Calm and Chaos... Sounds About Right

What do grandchildren do with their grandparents?

I know that’s an odd question to pose, but I’m a Dean. I’m curious if other families out there do the same things that we, as Deans, do? Or are we just… weird?

Funny, right?

But… humor me!

Paula Dean… no, no, not THAT racist, sausage loving Paula Dean, but rather my grandmother, Mama Dean, has decided she would like to spend a day with her granddaughter. You’d think it’d be a day of garage sales, quilting, and frozen yogurt but again, we’re Dean’s. So instead I find myself cruising along at around 12,000 feet above ground level, strapped to the front of a man named Cliff.

Or was it Biff?

Details.

When your knees are shaking and there is a constant rush sounding in your ears you don’t really pay attention to trivial things, like what’s the name of the man you’re about to plummet to your death strapped to. And funny enough, he told me his name when both my feet were on the ground, ten minutes after my grandmother signed us up for this cocamamy idea. But that overwhelming sound of rushing air actually came from the sheer terror and stress of my impending death.

After hours of safety lessons, jump protocols, suit fittings, parachute packing, and finally a box of apple juice consumption, we find ourselves in the back of the plane as it climbs altitude.

“BOBBY ALWAYS WANTED TO DO THIS,” Mama Dean says in an attempt to scream over the raucous sound of the twin engines of the DHC-6 Twin Otter.

“ONE DAY, MAYBE…” I scream in response, to which my grandmother screams back, “WHAT!?”

Before I can repeat myself Cliff, or Biff, taps me on the shoulder. The prearranged signal that I was soon going to die. Everyone begins to rise to their feet, struggling as it’s quite difficult when you are latched to someone’s chest and pelvis.

I can’t help but take a moment to pause, and wonder, “is this what my dad feels like” but a moment is all I can spare before Biff is waddling us to our spot, fourth in line, second to last, just behind my grandmother and her jump buddy Dave.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” I mutter to myself, unable to say anything else as the door is propped open and the wind whips through the compartment.

After a minute or two, which felt more like an hour or… four, the first pair simply falls out of the plane. There is no scream, or at least you don’t hear one over the sound of the air as we simply shuffle forward to await our turn.

One after another they all disappear and before I know it I’m standing at the opening with tears beginning to form in the corner of my goggle-covered eyes. Another tap on the top of my head signals we’re a count of three closer to my death.

3…

I feel like I’m in a wrestling match.

2…

I wish I was in a wrestling match!

1…

JUMP!

There is no bell, as this is no wrestling match, but yet my ears are ringing. My hands are white knuckle clutching at the harness, refusing to budge, as Biff screams out shrilly.

Oh wait, no, that’s me screaming.

I feel the wind billowing my cheeks like I had an overzealous CPAP machine blowing on max as Jiff holds out his wrist mounted camera and screams something like “CHEESE,” to which I reply with “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Dear lord, please allow the parachute to open.

Please, please, please, don’t let me die strapped to a man named Whiff.

Dad would have a joke to last a lifetime, at least.

God, I’m just like him.

~~~

“Here you are, another Glenlivet for the young lady, and a Shirley Temple for the even younger lady.” the waiter attempts to schmooze his way to a big tip, not knowing that my grandmother despises his smarmy classless act.

With drinks in hand, Mama Dean and I enjoy our late lunch, something us Deans like to refer to as Linner. With a fork full of tortellini heading towards my mouth, my grandmother says “I’m so happy to see you following in your father’s footsteps. I mean, a third generation wrestler in the family is quite remarkable.”

The fork stalls for a moment before returning to the plate, tortellini still poised on the prongs, as I look at Mama Dean with an expression of bewildered confusion. “What do you mean, third generation? You were a wrestler?”

“Me?” Mama Dean asks with a laugh, “Oh heavens no, not me. Your grandfather dear. Bobby hasn’t told you?”

“Dad doesn’t really talk much about his dad, or even the family as a whole to be honest,” I admit. “I mean, you have to remember I only got to meet him, and you a couple of years ago.”

Shaking her head with a look of disapproval on her face, she reaches out and pats my hand reassuringly and gently. “Dear, your father is a fool. Had I known he was going to be out there spreading his seed like it was the Garden of Versailles, I’d have neutered him the day he was born.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, but my grandmother simply shakes her head once more before offering me a classic Dean-esque smile. “Anyway, your grandfather was a wrestler back in his time. In fact, he was what was known as a bear wrestler.”

“Bear wrestler?” I parrot back while picking up my fork for another bite of tortellini.

“He’d go from town to town, much like your father… and now you,” Mama Dean explains with a fond smile on her lips. “He’d put on a little show for a day or two before moving to the next town. In fact, that’s how I met him. He came to our little town outside of Houston and, while he was lying on his back getting pinned, our eyes instantly locked and we both knew.” She sighed that kinda sigh. “It was destiny. Two weeks later, we were married. A week after that, he was onto the next town.” A much different kinda sigh. “And I never saw him again…”

“Wait, what?” my fork drops from my lax hand, clattering to the plate below.

“Oh sorry hun, I keep forgetting this is all new to you.” She chuckles as the waiter rushes over to check on us, concern filling his eyes. “It’s alright. It’s okay. She’s just a little jittery. Must’ve had a little too much to drink.”

Dismissing the waiter, I look at my grandmother and I can’t help but wonder aloud, “Is everyone in our family really this weird?”

~~~

Routine is a lovely thing.

Another ReVival is in the books, and Doozer is perched at another bar. A drink in one hand, his other held up to his forehead with a pack of ice to cool his bruising face. Only difference this time around is, Dooze has company.

Well, company he neither asked for, nor paid for…

“Your best bud’s a real terminal pain in the neck, sometimes, huh Dooze?”

You know that shit eating grin we all love to see spread across “Beautiful” Bobby Dean’s cherubically glib face? You know how they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? Well, that couldn’t apply more right here and now, as young Annabelle Dean shoots that familiar expression, while casually sipping from her Shirley Temple, side-eyeing the Not So Invisible old man sitting at the bar to her right.

“Almost makes ya wonder,” Annabelle taunts mockingly, “Did he pick his moniker himself or did his mom name him that when he popped out? Like, she just knew, ya know?”

“Funny. Yer a real peach, Princess.” A small smirk of his own peeks out from behind the pain covering Doozer’s wrinkled face as he slowly rubs the left side of his neck.

“Okay, boomer.” There’s that Dean grin. “You realize, if the new Switch hadn’t just come out, there’s a zero percent chance that joke would land here?” Belle circles her face with her hand, index finger extended, “right?”

“The fuck’s a Switch?” Doozer couldn’t help but ask as Annabelle looks at him like he was insane. “Only switch I know is the one you had to tear from the tree in the backyard while praying your old man was too sore, or drunk, to connect with a full swing.”

Little Dean turns her head toward The Elder Bandit, with one brow raising over the other. “You’re lucky Uncle CJ’s not hiding around here somewhere, or I’m pretty sure he’d be zapping you right about now.”

“I should zap yer dumb ass…” The Native from New England grumbled.

“Good one, gramps,” Annabelle says while rolling her eyes.

“Shut up. And you didn’t even get the reference, did ya? Friggin sarcastic, little shit. Back when-” Just as The Old Bull’s eyes brightened an electric shade of blue, Belle brought out her proverbial pin to burst his bubble.

“OH HAI UNCLE CANCER!” Her face brightens an appropriately devilish shade of red.

“WHA-” Dooze nearly tumbles from his seat as he quickly spins around, all the while Annabelle nearly falls off her own seat snickering.

“Gotcha!”

Doozer tries to collect himself, acting as though nothing just happened. The bartender sees his moment of need.

“Ready for another one, boss?”

The Boston Bruiser grunts, “Yeah, fill ‘er up. I’ll switch to seltzer, though. Trying to get back into ring shape, y’know?”

A single eyebrow on Annabelle’s face rises again, this time more devilishly.

“I doubt they have watermel-”

Deadpan Dooze cuts her off.

“Go away.”

Little Dean goes full Dean.

“You mean, like, get off your lawn?” Belle bobs her head mockingly to the left and right while scrunching her face up to look as curmudgeonly as possible, while shaking a tiny fist in the air.

“Stop antagonizing Dooze,” the mirthful voice of Bobby Dean sounds as the large man approaches the bar. “You know his old heart can’t take much more abuse.” He motions toward The Old Bull like Happy Gilmore did toward his grandmother. “He’s just too… old.”

Annabelle looks a bit abashed as Bobby walks by and pats her reassuringly on the top of the head before continuing past to take the stool between Dooze and his daughter. While the Obese Bandit struggles up to perch his wide behind on the waist high barstool, the bartender walks over with a rag draped over his shoulder.

“What’re you having?” the guy asks, hoping to finally have a customer willing to spend some money on more than a cheap ass seltzer and a non-alcoholic drink.

“Just a water, please.” Bobby orders, sheepishly, causing both Belle and Doozer to look at him with clear dumbstruck confusion on their respective faces.

With a sigh of defeat the bartender quickly dumps a few cubes of ice in a glass before filling it with water and roughly sliding it toward the big man. He storms away to hopefully find a better patron to serve, leaving the trio in his wake.

“Water?” Doozer asks, bewildered, as Annabelle asks simultaneously, “You okay, Pop?”

Bobby looks embarrassed as he takes a large gulp from the glass before swirling the clear liquid around, staring intently into the glass. Almost as if he’s in hopes that, by ignoring the questions, they’ll forget.

With a loud sigh, Bobby quietly admits, “I’ve got to lose weight.”

“No shit…” The Elder Bandit mutters to himself.

“What do you mean?” The youngest Dean asks with concern ringing clearly in her voice. “What’s going on?”

Another sigh sounds before Bobby places the glass on the bar and admits, “To qualify for the gastric procedure, I have to lose thirty pounds.” His already droopy shoulders find a wear to sink further. “Something about showing the insurance company that I’m willing to put in the work and change my unhealthy habits before they’ll,” Air quotes, “sign off,” end air quotes, “on the procedure.”

“How much have you lost so far?” Doozer asks with an encouraging smile.

“Twelve pounds,” Bobby announces sheepishly.

“Hey!” Doozer and Annabelle cheer out triumphantly as Belle lunges at her dad and wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “I’m so proud of you!”

Not used to praise, Bobby quickly excuses himself to go to the bathroom, leaving Doozer alone with Annabelle once more. Something he quickly began to regret.

“Where were we?” Annabelle begins to taunt, “Oh yeah, you’re old and useless. Wait.” An antagonizing finger points to the ceiling. “Do you think you’re useless because you’re old? Or…”

“Useless? What are you talking about?” Doozer demands, looking at his adopted niece with hurt in his eyes.

“Uncle Jiles says,” little Belle begins, only to be cut off by a derisive snort from the old Bull, but being a Dean, she perseveres. “Uncle Jiles says you were always the weak link. He worries about this upcoming tag match, now that I’m saddled with you.” She shrugs, innocently. “His words, obviously.”

“Listen kid,” Dooze offers, a sage tone taking over his voice, looking his niece in the eye with a somber expression on his face. “It took me 30 years in this business to realize that winning matches isn’t the most important thing. Friendship, camaraderie, family, the bonds we forge in the heat of battle. These are the things you should strive for.”

Annabelle looks at Dooze as a wise old man waxing poetic, but then she asks with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “Cancer said you would say that. He says people say things like that when people can’t win titles. He also says if you want to win PRIME gold, winning is clearly the most important thing, Then he called me a crumb.” She chuckled self consciously.

“Well, what does Cancer know?” Doozer asks bitterly, turning back to his seltzer, wishing it was suddenly something stronger.

“He knows what Yeet means,” Annabelle prods innocently.

“HEY! I know what that means!” The Dooze defends, “In my day, that meant puking your guts out. Bobby, you remember what yeet means?”

Bobby approaches his vacant seat as Mr. Glass asks his question, causing Bobby to smirk. A Bobby smirk leaves everyone feeling trepidation and unease. “Yeah, it meant…” Bobby begins to mime as if he were giving himself… uhh… hand pleasure.

“What!?” Doozer asks with disbelief as Annabelle mimes yeeting onto the bar, with stomach churning sound effects and all.

“How in the world the judges let YOU take care of this poor girl.” The Elder Bandit shoots daggers at Big Daddy Dean, shaking his head.

“Oh speaking of that, Dad,” Annabelle begins a curious hint in her voice, “Why didn’t you ever tell me I was a third generation wrestler?”

Bobby looks at his daughter with clear confusion on his face. “What are you talking about?”

“Mama Dean said that Papa Dean used to wrestle bears.” Annabelle informs cheerfully before addressing Dooze. “Isn’t that cool?"

“No honey,” Bobby says with a sad shake of his head. “You misheard Mama Dean. You see Papa Dean didn’t wrestle bears.” The Beautiful Man from Honalee spends a second to find his words. “He was the bear!”

Doozer and Belle look at Bobby with lost expressions on their faces. “How does that work?” The Elder Bandit can’t help but ask.

“It’s exactly what it sounds like.” Bobby says, a bit embarrassed. If a Dean can truly feel embarrassed. “My dad would wear a giant bear costume and wrestle. He was a part of a roaming circus. Not a very good one… but still.”

Belle looks down at the bar top, gobsmacked, unable to wrap her head around what she just heard. Bobby, having come to grips with his wayward father’s profession, simply sits there looking at his glass of water, wishing it were any other drink. Unlike his old wrestling buddy, preferably one filled with sugar.

“Hey,” Doozer decides to disturb the quiet, “If you think about it, you’re a third generation…” His eyes dart around trying to find the right words, “circus freak?”

The failure didn’t seem to impact the kid.

“How do you figure?” Annabelle can’t help but ask, unsure whether she should be happy or insulted.

“Well, your granddad was a bear,” Dooze begins to list, ticking away on his fingertips. “The Bandits are clearly a circus troupe. Hessian the Bearded Lady slash Strongman. Coral Avalon, the Man With The Widest Forehead. Tony Gamble, the Midget that Juggles Phonebooks. Bobby Dean,” Dooze simply looks at Bobby as if the man himself was a clear enough answer.

It was.

“And you?” Annabelle asks.

“The Invisible Man, duh.” Bobby answers as Dooze smiles, sensing what was coming.

“What about Uncle Jiles?” Annabelle follows up, causing Doozer and Bobby to look at one another, as if asking “What about Cancer Jiles?”

“Ring Master.” Doozer and Bobby answer together.

“And what am I?” Annabelle asks, afraid for the answer.

“The star attraction, of course.” Bobby offers with a proud smile, as Dooze nods his head approvingly.

The Honnalean heads toward the door, looking back quickly to shout out, “What’re you waiting for, Belle?”

Annabelle takes a deep breath, bringing with it a heavy dose of trepidation regarding what’s to come.

Anxiety brings Chaos in between one’s ears.

The Youngest Bandit tries to shake the thoughts swarming her psyche, and stands up. She shoots a smile toward her soon to be tag team partner; possibly the most insecure attempt to fake confidence we’ve seen since said partner’s last attempt at a run. Just as she takes one step past The Boston Bruiser also known as Doozer, a big old hand lands on her shoulder.

Belle turns within a blink of an eye.

Doozer stands and stares deep into Belle’s eyes.

“Remember when you’d get all mad at your dad because Jiles would make a joke about… well whatever you decided to care about that week, and yer old man would chuckle?”

The Princess of the Ring looks up and smiles, doe-eyed, nodding.

The Elder Bandit raises a closed fist, with its thumb stuck straight up.

Experience brings the Calm.

Annabelle smiles sheepishly, bringing her own closed fist up to meet Doozer’s knuckle to knuckle.

She whispers, “Big…”

The Doozer rolls his knuckles forward until both of their upright thumbs meet.

“And small.” He adds, smiling down on his.

“We’ll kill them all!”

There’s that diabolical little Deanish grin again.