Cocooning, Part 5a

So, it's come to this. I tricked my teenage nephew into using his hard-earned money to cover my needs while on a pleasant excursion together into the Virginia countryside.

By the way, I don't think anyone actually calls it the "countryside" but it reminds me of the English countryside, all rolling green hills and grazing cattle. Only difference is the English countryside doesn't convey the feeling that it goes on forever, but (though illusory) it surely feels that way around here.

I've become one of those uncles from old sitcom episodes, who presents himself as a bundle of fun and adventure -- not like those old sobersides the kids have for parents -- and ends up taking the kids for everything they've got. (A related character is the indolent brother-in-law, often found in old two-reel comedies, who is adored by his sister and mother, while being supported by the aggravated comic lead.) Of course, the kids end up still loving their ethically questionable relative but they've learned a valuable lesson about trust -- don't do it.

Which, oddly enough, is the lesson learned in the New James Bond movie, which figures prominently in the tale of my chicanery.

Now, you may have figured out from the earlier "Cocooning" posts that I haven't spent a dollar since I got here. Or perhaps I should say I hadn't spent a dollar, 'cause yesterday was the day I had to put up or admit my poverty to that most judgmental of human types, the family.

I had promised my nephew, Daniel, that I would go with him and the other members of The Pancake House Gang (see earlier post, Cocooning) to see "Casino Royale" but had forgotten that would mean dipping into the meager savings I was attempting to protect via this southern sojourn. (I think I had about $25 in my account at the time.) The first night down, when we went to see "Borat", I had been able to make some excuse about cashlessness that was even kinda true and Daniel covered me without blinking. But that wasn't gonna go a second time. If I simply said I couldn't afford to go to a movie, for God's sake, my sister would hear about it and then my father and my carefully crafted illusion of modest solvency would be lie in tatters, leaving a trail of intrafamilial consequences in its wake.

So, okay, I also had a hundred bucks from the Onion show that I had yet to put in the bank; I wasn't gonna be penniless if I went to the movie. I decided to bite the bullet and "pay the two dollars". (Yes, a movie costs more than two dollars in the US. That expression is from an old burlesque routine -- you should look it up.)

At least we were going during the daytime, when tickets are a few bucks cheaper. I decided not to worry (much) about this expense. I had bigger things to worry about -- like how to get out of paying for dinner later that night at my other nephew's favorite restaurant. (I had already fobbed a restaurant check off on my brother-in-law and, as with my nephew and the movie, it's always tougher the second time around.)

But that would be hours later. For now, there was the battling over which showing to see and which theater to see it in to contend with, a sport in which the players were my nephew Daniel, my nephew Russell, my brother-in-law and me -- all with different agendas. (My brother-in-law had the fatherly, "you're not gonna make that showing" position, Daniel took the "let's just go to the soonest one" stance, Russell was in the "I'm an aspiring filmmaker and want only the finest presentation" spot, and I just wanted to figure out how any of this could save me a buck.) It was no longer, for some reason, to be a Pancake House Gang excursion; now it was just the fambly. And as we started off toward our cinematic destiny, we had no way of knowing the invisible fractures that lurked beneath our civility would crack, sending us places we'd never imagined we'd go (that afternoon).

It was a beautiful day, so I suggested we not go to the first available show. I figured we should at least enjoy some of the day before entombing ourselves in a multiplex. So, we walked to a small waterfall in the woods of Fairfax County's Frying Pan Park and then took a nostalgic journey with Russell to his old elementary school, which he had not visited since his graduation a number of years earlier. (I went clumsily on many of the playground attractions. It was fun!) But then, we did not see the movie -- we went separate ways . . .

Daniel and I wanted to follow the sun but Russell, claiming I was too impulsive, wanted to see the film and move on. He ended up playing tennis with his Dad, while Daniel and I drove out to the edge of Virginia and beyond.

-- story continues shortly --