Fair(l)y Specific

“Ben, can you help your aunt with the dishes?”

Ben looks at his father, shocked. “With Aunt Tess?” He blows air into his cheeks, letting it out in a “pfff.”

“Come on, Ben, you can get to know her a bit,” Ben’s mother said—no longer a question or an idea. Ben needed to go help Aunt Tess.

“She is so weird,” a complaint made when he was already walking very slowly towards the kitchen.

“You’ll be fine. Do you remember a joke to break the ice?” Ben’s father returned to the conversation with Uncle Don.

Ben nods once then opens the door to the kitchen, the door to his doom.

***

Aunt Tess had already started; the first glass was already on the drying rack.

Ben took a drying cloth and started to dry the glass.

Aunt Tess smiled at him.

Ben smiled back.

Another glass rested on the drying rack.

The silence alone dried the glass halfway.

Ben took a big swig of air.

“So, a fairy walks into a bar.”

“Wait—what?” Aunt Tess stopped washing a plate to look up.

“A fairy walks into a bar. It’s a joke.” Ben looked at her, then started to dry the glass.

“Which fairy?” She continued washing.

“Why does that matter?”

“A lot. A fairy like in Peter Pan is something very different from a fairy in a drag-queen bookshop reading.”

Ben looked at her, his face distorted. “What?”

“‘Fairy’ isn’t a specific word. You have to specify which fairy.”

“Can’t you just listen to the joke?”

Aunt Tess put a soap-heavy hand on her hip. “No. If it’s about a drag-queen fairy, I think it’s homophobic.”

“It isn’t.”

“It isn’t what—homophobic, or about drag queens?”

“Both. Drag queens aren’t necessarily fairies, you know.” Ben looked at her for confirmation.

Her eyes pierced him. “So it is about those fairies?”

“No. It’s not about drag-queen fairies, and it’s not a homophobic joke.” His voice started to sound a bit louder.

“Good. I was disappointed in you for a second there.” The dishes resumed being washed.

“So. A fairy walks into a bar—”

“It still sounds homophobic, you know.”

“Stop. I will never tell you another joke again.” Ben rubbed the plate very hard; screeches sounded through the kitchen.

“Is that a promise?” She sprinkled some foam his way.

“Please just listen to the joke.” He loosened his grip on the plate.

“Fine. Have you decided which kind of fairy it is?”

“Well, yes. Not a drag queen—who are not necessarily fairies… but can be, if they want.”

A frown appeared on her face. “Specifying what it isn’t doesn’t clarify what it is.”

“Please. Just stop.” Ben lowered the cloth and looked her straight in the eye.

“Fine. So what is the joke about?”

“I can’t tell you. I’ll ruin the punchline.” With his head held high, he glanced towards her.

“But I need to know in order to decide which kind of fairy it is.”

“I don’t know, okay? What can I choose from?”

“Well, for instance: a fairy godmother—does it grant wishes? Or a fairy that’s small with wings, or—”

“Yes. It has wings,” Ben said quickly.

“Like a pixie?” Slow, deliberate words, said in the rhythm of scrubbing plates.

“What’s a pixie?” Ben sighed.

“A fairy with wings.”

“Fine. A pixie walks into a bar.”

“You’re just saying ‘pixie.’ You don’t actually know, do you?”

“Yes, I do. It’s a pixie.” Ben grinned.

“Really?”

“Yes. So a pixie walks into a bar.”

“What are the three distinct aspects of a pixie?” Every word was accentuated as Tess pointed with a fork.

“Uh… wings, flying, and small?” Ben looked at the fork, then at Aunt Tess.

“All fairies are that.” She smirked at him.

“Except fairy godmothers and drag queens.” Ben threw the fork back into the soap as it was still dirty.

Tess looked at the fork sliding into the soap again, then at Ben. “Some fairy godmothers have wings.”

Ben looked at her, one hand resting on his hip. “So some fairy godmothers have more than one fairy label? There are pixie godmothers?” He nodded with a duck face.

Aunt Tess was silent for a few seconds. “Yes. Technically.”

“You have no idea, do you?” Ben was almost dancing while drying cutlery.

“Of course I do. You don’t know a fairy from an elf.” The words were there; she spoke them too slowly to be convincing.

“Give me one example of a pixie fairy godmother.” Ben’s voice became lighter, sharper.

Tess looked at him; her eyes grew wide. “Ehh, in Once Upon A Time?” she said after a few seconds, looking him up and down.

It took Ben a few seconds, looking his aunt in the eye as if he was looking for something. “Lucky guess,” he muttered.

Aunt Tess raised her eyebrows a few times. “But correct?”

“Are you asking?” The words came out slowly.

“Of course not.” The smirk widened on her face.

Ben laid one hand on the kitchen sink; with the other, he pointed at his aunt. “What defines the pixie godmother from Once Upon a Time as a pixie?”

“Ehh, glitter?” Aunt Tess felt a small trickle of sweat, one bead forming.

“Glitter is not a taxonomic feature.” Ben crossed his arms. They both looked at a ladle that needed drying.

“But they did throw glitter—fairy dust.”

“Ehhh.” Ben held out his hand, wiggling it.

“What?” Tess stopped washing and looked at him, shocked.

“I don’t want to say.”

Her voice became sharper. “Then you shouldn’t have started. Now spill it.”

“Technically, pixie dust.”

The silence that followed felt long. They heard a discussion going on in the dining room. “…I stand corrected.”

Ben put both hands in the air. A smile formed on his aunt’s face.

***

They looked each other in the eye. Without losing sight, Ben took the ladle and started to dry it.

He was standing up straighter than before. With an unwavering voice, he continued. “So a pixie walked into a bar.”

“Why did she walk?” His aunt stood facing him. Unwashed pans at the edge of the kitchen were ignored.

Ben stopped looking at her. “Too early in the evening for crawling.” His voice was unwavering before it retreated again.

“You sure it is a pixie?” Aunt Tess did not make an attempt to get a pan.

“Yes, I am sure. Why?” Ben looked unhappy.

“Pixies would fly.”

“Fine, a pixie flew into a bar.” His voice started to gain volume again.

Aunt Tess’s voice became monotone. “She crashed? Fairy-tale torture is not funny.”

“Fine, a pixie flew through an open door toward a bar.”

“Good, I like this joke. It is very correct.” With a nod, she took one of the pans and started again.

“I am tantalised that it pleases you,” Ben said through clenched teeth.

“Continue.”

“A pixie flew through an open door towards a bar. The bartender—” Ben closed his eyes as he said the word.

Aunt Tess was quick. “What species is the bartender?”

“What does that matter?” More a plea than a question.

“If it matters that it was a pixie, it should matter what the bartender is. Otherwise, you are biasing certain creatures.” She smirked again.

Ben looked at her, his upper lip almost reaching his nose. “It was, a human?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No, a pixie flew to the human bartender.” Ben bit down on the word.

“What class was the human?” Aunt Tess looked at the scrubbed pan, nodded once, and put it in front of Ben.

Without losing a beat, Ben said, “It was a level 3 bartender,” and picked up the pot.

“Male or female?” Aunt Tess laughingly took another pan.

“Why does that matter?” Ben smirked too—more evil than his aunt.

“I like my jokes precise.”

“You didn’t ask if the pixie was male or female.” Ben stuck his tongue out. He felt he got her again.

Aunt Tess stopped scrubbing the pan. “Pixies are always female,” she said, leaning towards him.

“That is discrimination. What if one wants to be male?” Ben’s mouth fell open in mimed shock.

Aunt Tess came even closer; her voice hardened. “Then it isn’t called a pixie anymore.”

“How would you call a trans male pixie?” Ben stopped drying. They were now standing in front of each other in a standoff.

“Is that the joke? It smells homophobic again.”

“No, it is a genuine question.” Ben stood still as a statue, his eyes twinkling—determination or stubbornness; it was hard to tell.

“Broxie?” Tess’s eyes and body mirrored Ben’s.

“Really? Broxie?” Without blinking.

Aunt Tess’s shoulders tensed. “Yes, they are called broxies. Look it up.”

“No, I am fine. So a pixie or broxie. We don’t know which, and we are not going to ask, as that is very insensitive. Flew through an open door towards a human male level 3 bartender.” The words were spit out.

“Excellent start of a joke.” The words were without melody.

“Thank you, so the bartender asks—what do you want to drink?”

Aunt Tess tilted her head; her eyes closed to slits. “Pixies don’t drink. Are you sure it is a pixie?”

“….” Ben took a step back. One eye turned red, then his head followed. He raised a finger at Aunt Tess, then turned around and walked towards the door.

“Where are you going? I want to know the ending now.” Tess’s shoulders relaxed. She took the drying cloth and started to dry the pan.

A door slams. Profanity cut the air, slowly dulled by distance.

***

“Ben?” Uncle Don looked at the others in the room as Ben stormed by.

“I told him to tell a joke to break the ice,” his father said, the question mark clear on his face.

“Hope he didn’t do the one with the fairy,” Uncle Don said. “I never get past the wings.”

Aunt Tess popped her head out of the kitchen smiling from ear to ear. “I really like the kid.”