Five: My Christmas Memory

 

The Christmas Eve Party is always held at my house.  Every Christmas Eve morning, my house turns into a frantic mess of straightening, cleaning, and shining.  It looks like that montage from Revenge of the Nerds, every Christmas Eve. 

Eight hours worth of work destroyed in almost an instant by drunken relatives, every Christmas Eve.  Now I know what an ant feels like when you kick over an ant hill.

Four o’clock rolls around, and they start waltzing through the door.

“Merry Christmas!”

1-2-3.    2-2-3.

“Happy New Year!”

1-2-3.    2-2-3.

I’m not even showered yet.

These people have changed my diaper, and I’m worried they’ll see me with bed-head.

      The door opens, “Merry Christmas Everyone!”

      1-2-3. 2-2-3.

I rush up the stairs.

      I step into the shower and my body had Goldilocks Syndrome.

      My feet say, “This water’s too hot.”

      My hands say, “This water’s too cold.”

      But my brain says, “This water’s just right.”  And eventually my feet and hands agree.

      The shower is where I do my best thinking.  The shower and Church.  Sometimes I wish they made waterproof ink and paper, so I could just write things down.  Someone should invent that: waterproof paper and hereticproof ink.

      I think about my problems; other people’s problem; everyone’s problems.  I plan little arguments about things that “matter.”  I always win.

      Today I can only think about Abby, though.  Should I call her back? Or should I just leave her alone? 

Of course I should.  And I will.

      But what if she rejects you?  Then you’ll have no one to turn to.  No shoulder to complain on.  No one to vent to.

      She wouldn’t do that.

      Oh she wouldn’t? Why not?  Why wouldn’t she trade you in for a better model?  She could have someone better looking; someone smarter; someone more of her social equal.  She could have anyone.  Why wouldn’t she throw you away like Kleenex?  Throw you out with the rest of the broken hearts?

      Because...she’s not like that.

      Oh really? Do you think she’s thinking about you right now?   Do you think there’s silent argument in her head right?

      ...

Exactly.  She’s not devoting precious brain cells on you.  In fact, I doubt she’s thought about you at all since last night.  You’re just another guy.  A head she can stick on the wall.  A notch in her utility closet.  It was a one time thing, it’ll never happen again.

      But she said-

      ‘But she said,’ nothing.  She did that out of pity.  You complain for a half-hour about Emma, she’s bound to feel bad for you.  She probably did that so you’d shut up.  She figured, ‘Meh, this’ll be better than listening to him whine.’  And you probably disappointed her there too.  The only reason she gave you her number was to be polite.  It’s probably fake anyway.  Why would a beautiful girl be interested in you?

      ...

      I always win.

      As I wipe off the steam from the mirror I look at myself.  My face is streaked with beads of fingerprints and I think, what would be worse? 

Calling and being heart broken, or not calling and being heart broken?

I don’t decide. I can’t decide.

I look at myself.  Of course she could get someone better looking.  Of course she could get someone as cool as she is. 

But maybe she doesn’t want that.  Maybe she wants the awkward, gangly nerd that’s “charmingly unconfident.” 

I look at myself. I inhale and realize that I can smell her.  She’s rubbed off on me.  My nostrils fill with the scent of computer paper that’s just been opened.  And then I realize I no longer taste “Freemint,” as my toothpaste calls it.  I taste Abby, which is somewhere between a mouthful of pretzels and a mouthful of pennies.

It’s odd.

It’s eerie.

Even creepy.

I wonder for a second if Abby’s going through the same thing right now.  If she’s getting the strangest sensation of me.

I look in the mirror and realize: she’s not.  She’s not devoting precious brain cells thinking about me.  She probably hasn’t thought of me since last night. 

I’m not the cutest; I’m not the smartest; I’m not the coolest.  Why would she?

“Merry Christmas!”

1-2-3. 2-2-3.

“Happy New Year!”

Downstairs the Christmas Party is going well.  People are eating; people are drinking; being merry.  And I’m sitting in a chair, not talking, with a cup of flat soda in my hand. 

This is going to be a great Christmas.

Occasionally a relative will come up to me:

“Hey.”

“Hey Uncle/Aunt Soandso.”

“How’s it going?”

“Alright.  How about you?”

“Pretty good.  Pretty good.  How’s school going?”

“Best as it can be.”

Awkward pause.

I almost ask them “How’s school going?” and then I realize they haven’t been in a school in twenty years.

Then they say:

“Alright...Merry Christmas!” And move on.

I had that conversation fifteen times in four hours.

That’s how it was at every family function.  I wasn’t the black sheep of the family, but I was definitely grayer than the rest of them.

The problem is I had no one my age to spend family parties with.  My brothers and sisters had one, two, even three, cousins around their age to play with.  To talk with.  I, on the other hand, was alone.  No one to play with.  No one to talk with. 

So, I always end up sitting in a chair, not talking, with a cup of flat soda in my hand.

Now it’s eight o’clock.  It’s dark out.  No stars.  No moon.  And the sky has that blue-gray-red tint like it’s about to snow.

Some of my relatives are drunk.  They won’t stay the night, but they’ll stay till they’re sober.  My Dad’s not stupid. 

Some of my relatives are leaving.  Some of the little kids are asleep.  And I’m sitting in a chair watching ice turn into water.

My dog comes up to me and rubs against my leg.  I swear sometimes she thinks she’s a cat.  I hate cats.  But I love her.  Watching a dog act like a cat is like meeting someone who had a sex change: you feel uncomfortable, even a bit awkward, but you just deal with it.

My dog’s name is Roberta.  Whenever I tell people that, they stare at me blankly.  They don’t get the reference.

Some of my relatives are leaving.

“Goodbye.  Merry Christmas!”

They waltz out like they waltzed in.

“Goodnight, Happy New Year!”

1-2-3. 2-2-3.

“Goodnight,” I say.  My mind isn’t on the Christmas party though.  It’s not on my cup of half-melted ice.  It’s not even on my dog that would be happier as a cat. 

It’s on Abby.  Her scent’s gone.  Her taste is gone.  But her memory isn’t.  That stayed.  It’s stuck on me.  I still haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to call her. 

So many pros.  Like her.

Too many cons.  Like her.

It’s pity.  It’s got to be pity.  It has to be pity.

Or maybe she really likes me?

1-2-3. 2-2-3.

“Goodnight.  Merry Christmas.” 

Uncle Mark decides to leave. 

So does Roberta.

As soon as he opens the door, Roberta flashes to the door, darts through his legs, and runs into the neighborhood.  Roberta never runs.

Damn it.

“Roberta.”  My dad called.  She didn’t come back.

“I’ll get her Dad.”

It’s dark out.  No moon. No stars.  And it looks like it’s about to snow.  And I’m walking through my neighborhood, with a leather leash, looking for my dog that would rather be cat.  A fine time she picked to act like a dog though.  You don’t have to worry about a cat when it runs out of house.  I hate cats.  But I love her.

I start to think about Abby again.  Twenty-four hours later, I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around last night. 

One minute we’re talking in the alley.

“Roberta,” I call.

The next minute we’re making out.

“ROBERTA!!”

The next minute I’m being hit in the face with something.  It’s her shirt.

“ROOOOOBEEEEERTAAAAAA!!” 

I hear the clinking of Roberta’s collar down the street towards the main road.  Roberta never runs; she trots, so she can’t be that far away.  But it’s the main road, so I hurry.

The next minute her shirt’s on the floor, my shirt’s on the floor, and Abby locks the door.

Roberta is standing in the middle of the main road.  Completely still.  Something is across the street and Roberta’s waiting for the perfect time to attack it. 

The next minute she’s unbuckling my belt.

I lived on the top, and the bottom, of a hill.  Sometimes it’s hard to see whether cars are coming or not.  At night, though, it’s a bit easier because of the headlights.  The light pours up the hill, and there’s about three seconds till a car comes over the hill.

The next minute I’m unhooking her bra.

Roberta isn’t moving.  She’s stock still.  I’m afraid if I go to get her, she’ll get scared and run after the thing she’s waiting to attack. 

Then I see light pour up the hill.

One.

Roberta doesn’t move.

The next minute all of our clothes are on the floor.

Two.

Roberta still doesn’t move.

I'm not impulsive.  I think before I act.  Every once in a while, though...

Three.

I rush out into the street to get Roberta out of the way.  As soon as I move, she moves, and runs to attack the small animal she’s been eyeing.

The next minute I’m being hit by a car going forty-five miles per hour.

Before you die everything seems to slow down a bit.  And a million thoughts run through your head.

I think, “This doesn’t happen in real life.  This happens on a bad sitcom, when an actor wants too much money, so the writers just kill him off.”

I think, “This is so surreal.”

I think, “This is not my life.”    

Before you die your whole life is supposed to flash in front of your eyes.  That doesn’t happen.  Instead you get little snippets:

Keith stood there mouth agape;

Next to her name she put a heart;

Maddy was a “scene-chick;”

"Suck my knob police woman;"

‘Oh F.Y.I., I will be f*****g Gregg this weekend;’

“Page to the Reference Desk!”

I think your life flashes before you when you lived a full one.  Not when you’re sixteen.  You don’t have enough memories. 

Instead of thinking of things you have done; you think of things that you’ll never do:

I’ll never get married; I’ll never own anything; I’ll never vote;  I’ll never graduate from High School; I’ll never tell another joke; I’ll never have a kid;  I’ll never record a studio album; I’ll never get a job; I’ll never go to college;  I’ll never do anything important.

Before you die everything seems to dull a bit, even the pain.  I couldn’t feel my mangled left arm.  I couldn’t feel my broken leg.  I couldn’t feel one of my broken ribs ripping a hole into my lung. I couldn’t feel my blood trickling out of my ear.    

Then finally you think about all the people in your life:

My drunken relatives; my sober relatives; the cousins that are nowhere near my age; my dog, Roberta, who acts like a cat.  I hate cats.  But I love her.

I think of my family; and how I’ll never see them again. 

I think of Abby; how when she smiles her beautiful smile, you can see all her stark white teeth, like a kid on Christmas morning; gasp-laugh-laugh-laugh.  And how I’ll never call her. Or not.

I think of Emma; her beautiful, crystal blue eyes; how I’ll never see them again; how I’ll never see her again, and tell her how I really felt about her.

      And then I ask myself the one question we all ask ourselves at one point: why was I here? 

      It’s dark.  No moon. No stars.  And the blue-gray-red tint finally breaks, and a few flurries float down in slow motion, it seems, onto my face.  Then it fades out.

      I can hear Roberta whimpering close to me, but I can’t see her.  I can’t see anything.  Then, eventually, the whimpering is gone.  As if God is using a remote to turn down the volume on the world, so he can hear something else.

Then, eventually, everything is gone.

Merry Christmas...