she said, combing through her short curls with her fingers.

"It looks fine," my uncle said. "Of course, I don't care. I went gray at twenty-five, it was good enough for me," he laughed.

"My hair isn't gray," HTG said. "But my PUBES are gray."

I would like to think that I'm not easily embarrassed, but I definitely felt a certain amount of discomfort now that I had intimate information about HTG's groin region. I smiled, trying not to show my discomfort.

"I'm so sorry!" she said, holding her hand over her mouth and giggling.

"Don't be, I'm fine." I said.

"OH! When you smile...the way you talk! You're just like Roger." She said Roger as if it were honey dripping from her mouth. My discomfort intensified.

Baby Mama showed up with her Baby Daddy -- they both might be twenty-one, but I doubt it. Baby Daddy looked about fifteen, the sort of kid I usually see hanging out in front of convenience stores asking me if I'll buy him a pack of cigarettes or a forty. They had my aunt's granddaughter with them and she immediately let Daisy out of the bedroom so she could growl at me some more. The six-year-old looked at me and said "WHO ARE YOU!?"

"I'm your cousin, BoyJake," I replied.

"DO YOU KNOW ME?" she screamed.

"Yes," I said, continuing to describe the last time we dined together at the Rainforest Cafe and how much fun she had laughing at the animatronic gorilla when she was four.

"I LAUGHED AT A GORILLA!?"

It was now painfully apparent to me that this child was not capable of speaking in an indoor voice.

Baby Mama and Baby Daddy also had Baby with them, a one-month old little girl - pretty, but sleeping as infants do.

Tragedy struck when Bill opened the last beer.

"HTG, have you got any beer over there?" he asked.

"I've got three Killians, but I don't want to walk over there by myself," she said.

"BoyJake will go with you," he said.

I frowned at my uncle. He smirked at me, knowing that he was throwing me to this she-wolf who wanted to believe that I looked like her tennis idol, Roger Federer, whoever he is.

I followed HTG to her house across the street and felt salvation when I saw the Domino's driver pulling into her drive (at some point during the chaos HTG had ordered pizza because Baby Daddy was hungry). The Pizza Guy and I followed HTG through the garage into the house where I encountered HTG's happy little maltese. I had learned over dinner that HTG and her husband had paid $1600 for the little beast. It could jump up to about my waist and I caught it in mid-air, holding it close to me while it stretched out in an attempt at licking my face. I figured that if I kept the dog close HTG might not try anything on me -- the little fuzzball was my canine shield.

Right after the pizza guy left Baby Mama and Baby Daddy arrived to eat pizza. HTG told me that the Killian's was in the refrigerator in the garage so I dropped the dog and made a break for it.

"Did she have you posing in your underwear with a tennis racket?" my uncle asked. I threw him a hard look and gave him a beer.

The six-year-old sang Old MacDonald in a forced gravelly voice, kind of like Tom Waites. She did this several times until Baby Mama and Baby Daddy arrived to drive me back to the resort.

If a goat had ridden in on a midget (sorry, little people) to serve sardines for dessert I don't think I would have been the least bit surprised.

I don’t think I look like Roger Federer.

Thanks for playing.