Free One Man Show by John J. Bonk Page A

him, heading into the dining room. “Grab us some Cokes from the fridge, and I’ll meet you
     out there.”
    I was counting on my aunts’ cooking to impress Jeremy, ‘cause nothing else was going to do the trick. So I piled a little
     bit of everything onto two paper plates, crammed some napkins into my pants pocket, put two forks in my shirt pocket, and
     hustled to meet him on the porch.
    “Nice breeze,” I said, kicking the screen door open. I glided down the stairs, careful not to spill anything, and sat next
     to Jeremy, who was on the bottom step. “It’s like a sauna in that kitchen. Not that I’ve ever been in one - a sauna, I mean,
     not a kitchen.”
Okay, don’t say anything else dumb like that.
I handed him the fuller, neater-looking plate, a napkin, and a fork. “You can have the drumstick if you want,” I told him,
     but he didn’t want. “Well, you have to try my aunt’s meatballs. You’ll die.”
    “If you say so.”
    Jeremy stabbed a meatball and shoved the whole thing into his mouth.
    “Omigod!”
    At least, that’s what I think he said.
    “Incredible, right?” I said, and stuffed my face with a meatball too. It was burning hot, so I immediately let it drop back
     onto my plate. “Man, I killed my tongue!”
    Jeremy was laughing and speed-chewing at the same time.
    “I didn’t know those candle-warmer thingies worked so well,” I said, wiping sauce off my mouth.
    We both took giant gulps of Coke to wash down the meatballs, and without any warning a burp slipped right out of me. Jeremy
     let one fly too, and we laughed some more. Total connection. I leaned against the railing, gnawing on the turkey drumstick
     and watching a bug brigade swarm the porch light. Nobody said anything for a while; there was just the sound of distant-distant-relatives
     chattering and the two of us slurping. But it didn’t feel at all uncomfortable.
    “You know what?” Jeremy finally said, flicking something off a slice of garlic bread. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party
     like this before.”
    “A big family get-together?”
    “Yeah - well, no. Just a laid-back, come-as-you-are, pick-your-teeth type thing.”
    Come-as-you-are? Great-Aunt Iris wore a fox stole.
    “Or pick-your-teeth-off-the-cake type thing,” he said, cracking up. “I thought I’d bust a gut.”
    “Sorry you had to see that,” I said, smiling. “Sometimes my gran forgets to use her denture adhesive.”
    “Don’t worry about it. All old farts start going wacko; they can’t help it,” he said, scooping up a forkful of potato salad.
     “But your aunt with the camera - what’s her story?”
    “Aunt Birdie? What do you mean?”
    “She just seems like - I don’t know. Is she a little soft in the head or something?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    Another long silence. This one wasn’t so comfortable.
    “Whatever, I’m cool with it,” Jeremy said, chewing. “You should see all the weirdos in L.A.”
    Anyone else you want to take a stab at while you’re at it? Aunt Olive and her off-key singing? Great-Uncle Hoyt and his lazy
     eye?
    “Plastic forks, homemade potato salad - culture shock! This is just a lot different from the Hollywood parties I’m used to,”
     he said, studying my expression. “That’s all I was gettin’ at.”
    He should’ve quit while he was ahead. I stared down at my plate and squashed the yellow guts out of a deviled egg with my
     fork.
    “You mean in a trailer-trashy kind of way, right?”
    He didn’t say a word after that, and that said it all. The hopethat had been building up inside of me - that we’d become friends - suddenly came crashing down. I actually thought I’d heard
     the
thud,
but it was the screen door’s slamming.
    “Come on, boys!” Aunt Birdie was bouncing in the doorway in a pointy paper hat, waving us inside. “We’re about to do the presents
     in the living room.”
    “Hey, I wasn’t supposed to bring a present, was I?” Jeremy whispered to