Wednesday, March 4, 2009

a snippet of a story...

“There you go, Daddy,” mocked Sisy. The sunlight that poured into the car with the window down highlighted Sisy’s wig. With such a bright light casting upon it, one could (easily) see where the wig ended and her natural hair began. The contrast between the two was startling. The wig looked like something that a child’s doll would wear; it wasn’t blonde, it was yellow. It was a yellow, stringy, plastic mess. Her natural hair color was up for debate usually. However, today it was reminiscent of Georgia clay.
She had her hand with her cigarette propped up by her window, which was now barely rolled down. She must have once again forgotten the thing was lit, because soon its cherry was singeing her wig. Little spirals of smoke wafted up from her wig and lazily out the window. I couldn’t contain my snicker.
“Aunt Sisy, your wig’s on fire,” I casually said.
“Aw damnit to hell,” she said as she patted her wig. It really didn’t help matters much, but she seemed content with a pat or two. Only some ash fell from her wig, but the lazy light smoke still found its way to the window.
This woman was fascinating to me when I was little, though I secretly admit; she still is to an extent. She is working on her third divorce and her fourth marriage at the moment. She was always a big woman, as far back as I could recall. She has this permanent scowl across her face, and a football field sized aura of general disgust and hate surrounding her. There is never a nice thing to say about anyone or anything, unless in front of them, of course. You see, it isn’t ladylike to be ugly to someone’s face, according to her. However, some healthy snide comments and sarcasm never hurt anybody, was also part of the philosophy that helped complete my dear aunt Sisy. She was my dad’s older sister, and the meanest of them all.
Her nickname is Sisy, because she hates her given name; Sisyphus. My grandmother thought it would make her seem sophisticated to name her child after a Greek character. I’ve often wondered where in the world my grandmother got a hold of that particular name, because if she had read the actual meaning of the name, I seriously doubt that I’d have an aunt Sisy. It is a Greek God (not Goddess) who is damned to eternity of rolling a rock up a hill only to have it roll back down. Therefore, he has to re-do his task over and over, hence the meaning of ‘repetitive.’
“You’re such a moron, Sisy,” said Robin.
Sisy looked down over her glasses and took a drag of her cigarette. “This coming from the queen of power tools,” she said referring to Robin’s bandaged hand. That is a story in itself, too. After Robin was released from “the pen,” as she dubbed it, she was doing construction work when she sawed off the tips of “two or three” fingers. She felt all fancy when it happened, as she was transferred in an ambulance to MUSC down in Charleston for surgery to reattach her fingers.
I always preferred Aunt Robin to Aunt Sisy; she wasn’t as mean or vile. She was the funny one of the two. She was carefree, reckless, free spirited, and the ex convict. I always felt like she was the most human in that whole core family, you could actually have a conversation with her. She was the one who took the hood of an old Cadillac Deville, turned it upside down, welded two huge chains to it, and attached it to the riding lawn mower so we could go sledding in the winter storm of ’89. A leg and arm cast later, she was officially my favorite aunt. That was interrupted for her stint in the pen, for reasons still untold. Grandma said she named her Robin because there was a baby robin bird on the windowsill at the hospital when she was born. This might have actually worked as a reason, if Aunt Robin hadn’t been born on the concrete floor at Grandma’s favorite bar. I liked to think Aunt Robin is named for Puck, from Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, because she was just as mischievous as the fairy.