Commercials Can Kill

The time had come. There would be madness and mayhem. Screaming teenagers would be teasing and taunting. Mad men would be shouting obscenities with fists flailing. We would witness this spectre of warfare first hand: the thrill of victory – the agony of defeat. It was Super Bowl Sunday. Remember what happened that year?

We couldn’t have predicted how it would end. None of us saw it coming. Well, maybe Rhondell did. I’m still haunted by the thought of the “what ifs.” Could we have saved her? I don’t know. You be the judge.

We hosted the Super Bowl party for as long as I can remember. For me, the real fascination for watching the Super Bowl was the half-time show and the brand new commercials that would be premiered. I wasn’t a football fan but I certainly was a
New York City fan. And since the NY Giants were playing the New England Patriots, I was psyched for the game as well.

The customary fanatics were all in attendance: Dad’s coworkers from the post office along with my brother, Barry’s hockey team. My girlfriends were coming to keep me company amidst the testosterone. Ma was the perfect hostess, as usual, refilling the chip and punch bowls, and passing out beers after removing the empties. And the food? Oh, my God! No tailgate party could rival the feast Ma prepared for game day. The fire of her red-hot buffalo wings was extinguished only by her homemade bleu cheese dressing. All the dips for the chips were made from scratch as well as the apple cider punch and football-shaped brownies. Her pièce de résistance: seafood lasagna, brimming with shrimp, scallops, lobster and crabmeat. It was to die for! But that’s not how she died.

Rhondell was the first to arrive. She kind of adopted my mother after her mom had passed away two years ago.

“Hi, Ma!” Rhondell chimed, as she kissed Ma on the cheek while taking off her coat.
“Wow! You made the salsa, nacho cheese dip, guacamole…and chili too? Wow! Just like my mom used to make, remember?
“I do. Every 4th of July. Your mom made the best chili. I just imitate hers.”
Ma concealed a sad smile as she hugged Rhondell.
“Do you need me to shell the shrimp for you?”
“No, honey, Nadine did that already. But you can grate the cheese for me, please.”
“You look tired, Ma.”
“I feel a little achy. I must be catching a cold. Don’t worry. I’m fine. It’s game day!”

Was that the first clue that I missed? Of course, Ma was tired. She’d been up late preparing the food and then she got up early, went to church, came home and started cooking. There was nothing unusual about that, right?

What happened next? We partied! The Giants scored first. Pandemonium erupted!
The commercials were hilarious. I kept calling Ma and Rhondell to come out the kitchen to check them out. All was well…at least I thought so. Nobody saw when Ma dropped the pitcher of punch. We only found out about it when she asked for the mop. Just because someone drops a pitcher, it doesn’t mean they’re dying, does it?

Unbeknownst to me, Ma had almost dropped the lasagna pan from the oven. Rhondell told me afterwards. Perhaps Rhondell peeped a sign that I never saw. But hey, running backs drop the football all the time and they don’t die after the game, right?

Even though the Patriots scored a touchdown and took the lead 7-3 before halftime, we couldn’t wait to see the show. It was Prince! Ma came in with her bucket of beers. While she was handing them out, she dropped a can, and for some strange reason, she picked it up and opened it. Bad move. The resulting spray looked like the Old Faithful geyser in Yellowstone Park. Barry and his buddies burst out laughing. It did look funny. Ma was drenched. I felt sorry for her. Rhondell rushed to her side and shouted at the guys,
“That’s not funny!”
Ma took it in stride. She asked Rhondell and me to clean up and start serving the lasagna while she went upstairs to change. Who knew that would be the last time we saw Ma alive?

Fourth quarter. It was looking grim for the Giants. The Patriots had scored and now it was 14-10 with only 2 minutes 42 seconds left. All of our armchair quarterbacks were strategizing for the Giants. I asked Rhondell to help me serve the brownies. She wanted to go upstairs to check on Ma but I told her Ma was fine and if she needed anything, she would call us on the intercom phone. 

The Giants were moving downfield. It seemed like they might score. Time was running out. Rhondell tried to go upstairs but I kept calling her back to check out the commercials. I thought everything was fine. Whoever died over spilled beer?

The Giants scored! They beat the Patriots 17-14. We were ecstatic! Everyone was out of their seats. There were hugs and high-fives. I went to the fridge to get the just-in-case bottle of champagne. Jubilation abounded.

I didn’t even see when Rhondell went upstairs. We just heard her bloodcurdling scream.
Everyone frooze. Dad ran up the stairs, so did Barry and I.  Rhondell was sitting on the bed, clutching Ma to her chest, rocking back and forth while sobbing uncontrollably.

“What happened?” Dad screamed.
“She’s dead!” Rhondell cried.
“How?”
“I think she had a heart attack.”
“What? No!” Dad grabbed the phone.

A heart attack? How could I have known that was going to happen? Ma was fine. I mean, she was a bit overweight and she smoked and had her occasional gin and tonic but she was in pretty good shape at fifty-six. Was she in pain? I never saw it. I mean, I’ve heard of people dying from sudden heart attacks but…but…not my mother…not now.

Rhondell swung around and glared at me.
I couldn’t believe what came out of her mouth next.

“You said you’d come up here to check on her! Why didn’t you let me check on her? I didn’t need to watch those damn commercials! I knew something was wrong!
You let her die! You let her die!”

I was stunned. Did my best friend just accuse me of killing my mother? ...by watching TV commercials? I was speechless…in shock. I tried to analyze what happened. What if Ma hadn’t dropped that beer? What if I had come upstairs earlier? What if Rhondell was right?
Just then, I overheard a commercial in the background. David Letterman was saying, “This is the worst Super Bowl party ever!”
I concurred.