If there was something the Maroney family could throw, it was a good funeral. We were currently in the little green two-story, a house that belonged to the deceased, mourning over my great uncle Joseph, who died suddenly in the night. Or at least that’s what his wife Nancy tells us. She cries into a handful of crumpled Kleenex, surrounded by cousins and aunts and brothers and sisters consoling her. And that’s why she cried, really; to get the attention she never had up until she married into our family. The Maroney’s loved unconditionally, and expected the same in return. If you couldn’t love back, then you were out. So I should be out soon, hopefully by the time I leave for college. And then I can finally live, free of my mom and dad fighting, free of my cousins teasing me about girls when they should know that I like boys, and free of my aunts force feeding Lean Cuisine meals down my throat.

“Marco, go tell your great aunt Nancy that you’re sorry for her loss,” my mother whispers to me. My mother never asked. She only commanded. I stare up at her. She makes that face that only a mother can, the one I fall under every time.

“But I’m not sorry,” I respond. She gasps, and claps her hand to her little pink mouth. Always so overdramatic. If she didn’t get married so early maybe she could have gone to acting school and been on Days of Our Lives or something. Or at least that’s what she says when the pink wine flows through her veins.

“Marco Paul Maroney. How dare you say that! Uncle Joseph was nothing but good to you,” she says, hands now on the hips.

“He gave me a Playboy magazine and a glass of absinthe that one time he babysat me. One, absinthe is illegal here. Two, I was twelve,” I say, simply. Mom rolls her eyes, and takes a swig of her red wine.

“Alright, fine. But keep low, if she sees you, she’ll suck you in,” mom pats me on the back and gestures for me to go. Go, socialize with your cousins. You might have a lot more in common than you think, she says to me. Yup. My cousins aren’t exactly the brightest bunch, but they mean well most of the time. We don’t have much to talk about, really. They’re mostly tall jocks that peaked in high school, coming round to the green two-story with a new, bleach-blonde girlfriend to introduce to the family. She’s always “the one”. I, on the other hand, am short for my seventeen years, and quite pale at that. My mother says my best quality is my deep blue eyes, which she says look mysterious and questioning. I think it’s just a brooding thing. My dad says it’s my ability to stay quiet when he’s watching a Yankee game. Something that your mother should learn, he says. My dad’s a macho man, the breadwinner. He owns a hardware store. And let me tell you, it’s absolutely thrilling. Who doesn’t love a good sale on a spark plug wrench?
“Hey, Marco! Over here!” I turn around to see my cousin Jack motioning for me to come over, where the clan of meat-eating, testosterone-ridden guys are standing on the green linoleum in the kitchen. I grudgingly go over, waiting to hear what the boys have in store for me this time. If this were a movie, my cousins would be the boys with the letterman jackets, sauntering through the school halls. In real life, they can’t even afford to buy a suit.

“Hey, guys. What’s up?” I say, trying to make conversation. It never works. I find that I’m best when I just observe.

“How you doin’, man? What’s new in Marco’s world?” Jack asks me, ruffling my hair like I’m some sort of animal. I hate it when he does that.

“Yeah, what goes on in that smart little brain of yours?” Joe chimes in. Jack laughs and they proceed to fist pound. Who still does that? Nevertheless, I chuckle nervously, for this conversation is like a gymnastics routine; you know what’s coming up, but you mess up anyway and sometimes sprain your ankle in the process.

“Um…nothing much. Applying for college, I guess…” I trail off nervously, bracing myself for the hoard of jabs I’ll get for that one. They all laugh.

“Ah, little Marco’s going to go be a big shot, eh? Go leave us for the big world out there, yeah?” And there it is, I think to myself, smiling every so slightly. Jack jokes of course, but there are underlying truths to every jab and poke and mimic he makes. To him, there’s nothing outside Bensonhurst, or New York, for that matter. He likes living with his parents. He likes having someone to clean his room, someone to make his breakfast for him. He likes routine. And anyone that thinks otherwise seems somewhat suspicious. So by default, I’m very untrustworthy. Not just by him, but by everyone except for my parents. And even they are a little skeptical sometimes. The family always asks mom and dad about my “suspicious behavior”. My mom always responds with the whole, “he’s a very bright boy, and is very ambitious” shtick, while awkwardly running a free hand through her hair. My dad usually responds with, “He’s an unusual kid, for sure. I’ve never met someone in my life who is so into The New York Times”. And then he stops fixing the air conditioner for a minute to ponder his life choices.

“Well, not exactly. I’d like to major in journalism, maybe. I dunno, I haven’t really thought about it, really. Maybe travel a bit,” I add. They all laugh again. Seriously, if I was this funny, why didn’t anyone ever laugh at my political impressions?

“You’re funny, you know that? Man, travel a bit, what are you, European?” Martin gasps through bouts of laughter.

“Don’t make fun of the boy, he’s just using his imagination,” my aunt Loretta calls from across the room. Loretta is a round woman, complete with hair stuck in the eighties and a mouth like what my friend Mandy Levinson would call a yenta. So naturally, she embarrasses me every time I see her. She stumbles over in a drunken stupor, martini glass in hand. Even when she’s drunk she can still hear everything. “So what if he wants to travel? He should. Let him enjoy the world. Let him see places. Like, I dunno, Poughkeepsie. I hear it is beautiful,” she slurs, throwing her fat arm around my shoulder. I roll my eyes. She continues to ramble, grabbing the attention of the other cousins. I zone out, and my eyes glaze over. There’s uncle Bob and aunt Marci, drinks in hand. There’s great aunt Nancy, now sitting on a plastic-covered pink couch, being “consoled” by my grandma Tina, who still rocks a pantsuit. And there’s my parents, bickering in the corner, like they always do. They got married straight out of high school. My mother was a tall, raven-haired cheerleader, with feathered hair that she still has to this day. My father was a tall, curly haired football player. As the story goes, they were so in love that my dad proposed to my mom at the prom. They thought they would live happily ever after at the time. My mom is still tall, but has lost the spark that caught my dad’s eyes. My dad has lost his sense of purpose. And somehow, they made me; a neurotic, short, stocky blue-eyed kid with my mother’s dark hair and nobody’s thirst for life. Sometimes dad sleeps on the couch. They fight over whose turn it is to take out the trash, and I end up doing it while they continue their frenzy. And other times, they’re good. Like, really good. Good for them, anyway. It usually happens like this: My mother furiously cuts coupons while my dad bursts through the door, happy from a good day at work, and puts on the old Frank Sinatra records and insists that my mom come dance with him. She will refuse at first, but with a little groping and giggling, she’ll give up, and laugh hysterically while he tries to lead her in the tango. It hasn’t happened in a while. And truthfully, I miss it.

“Hey Marco, we’re gonna go play a game of touch football out back. Wanna come?” I am shaken out of my trance with the ever so tempting football question. They should know my answer by now.

“I’m good, thanks,” I say politely. I learned the hard way that if you scoff at a game of touch football at a Maroney event, you will be forced to play and then get beaten or kicked in the groin. And apparently I get beaten every time because I am a “pansy”. Does being gay have to do with being bad at sports?

“Suit yourself,” Jack shrugs and leads the Maroney men (or at least the ones who haven’t thrown their backs out) to the small backyard of the green two-story. It is the only redeeming quality of the house, anyway; high walls, patches of faded grass here and there, smack between a Laundromat and an empty lot that is mostly used as a place to smoke weed and have sex. I press myself against the side of the wall while a bunch of guys trample through the narrow doorway, eager to get away from all the fake crying and the smell of a very overpowering Air Wick candle.

“Hey Marco, Get in here! The potstickers are done and a Three’s Company marathon is on TV!” I hear the ever-distinct voice of my mother yell. I sigh, and trudge through to the living room. My mother motions for me to sit on the arm of a mint green couch through sips of Chardonnay. My father ferociously eats a potsticker off a paper plate, eyes glued to Suzanne Somers. Nancy’s tears have subsided for now, and she leans on the coffin, which now is a makeshift coffee table, closing her eyes. Loretta is chattering mindlessly to my cousin Edward about Suzanne’s breasts and how they totally aren’t real. He doesn’t listen. I stand back, staring at everyone. Is it really worth analyzing everyone right now? I wonder. I smile slightly. Nah. I grab a paper plate and a pot sticker off the coffin and join in. This would have to do for now.