Son of Nyuk-Nyuk

by Dumas and Magda Silhavy

You may remember that last May, my brothers Edwin, Dumas, and myself made the long journey from our adopted hometown of Barrow, Alaska, to Corpus Christi, Texas. We were on our way to Mexico to scatter the ashes of our beloved father, who was killed by a moose at the tender age of 97, while our family was crossing the Bering Strait from his native Russia.

It was a lot easier back when there was a land bridge.

Our mother, who came to our father as a mail-order bride from Las Vegas, halfheartedly raised us alone before abandoning us to our own devices; she shacked up with some loser in Nome, and the three of us, practically orphans, struggled to make a life for ourselves. And of course we ultimately did, becoming successful whale marketers. And having established ourselves as prominent citizens of Barrow – I myself plan to become mayor one day – we decided the time had come to lay our father to his final rest in Mexico, where he can forever after enjoy the strains of mariachi music. Ah, how Father loved mariachi music!

Unfortunately, Dumas left Dad’s ashes on the baggage carousel in Seattle.

We’re planning another trip, and this time, we plan to bring help in the form of a brilliant young attorney named Ik-Ik, though you may know him as Tony, or perhaps even Cheryl’s Bitch. Ik-Ik is the only son of our maid (or butler), Nyuk-Nyuk, of whose gender we have never been certain. But surely, surely, his (or her) very own son can tell us. We’ve always wondered!

Ik-Ik claims attorney-client privilege, and isn’t talking.

Ik-Ik is the executor of our father’s estate, so it falls to his lot to oversee the arrangements for disposition of our father’s remains which were spelled out in his will. We’ll enjoy the chance to make the trip with him, and I personally feel that, after a couple of mojitos, and maybe a brownie or two, Ik-Ik will spill the beans on his mother’s (or father’s) gender.

Dumas disagrees.

No one in Barrow knows, Dumas points out, whether it was Nyuk-Nyuk or his (or her) spouse, Chris, who was pregnant. Both of them had been seriously overweight, and had cut out whale blubber in an effort to trim down; both of them had then lost about 100 pounds each, and it was during this time that Ik-Ik was born. Nor was Ik-Ik delivered in a hospital, or even under the careful eye of a midwife: eschewing even such assistance as is embraced by many Alaskan natives, Chris and Nyuk-Nyuk delivered their son alone, in the isolation of their own igloo.

Ik-Ik himself, remarks Dumas, addresses both his parents as “Baba,” so even he may not know which is which. And if he were uncertain, he could hardly have asked. To inquire of one’s parents what their gender may be is the lowest form of rudeness in Alaskan culture. It's unthinkable. It's even worse than wearing white mukluks after Labor Day.

Whatever mysteries Nyuk-Nyuk’s indomitable parka may conceal, we expect to have another enlightening and meaningful trip to Corpus this year. Especially if Dumas remembers to pick up Dad’s ashes.

Best Weekend Ever

Isn't there a song about how, if you're going to Corpus Christi, be sure to have flowers on your car?

I'll write one, perhaps. We're also going to write a musical about the big creepy Jesus of the Sea. Justin, I mean Edwin, has the title song mostly done.

Downtown Corpus, you know, is largely derelict, though there are some efforts under way to revitalize it. There's this incredibly cool old building right across from our hotel. Aside from a lone dive bar on the ground floor, it's been empty for I-don't-know-how-long. Now they're gutting it and turning it into lofts; and I bet they won't go for as much as the downtown lofts in Austin do... Anyway, the doors are all locked and all that's left of the bar is its sign on the side of the building. But many of the windows are open. And there's a fire escape. Wouldn't it be so cool, Edwin and Dumas and I kept saying to one another all weekend, if we could somehow get into that building and explore?

Last night we went out with my old war buddies Omar and Spam Master G, who's still at the hell place (and says it's almost sane now that Tiffany is gone - I cannot tell you how flabbergasted I still am by that - my head is reeling!). And as we walked back through the deserted downtown streets at 2am (almost no bars are open on Sunday night, Memorial Day weekend be damned), we passed our building. It's so cool, isn't it? Wouldn't it be awesome if there were a way in?

You can jump and reach the fire escape, but it's chained in the up position. But Omar gave G a boost (in a fashion that, if they still worked together, would have them both working from home for at least six months) and G went through a window, came down the stairs, and opened the bar door for us. It wasn't really even locked - it opens inward, and was secured by a length of 2x4 propped under the door handle.

There's electricity, but above the fifth floor no lights were on. The inside is completely gutted. Most of the windows were open, so with no interior walls (but many, many concrete columns) it wasn't impenetrably dark. It smelled old. It was deliciously spooky. I half expected Richard Dean Anderson to leap out of the wall at me naked.

Of course we disturbed nothing - there was nothing to disturb, and after a while we made our way back down to street level and outside. It was incredibly cool. I'd like to say it's the crowning moment of the trip, but it's got some pretty stiff competition: the beach at midnight, silent except for the waves and dark except for the stars and a half moon; getting ready in the bathroom for an evening our partying and coming out to find Dumas filling the room with pink balloons and paper streamers and a birthday card and candles for me (he wanted to have a cake too, but since we took my car and nobody else is able to drive it, there wasn't really a way to do that); trying to reassure a very drunk guy on the street corner that we weren't breaking into my car, as it's actually my car; discovering that Captain Albatross looked just like our dad; getting caught staring out our hotel window at all the human drama taking place by the pool; finding out that Robin quit her job at the old hell place by screaming "FAT BITCH!" at Tiffany and slamming the door in her face; breakfast at City Diner with Omar and Robert; talking up Alaska and how much we miss our butler (or maid) Nyuk-Nyuk over lunch in Nixon; listening to cool tunes on Edwin's iPod; having the most complicated, difficult, and lengthy hotel check-in process I have ever experienced; gathering flowers and vegetation at every place we stopped and tucking it under my rear window wiper, so by this point it looks like I drove down a ravine and into the sea ass-backwards; pink yogurty yummy strawberry martinis; taking a driving tour of the ghetto; getting rained on; getting sunned on; laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing so much I'm totally hoarse.

Of course, our Dad's ashes are still going round and round on the conveyor belt at the Seattle airport. We thought about asking Nyuk-Nyuk if she (or he) would FedEx them to us, but figured we'd be back home in Barrow by the time they arrived.

So we'll go back again one day. And there will be flowers on my car.