When I was a kid I thought I
wanted to be in Congress. I liked the idea of being part of a large, governing
body. I liked the idea of being a part
of something. But now that I’m older
and wiser, I’ve learned to be more selective.
And never
have I had to be as selective as I do now. Because since we moved to West Des
Moines, I don’t know who is going to be over at our house, when. And even
though it was me who pushed for our relocation, it’s Monty who’s enjoying the
social benefits. I’m constantly amazed at how many old high school friends he
has, and they’re all still in the area. And then there’s his family.
I love them;
I really do. I never had siblings or cousins, and it’s great to finally be a
part of a big family. But last week I got home late, after staying with my dad
so my mom could go to her book club. At 10 o’clock that night I walked in, and I
found Monty and his brother Jack in the middle of one their frequent, weird competitions.
What’s worse is I got sucked into it.
Monty, Jack,
and their cousins were sitting in our huge, dance-studio-sized kitchen. Well,
to be more accurate, they were sitting out on the deck that’s attached to our
massive kitchen. The glass sliding doors were open, and I could hear them all
before I could see them. And on the kitchen counter I saw a cutting board with
an avocado pit sitting lying against it, an open jar of Prego tomato sauce, a
salt shaker, and garlic powder.
Outside it
was warm for early October, and a gentle breeze was blowing. But you would
never have noticed the peaceful, Midwestern night because like members of
Congress, everyone was talking over each other, protecting their own interests,
and accomplishing nothing.
“We have to
average the scores. You need three judges. That’s the only way,” said Robin,
who is Monty’s youngest and only female cousin.
Monty, who
was holding a dish of guacamole in one hand and a bowl of chips in the other,
answered. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine with that. But I get to be one of the judges.”
“You can’t
be a judge!” Jack cried, using the angry voice that he reserves only for his
brother. “That would be like Olympic athletes scoring themselves and having it
count. It’s ridiculous.”
“Well then
you can’t score me either.” Monty scowled at Jack. “You want me to lose, and you’ll give me a low score no matter good my
guacamole is.”
Ian, Monty’s
other cousin, gestured toward Robin and her boyfriend, who still barely knows
any of us. “The three of us will be judges. That’s the only fair way.”
I saw panic register
on Robin’s face. Whatever this stupid competition was, I could tell she didn’t
want to involve her boyfriend. So that was when I stupidly spoke up. Nobody had
noticed my presence yet, but when I said, “What’s going on?” everybody turned
in my direction.
Monty’s face
lit up. “Lucy can be a judge!”
Jack
grimaced and shook his head. “No way. Uh uh. She’ll inflate your score.”
My jaw set, and
I crossed my arms over my chest as I slid open the screen door and came outside.
Everybody was sitting, except Monty, who stood with his guacamole and chips as
if he was about to run a race, and Jack, who was leaning against the railing of
the deck.
I sat down
on a vacant patio chair. “Inflate his score for what? I asked defensively.
Robin
answered me. “Jack said that Monty is so inept in the kitchen that he doesn’t
even know how to make decent guacamole. Monty said that sounded like a
challenge, so then it became one. Now we need three judges to taste and score
it.”
Jack cut in.
“We’ll average the scores out, and if he gets a five or higher, he wins. But if
you get to be a judge, I get to be a judge.”
“I don’t
want to be a judge,” I said.
“Yes you do,”
Monty affirmed, then turned towards Jack. “She won’t inflate my score. So Lucy,
Robin, and Ian can be the judges.”
“No way,”
said Jack. “Me, Lucy, and Ian. That’s my final offer. Besides,” he said, with a
smug smile, “I don’t know what you’re worried about. If your guacamole is so great, you should have
no problem getting an average score of five, even if I do give you a one.”
Monty sighed.
“Fine.” Then he shot me a meaningful look, communicating his demand: You’d better give me a high score.
I gave him a
meaningful look back. You will pay for
this, is what it said, and Monty turned his mouth up in a half smile.
After Jack
handed out slips of paper and pens to use for scoring, and Monty handed out
chips dipped in guacamole, I took a bite and considered my options. Or I tried
to anyway, but my senses were confronted with the awful combination of avocado
and spaghetti sauce. As I swallowed it down and wished for a palate cleanser,
several thoughts ran through my mind:
1.
It was by
far the worst guacamole I had ever tasted.
2.
If I gave Monty
a low score he might hold a grudge.
3.
If I gave
him a high score, Jack’s earlier accusation about me would be true.
4.
Either way I’d
be screwed, because one of them would be annoyed and the other would use it as ammunition
for future weird challenges.
5.
They’re in
their forties, for the love of God. Why can’t they grow up and stop competing?
6.
I really
just wanted to go to bed.
And I thought
of John Boehner, who I would not want to be this week. I’m not saying I feel
bad for him – quite the contrary – but it does seem that he’s in a no-win
situation. If he blinks and allows a vote on the budget, then he angers Ted
Cruz and all his Tea Party minions, and Boehner possibly loses his position as
Speaker of the House. At the very least he loses face. But what’s the
alternative? Obama and Reid are not going to budge on the budget or on
Obamacare, and they shouldn’t have to. The minute we let one minority part of
the majority dictate and hold bills hostage, our democracy turns into something
decidedly undemocratic. After Obamacare was upheld by the Supreme Court and
survived a presidential election, it’s time to let it happen.
But Boehner
is more worried about his own political ramifications than he is with the people
who suffer from a government shut-down. It isn’t right, but it is human. And in
a twisted kind of way, I understand.
I calculated.
If Jack and Ian both give him a score of one, then I’d have to give him a
thirteen in order for Monty to win, and obviously I can’t do that. But what if
Ian gives him a three, or even a four? I could give him a ten and he’d still
win, but could I live with the dishonesty?
But then, where
is my loyalty, and what price would I pay for disloyalty?
I wrote a
number down on and handed my slip of paper to Robin, who was keeping score. She
collected scores from Jack and Ian, and then read them off.
“One,” she
announced, after reading the first slip. Monty shrugged and looked over at
Jack.
“We all know
who that is from,” Monty said.
Jack shook
his head. “What were you thinking? Italian sauce in guacamole? It was
disgusting!”
“We didn’t
have any salsa,” Monty replied, defensive and a notch louder than he’d previously
been talking. “I figured the two tastes are basically the same.”
“No they’re
not!” Jack’s face contorted in horror. Jack owns a restaurant, and to him the
correct mixing of flavors is a sacred science.
Robin read
off the second score. “Four,” she said, and everyone looked over at Ian, who
was staring at his feet. My stomach
flipped because I knew what was coming.
Robin’s eyes
widened before she read the last score. “Ten?” she said, as if she couldn’t believe
it herself.
Monty whooped
and started dancing around in victory. Jack shook his head and glared at me. “Are
you kidding?” he said. “What is wrong with you?
I don’t care if he is your husband, how could you possibly give him a
ten?”
I started to
defend myself, but before I could, Monty came over, grabbed my shoulders, lifted
me to my feet and planted a joyful kiss on my mouth. And even though people
were watching and Jack’s eyes were shooting daggers, I couldn’t help but
respond and kiss Monty back. Just for a second.
But then Ian
spoke. “I was the one who gave him a ten.”
Monty pulled
away and we all stared at Ian.
“What?” Jack
said. “Why?”
“Because,”
Ian said, his cheeks turning pink, “I liked it. I had never tasted guacamole
made with spaghetti sauce before. I thought it was really good.”
Robin
started laughing and Jack, speechless, let his mouth hang open. Monty turned
towards me. “So you gave me a FOUR?”
I bit my
lip. “I guess I wasn’t as crazy about the taste as Ian was.”
“Because it
was disgusting,” said Jack, and I sort of nodded in agreement. Jack squinted at
me. “You should have given him a lower score then. If you think it’s
disgusting, why didn’t you give him a one?”
So there I
was, trying to compromise but making nobody happy. Because when you’re in the
middle of a standoff, forced to choose between loyalty and ideals, there is no
way to escape unscathed.
But after I
grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and washed the unpleasant taste of Monty’s
weird guacamole away, we all managed to laugh and change the subject. Then I
forgot how tired I was and enjoyed myself. The only real repercussions I
suffered were the next morning, when I awoke at my usual time, exhausted, because
I didn’t get enough sleep.
If only that
was the extent of John Boehner’s problems.