It was Christmas eve. Around 9 p.m. All through the house, people chatted away near the tree and the roaring fireplace while the children awaited anxiously the signal to attack the gifts. The only thing they were missing was camouflage to match the shaggy green carpet they were lying on. I suddenly wondered if they knew Santa was a 12 year-old living in Thailand.
I was standing in the corner, slowly sipping a snifter full of Bailey's Irish Cream and milk. I was something of a standout in my family: I was thirty, single, and I had a job I actually liked. But at the same time it made the whole holiday experience less than satisfying – pretty much like my sex life for the past year. I sighed quietly as I saw my cousins and other assorted family members making out to the songs of Dean Martin and Bing Crosby. I checked my watch to make sure it was December 24th and smiled. Ah, the holidays.
"Jim," I heard from far away as my aunt cornered me. "Isn't the party grand?"
I smiled as I saw beads of perspiration form on her reddened face. Even pushing sixty, my aunt was still an attractive woman. But she didn't fascinate me the way she used to when I was 10. At the time, she would come to visit my family over the summer and sunbathe while wearing a kind of knitted bikini – it was yellow with links so large I could pretty much see her nipples and her bush. Suddenly, as she pushed her ample bosom into my arm, I felt the old tingle.
"It's great, aunt Leslie," I said as I smelled her hair: Craven A cigarettes. "You look lovely tonight," I added, moving my head slightly back.
"Y'know," she said, staring at me intensely over her glass of red wine, "it's to bad you don't visit me…er, us, anymore. It would be so much fun."
Before I could answer, a rugged hand wrapped itself around her waist. "Don't annoy the boy, Les," my uncle said with a hard scowl.
I raised an eyebrow at the slur. I thought a moment about reminding him how he enjoyed playing tag with 20 year old hookers, but thought better of it. I couldn't do that to my aunt tonight.
"That's okay Brian," I said instead while staring directly at Leslie's bosom. "I've always enjoyed my aunt's… company."
I noticed his fist tightening, but before he could respond Leslie took him aside and scolded him. I smirked and wondered why I had waited 5 years before coming back to attend these family get-togethers. I'd missed the whole dysfunctional aspect of my family.
I was about to leave and mingle when I felt someone tug at my pant leg.
"Hey Alex," I greeted my 8 year old second cousin. "What can I do for you?"
"Is your dad sleeping?"
I looked over my shoulder. "Yes, he is."
"Why is he sleeping under the table?"
"Well, you know… my dad works so hard at the auto plant that when sleep catches up to him, he just has to sleep."
"I thought he was drunk on all the wine, beer, and scotch."
My smile disappeared. "If you knew, why'd you ask?"
"Because I wanted to hear the shitty story you'd tell to cover it up."
I stared at him as he ran away to play, and I swear I didn't hope the tree would fall on him. I shook my head, stepped over my passed-out father and went into the kitchen. I thought about striking up a conversation with my mother, but she was in the zone. Her face was lit up as she meandered among the guests, filling drinks and wiping away stains. Her family was together; some of then might have hated each other, but they were together. I knew I couldn't stop her; if she stopped, the state of her life would smack her back to reality.
I drummed my fingers on the table and decided that what I needed was some air. I grabbed my blue wool-knit overcoat and went outside. There, I paused a moment to look over the small yard. In the moonlight filtered by sparkling, frost covered branches, I saw a small, sleeping garden along an old green fence that had long been captured by dead red vines. Across from the garden was a gazebo; its hexagonal roof softly brushed by heavy branches looming from the old trees that separated the property from a stream that cut through grazing pastures. Even in the coldest winters, the stream would continue to live and progress under a thin sheet of ice, the cry of its defiance heard from cracks caused by the hot and cold cycles of the season. I watched my breath fly away from my mouth, carried by a Northern breeze towards the stream. In this stillness did I find the beauty of Christmas.
I walked around to the front of the house. It was a humble looking collection of red bricks and white aluminum siding, accented by the lovely cover of snow and elongated icicles reaching for the ground; it struck me as comforting and frightening at the same time, made even more so now with addition of the garish Christmas decorations. The pebbles that made up the twisting driveway that led to a small garage behind the house – trapped now between puddles of frozen water -- looked exactly the way they did the last time I was here. But their peaceful demeanor was broken by a number of blinking lights and mechanically bobbing reindeer embracing the patio and the front lawn. My parents' tastes confirmed themselves as Santa Claus sang a pathetic and muted rendition of Jingle Bells.
Moving through the overly packed parking lot, I found my cousin Ben sitting on the patio between two glowing candles.
"Dude," he said, turning his baseball cap backwards. "Why ain't you inside with the rest of our merry brood?"
"Well, they've gone from merry to being drunken idiots." I brushed some snow off the steps and sat next to him.
Ben reached into his nylon windbreaker: "Smoke?"
"No. I quit, thanks."
"Cool."
