Porn!

Nothing unravels the fabric of a wholesome family vacation like a little porn. A couple of years ago Mary and I spent a few days in Branson, MO, with my parents and my brother, Steve, and his wife, Wanda, at a very nice condo on the lake. During the day we shopped, checked out local attractions, and found great places to eat. In the evenings we would retire, exhausted, to the condo, some of us playing cards or dominoes while others read or watched television. On one of these nights, as Mary, Mom, Steve, and I sat around the table playing a mindless game of Go Fish, Wanda perused the local newspaper, and Dad flipped through channels on the television. Unfamiliar with the remote, Dad was studying it, tilting his head back to peer down at it through his bifocals, eyebrows raised, mouth moving slightly as he read the labels on the buttons. The television’s volume was low, and as we stared at our cards, the background noise provided by Dad's channel surfing was almost hypnotic. A tiny burst of static, then a short preview of the channel, and then another little burst of static.

PSSHT—where, just last year, Egyptians were struggling just to—PSSHT—would not comment, saying only that House and Senate leaders agreed earlier today on—PSSHT—just a little salt to season. You don't want to add a lot, because the bacon—PSSHHT—these three titanium blades that chop the food while they mix it, giving you the perfect—PSSHT—oooh, that’s right…oooh, I like it when you do that…

This channel selection naturally seized our attention and everyone looked up at each other and then at the television, except for Mom, who was arranging her cards into a neat fan, and Dad, who was still looking down through his bifocals at the remote trying to make sense of the buttons. On the screen were four naked women in a hot tub, writhing and moaning—honestly, there may have been more, but it was difficult to tell, as some of them were partially submerged. Having been raised to be fairly modest, we were initially speechless. Each of us thought—prayed, even—that maybe he would just keep clicking through the channels and away from the virtual slip and slide that was taking place on the screen. When, after a few seconds, we realized that he was unaware of his viewing choice, Mary was the first to speak, but she could only manage one word.
"PORN!" she sputtered, pointing at the television with one hand, and tugging at my shirt sleeve with the other.

Nodding my head but still unable to speak, I reached over to nudge Steve, but because he embarrasses easily, he had quickly left the table to go outside and smoke a cigarette. Wanda, who also is prone to embarrassment, had brought her newspaper up close in front of her face as if she were reading a tiny little article. Mary continued to tug at my sleeve like a child trying to draw someone’s attention to an approaching tidal wave. Or a hot tub full of naked women. “Um, porn! Porn!” she blurted helplessly. Mom looked up and turned to see what was on the screen. She chuckled, and then turned back to her cards. “John, change the channel, honey,” she announced calmly. Dad looked up just in time to see the gals changing position. Like cheerleaders readying themselves for the big finish at the state finals, they clambered over one another, splashing and cooing. Dad immediately went into panic mode and began trying to change the channel, but instead began raising the volume.

“OOOH, THAT’S IT…THAT’S IT…YES!!”

Instinctively, we all scrambled towards him to try and silence the television.
“Just turn it off,” my mother instructed Wanda, who was now searching the front of the set for a power button. Or any button.
“There’s no buttons on the front!” Wanda shrieked. “Why aren’t there buttons?!”
Eyeing what I thought might be a button, I asked, “Isn’t that the power button right there, Wanda?”
“Where?!” she cried, her eyes racing over the front panel.

“RIGHT THERE!! OH YES! RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE!”

“The little red button on the left!” I snapped. Mary had gone to get Steve, but when he came in and saw what was taking place, he immediately turned and walked right back out, tapping another cigarette out of his pack.
“That’s not even a button, that’s the infrared thingy for the remote!” Wanda snapped back.
“Then just unplug it!” I shouted. “Just make it stop!”

“DON’T STOP! OOOOH, DON’T STOP…”

Meanwhile, Mom and Dad, who by this time were in full Hail-Mary mode, began pressing random buttons on the remote in hopes of finding some magic combination that would bring an end to the earsplitting love fest.
“Will you please hand me that?” I said through clenched teeth, extending my hand for the remote. Snatching it away from them, I lowered the volume, changed the channel, and then turned the set off. Everyone was motionless for a moment, steeping in the abrupt quietness of the room. I gently set the remote on top of the television and stood back up, awkwardly stuffing my hands in my pockets. Hearing that the commotion had stopped, Steve wandered back in and was leaning against the refrigerator. We all spoke at once.

“Ok, I’m calling it a night…” “It’s past my bedtime…” “I think I’ll turn in…” “I’m beat…” “I’ve got to get something from the car…” “Is it nine-thirty already?”

We didn’t speak of it again, and the remote remained on top of the television for the rest of the trip.


~Alan