Marie Osmond Scratched My Brother.
In 1991 Marie Osmond scratched my brother and one day I will scratch hers.
The principal actors in my story are as follows:
Marie Osmond: A member of world-renowned Mormon’s, The Osmond Family, though she was never an official member of the musical group. You might know The Osmond Family from the discount bin on the floor at your local record store. Marie had a middling singing career in her own right and eventually teamed up with her toothy brother Donny for the Donny and Marie variety show and that terrible little bit country, little bit rock and roll song.
In addition to passable singing, she has been a perennial B to C List celebrity since the early 1970s, no easy feat, I suppose.
Chad Messerschmidt, my little brother: A member of the slightly less renowned current and former casual Lutherans, The Messerschmidt family of Fargo, North Dakota. In 1991 Chad was five years old, a chubby little booger eater that very nearly ruined my life just by being born, or so I thought at the time. Chad’s history is riddled with injuries. Here is an incomplete list:
Broke his arm on his third birthday. I fell on him.
Bitten by a donkey in sunglasses. There is photographic proof of this.
Testicle went up inside of him.
Dislocated shoulder
Hit by car
Got glass in his leg when he kicked through a car window trying to get shotgun
Stabbed himself in the leg with a sword.
Cracked his head open while attempting to jump down a flight of stairs, resulting in brain bleeding
And, last but not least, scratched by Marie Osmond.
Marie Osmond was in Fargo in December of 1991 for an appearance on the Children’s Miracle Network’s annual televised fundraiser. This was a big deal, kind of, as we didn’t get many celebrities in town. Our “Walk of Fame” includes Steve Allen, Paul Harvey, and Bert & Ernie, none of whom ever lived here.
For this grand affair, local drivers were needed to man the limousines, and, because we’re not the type of town with much need for limousine drivers outside of prom season, volunteers were arranged.
My father, Rock, was one of these. I don’t know why. He was and is a local banker with an inept social climber’s interest in charity.
Anyway, we had the opportunity to meet Marie Osmond because my father was assigned to be her driver.
We met him at the hospital where I guess she was touring, and laughed when we saw him in his dumb limo driver hat.
And then, there she was, resplendent in terrible 90s fashion, hair huge and poofy, makeup thick and garish, shoulders elevated by pads: Marie Osmond, a lady I vaguely understood to be famous but had never heard of before.
What a thrill.
She smiled at us, told us how cute we were, even though we were both chubby, pasty mid-westerners in bowl cuts and well-worn starter jackets and probably struck her as sticky fingered small town rubes.
She reached out her hand to shake mine. Her nails were long, shiny, purple. I remember it clearly.
I shook back without incident.
Then she took my brother’s hand and all hell broke loose.
Okay, hell is a strong word. He grimaced a little and she didn’t really notice.
Anyway, her ludicrous fingernails had scratched his flabby little arm.
Now, listen. I didn’t like my brother. Who in their right mind could have? But I loved him.
And, for that reason, on that day, my fate was sealed:
I would have to avenge this wrong.
I would, one day, have to find Marie Osmond’s botoxed brother Donny. And I would have to scratch him.
I imagine that, when it happens, it will go something like this:
Donny Osmond, confidently walking through the Denver International airport, chatting with his agent maybe, artificially plumped and smoothed skin a deep chestnut, repurposed hair (I’m guessing here) done up to the nines, veneers aglow. Maybe he’s got an assistant or something with him. Maybe this is a layover on his way to cut the ribbon on some terrible resort he’s invested in in one of the Carolinas.
Regardless, he’s not paying attention to his surroundings.
I spot him from my terminal, over my book. My heart begins to beat quickly, my mind races, a sheen of sweat dampens my brow.
This is it. The moment I’ve been awaiting for nigh on 40 years now.
I put my book in my knapsack, stand, sling the bag over my shoulder, take a deep breath.
I begin walking toward him, casual, but quick. As luck would have it, Donny Osmond is wearing a short sleeved shirt. Some expensive Hawaiian type thing.
I approach, stealthy but quick.
I’m right behind him now.
I reach out and tap him on the shoulder.
“Mr. Osmond?” I say.
He turns, a little annoyed.
“I don’t usually do this but . . .”
And then I make my move.
My pointer finger extended, the nail long and sharp as it has been for years, in preparation for this very moment.
As I reach, I shout, “Your sister scratched my brother, now I scratch you!”
He is confused, still holding his phone, keeping that bare, tanned arm exposed.
My fingernail reaches his skin and I pull down quickly, leaving a small red and white scratch on his perfect skin.
He pulls back. Shouts, “Hey!”
I turn and run, elated. I’m going to miss my plane, but my work is done.
Chad has been avenged and balance is restored.
20 seconds later I am tackled by airport security and spend a little time in the clink.
No big deal.
It was worth it.
The end.
A PODCAST, BUT ALSO ART.
