Pass the Jesus Butter, Beefy

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Check out this story I found on the net...


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My mother is obsessed with finding a girlfriend for my older brother Dillon. When she gets an idea in her head she latches onto it with the kind of ferocity and determination you wouldn’t expect from a woman so small.

It all started when Dillon came home from college for the summer. She sat down at the dinner table one night and said, “You know, Dillon, you’re too serious. I think at your age you ought to have a girlfriend, someone you can have fun with. I know a few girls and I’m going to invite them over for dinner. That is, if it’s alright with you…”

She put down her knife and looked up at him with expectant grey eyes. I leaned back in my chair and watched Dillon, imagining his internal struggle. If he said yes than there was no telling what kind of girls she’d be playing matchmaker with, how many, or the lengths she might go to succeed. On the other hand, when you say no to my mother you might as well dive straight into shark infested waters while you’re at it.

“Dillon?”

He sighed, realizing that she would get what she wanted one way or another. Dillon answered unenthusiastically, “Yeah, that sounds…great.”

Mom flashed a perfect smile and said, “Wonderful! Don’t you think, Sam?”

My father mumbled something indecisive, eyes locked on his plate. He is very quiet and rarely speaks.

My Grandmother also lives with me in addition to my silent father, sullen know-it-all brother and strong-willed mother. Gran has not eaten anything except pea soup for the past twenty five years. I asked her once if that was unhealthy.

“I’m 86-years-old,” she replied. “I must be doing something right.”

She has sharp grey eyes and black hair, which I have inherited. Mom often scolds Gran. On more than one occasion she has cried out in exasperation, “You are a terrible influence on Sylvester. I will not have you teaching him any more drinking songs. He is 15-years-old, Mother!”

Whenever she does this Gran pretends to be deaf.

The night Mom decided to find Dillon a girlfriend Gran’s eyes found mine across the table and we both smiled. A few days later Mom claimed to have met the perfect girl at the Church tag sale.

Mom said, “Her name is Lydia, Dillon. Oh, you’ll just love her! She’s lovely.”

Dillon ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair and attempted a smile. It did not look convincing. Finally the big night came around and Lydia entered the living room.

“Everyone, this is Lydia” Mom beamed. “Lydia, this is my mother, my husband Sam, my younger son Sylvester and here is Dillon.”

Lydia shook each of our hands. Dillon smiled awkwardly. She was pretty, I admit, with caramel colored skin and big white teeth.

“Alright,” Mom said. “Dinner is ready. Go ahead, dig in!”

“Pass the string beans,” I said.

Gran was eating pea soup, of course.

“Where’s the salt?”

I chewed my steak and told Mom, “This is really good.”

“Mmm,” Lydia said. “Yes, Lord! This is some good corn right here. Good God, this steak is delicious. You cooked a meal fit for Jesus, Mrs. Wheeler.”

I was confused. What exactly did that mean? Jesus was never known for being picky about his food; the man lived on wine and bread.

Mom replied, “Er—thank you.”

“Lord, this is wonderful.” Lydia said.

Now, I go to Church and I consider myself religious but this was just too much. It was dinnertime, not judgment day. Even our pastor Abraham wouldn’t endorse this behavior. I thought back to last Sunday, when he had preached about drinking alcohol.

“If I had all the beer in the world I would throw it into the Ocean!” he had thundered. “If I possessed all the whiskey and rum and wine in the world, into the Ocean it would go! I would throw all scotch and vodka into the Ocean! Alcohol is a sinful drink, and our society would be better without it—I would throw it all into the Ocean if I could!”

He then sat down, breathing heavily and his fists shaking.

“Please stand,” said a woman to the congregation. “We shall now sing our closing hymn on page 222 called: We Shall Gather by the Ocean.”

“Jesus!” Lydia said as she ate the potatoes, waking me from my daydream.

As her Jesus obsession continued I joined in.

“Jesus!” I cried. “I just love this butter. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jesus had this exact stick of butter at his last supper.”

Lydia was oblivious to my mockery. Instead she said, “Yes, Jesus, it is.”

For desert Mom made lemon mirage pie. When she placed it on the table I exclaimed, “Ooo Jesus!”

Mom gave me a stern look but a smile was tugging at her lips. Once dinner was over and we’d socialized with Mother Theresa quite enough she left.

I picked up the butter and ran around the house, waving it in everyone’s face and shouting, “Jesus! Jesus! Oh, Lordy-Lou it’s Jesus-butter!”

“Don’t worry,” Mom attempted to comfort Dillon. “You’ll like the next girl.”

Despair flickered across Dillon’s round face. Mom showed us all a picture the next day. She said, “Here she is! I was telling my co-worker all about you, Dillon, and she said that she had a daughter your age who might be interested. She gave me this picture and I invited Buffy over next week.”

I observed the picture. An obese girl with long blonde hair, a pig-like nose and large blue eyes stared up at us with a cruel smile. Dillon gave a small whimper.

“Buffy, is it?” I asked.

“Buffy,” Mom confirmed.

“Buffy is a bit beefy,” I commented. “You know I think she has a new nick name. Beefy.”

“Sylvester!” Mom cried.

“If Beefy is coming to dinner,” Gran said, “You had better plan on cooking a lot.”

The days flew by quickly. My summer days are a blur of hot sticky air, the over powering smell of Mom’s perfume and the beat of basketballs on the pavement, the swoosh as it soars into the basket and my friends cheering. And, of course, Mom’s angry voice shouting, “It’s Buffy!”

The evening of Beefy’s arrival came all too quickly. A great shadow loomed at our doorway, blocking out the setting sun.

“Hello, dear,” Mom smiled. “You’re mother has told me all about you, it’s so nice to meet you at last.”

Mom introduced us all and none of us could help but laugh as we shook Beefy’s thick hand. Even Dad struggled with a smile. When Mom served dinner Beefy began filling her plate. Gran sipped her pea soup, glaring at Beefy.
“We have potatoes and beef and spinach,” Mom said.

She held out the beef to Dillon’s potential girlfriend, offering it to the guest.

“Care for some buff, Beefy?” Mom asked.

The conversations around the table came to an abrupt halt. The clanking of silver wear disappeared and everyone froze, wide eyed.

Dillon quickly tried to ease over the awkward moment by saying, “Go on, Beefy.”

She stared at Dillon, her eyes narrowing.

“Buffy!” He corrected himself. “Go on, Buffy.”

“It’s very good buff, Beefy—very good buff, Buffy—buff-Beefy. Very good Beefy, Buff. Oh, dear…” Mom said.

Beefy stood up and walked out the door.

“Oh!” Mom cried. “Oh no! Beefy! Wait!”

Mom ran after Beefy, her arms flailing and in her panic she forgot to call Beefy by her real name.

“Beefy! I’m so sorry! Beefy, come back!”

“My mom made me come,” Beefy said with dignity, shrugging. “I actually have a boyfriend.”

The family erupted in laughter as Mom chased Beefy, who waddled across the driveway, got into her car, slammed the door and sped away.

“Beefy—Buffy! I mean, Buffy! Wait!” Mom called. “Buffy! Buffy!”
Mom returned looking defeated. She said gently, “How horrible. Everyone has been calling her Beefy for a while now, I guess it just stuck.”

As I walked upstairs, full of delicious food and still chortling I heard Mom call to me.

“Sylvester?”

I turned around and asked, “Yes?”

“Well, Dillon is going back to college this week,” she said thoughtfully. “And I was just thinking that you’re getting older now too. Maybe its time you got a girlfriend.”

Suddenly the whole situation wasn’t quiet as funny.