If I could blame anyone for this nightmare of a holiday, it would be Jennifer Hale and my grandma. Now, you may wonder why an acclaimed voice actress would take time out of her Christmas schedule to ensure that my holiday was spent getting
thoroughly
fucked. Well, that's just the thing. She didn't.
For those of you who have never played the seminal classic of our time,
Mass Effect
, picture this: Star Wars, but better and you get to be the main character. You get to pick their face, their abilities, and their choices in a vast, epic plotline that spans three video games until you get shoved three equally unsatisfying endings because Electronic Arts are hacks who forced the developers to rewrite the ending at the last minute. But the most essential choice you can make is which
gender
your protagonist, Commander Shepard, will be.
Male Shepard is voiced by a plank of wood.
Female Shepard is voiced by Jennifer "I voiced most of the best characters in the best video games for the past thirty years" Hale.
The choice was obvious.
And ever since the day I had played my Dad's copy of Mass Effect, I had a tradition. When I got a choice in a video game, I chose
girl
.
Which leads us to Pre-Christmas and the beginning of my long nightmare.
First, let me set the scene. My family and I live in Silicon Valley. My brother's up near the Golden Gate Bridge, my sister is near the Rockies, and the rest of my family scattered themselves up and down the coast in a vast Caucasian diaspora. My brother made his living writing books. After five years of writing meditative, contemplative narratives about introspective dudes living in the shrinking wilderness of our increasingly modern lives, my brother got on the best selling list by putting out
Christmas with the Carsteins
, a Twilight knockoff about a family of mopey vampires having a holiday vacation and the romance their youngest son gets up to with a generic YA protagonist. He was on to
Vampires with Valentines
and the movie rights for a CGI animated adaptation for the first novel (with plans for books 3-5) had gotten him enough money to bring the entire extended family together at his brand new mansion.
Since this was winter and California, I drove my grandma and grandpa up to the mansion through a torrential, pouring rain. That's Christmas in California for you. Other states get snow. Do you know how much I'd literally
kill
for snow? You can ball snow up and throw it at people. You can build snowmen. You could make snow angels. You know what you can do with rain? Nothing. Jack shit. I scowled, even as my grandpa -- a man who was 80% tall and 20% skinny and 5% conservative -- looked out through the rain streaked window with lips pursed as tight as a prune.
Grandpa often said that his politics were somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun. I think that he was trying to find something to be offended at in Frisco as we puttered along. By contrast, Grandma was practically glowing with beneficent, near sighted Christian joy.
"God bless you for this, Henry," she said, her voice a cheery quaver.
"It's cool, grandma," I said, casually, hitting the brakes as a car ahead of us decided to stop in the middle of the road. Rain and Californian drivers combined like LSD and performing surgery. It usually ended in blood and severed limbs. "Uh, what's that package you got?"
"Oh, it's for you, honey!" Grandma said, cheerfully. "Your brother was such a dear. We asked him what you'd like, and he told us, since you don't do lists anymore."
I flushed. Being nineteen years of age and starting college, it felt fucking juvenile to write down a list of what I wished for for Christmas. Considering how my wishlist went: 1)
Girlfriend.
2)
Girlfriend.
3)
Girlfriend.
4)
Girlfriend. 5) ...new computer.
6)
Girlfriend.
And no, I didn't want a girlfriend six times, I wanted six girlfriends. If you were going to dream, dream big! But the flush wasn't just the embarrassed flush of a nineteen year old boy not wanting to have his grandma reach forward and-
Grandma reached forward and pinched my cheek. "You're always gonna be my little sugar-angel, Henry."
"Graaaaandmaaaa!" I waved my hand. Flailed it, really.
"More like a little queer angel..." Grandpa muttered.
Grandma ignored him. Or maybe didn't hear him, she was pretty deaf. I scowled in the rear view mirror, looking back at my Grandpa. He was looking at my hair. Because a boy couldn't grow hair slightly longer than a military buzz-cut without being one step up from a Sodomite for Grandpa. I sighed. I didn't like
dick
. I could have told Grandpa that, but he wouldn't believe me. He'd just look at the hair, purse his lips, then shake his head with a frown.
Finally, we came to my brother's mansion. Parking at the front, I looked at it through the rain and decided that it wasn't what most people would think of a mansion. Remember, this was San Francisco. And that meant space went for slightly more than real estate on the fucking
moon
. So, Trevor's mansion wasn't that much bigger than the house I had grown up in. Where it showed off the money was in the
classiness
of the building. It looked like marble and varnished wood, with stately pillars keeping up the awning over the porch, and a warm glow came from every fancy window. I opened the door to my beat up car, unfurling an umbrella as quickly as I could. I held it over Grandma's door, and soon, was holding her elbow as she slowly, carefully tottered her way towards the front door.
Grandpa just stalked forward like a preying mantis. Once, I had offered him an umbrella, and he had growled something about Vietnam. Yes, grandpa, we were all impressed by the fact you survived five years getting shot at in a jungle. Now use a goddamn umbrella.
The front door opened and Trevor stood there. He was dressed as I had expected -- rumpled, with a faded
Kill Six Billion Demons
tee-shirt. Have no idea what KSBD is? Yeah, me neither. It was an anime I think. You'd think making a few million bucks selling books to horny teenage girls desperate for a vampire chomping them would force someone to buy some fresh clothes. But Trevor had somehow managed to buy the classiest house, the fanciest wife (okay, he didn't
buy
her, but I'm pretty sure Matilda wouldn't have said yes if he hadn't made a few million bucks in the past few months), and a sweet Tesla sports car...but he still dressed like he was working at McDonalds.
Maybe I was being over critical due to being intensely jealous.
Trevor took my hand, grinning. "Hey Henry! And Grandma! And Grandpa!" he bustled forward. Grandma kissed both his cheeks and Grandpa patted his back and soon, we were all bustled inside. I walked past Trevor -- who was being grilled by Grandpa -- to look around. Inside, I saw Matilda. Tall, thin, and deeply beautiful, Matilda was already sipping wine and nibbling on cheese with my Dad, who looked as bluff and ruggedly handsome as ever. My sister was already pouring
down
the wine as she sprawled on the sofa. I walked over to the sofa, sitting down on the arm-rest with a grin.
"Does Mary need her happy sauce?" I whispered.
"Fuck off grasshopper," Mary muttered. She didn't even sound close to drunk. We both grinned.
"Hows the divorce treating you?" I asked.
"Well, he hasn't gotten his guns out and shot me," Mary said, shrugging. "So...well as to be expected."
"Honey!"
Mom was running at me. If Dad was the kind of annoying uber-nerd who could toss out Star Trek quotes while also still pumping iron and being fit as a fiddle into his forties, Mom was the kind of person who could eat an entire plate of cookies and manage to both avoid diabetes
and
still be the kind of cushy that people on the internet described as 'thiccccccccccccccc.' Being my Mom, it meant that it was more awkward than arousing to get my head compacted between her huge, pillowy breasts. She squeezed me tightly and I squirmed, trying to get my head free.
"Have you picked a major yet?" Dad asked. "And why isn't it physics?"
"Mmphmmph!"
Grandma and Grandpa stepped in now, led in by Trevor. Trevor went to get a kiss on his cheek from his wife -- who had gone from sipping to full on gulping -- and I managed to get my head free...and the family free for all started. Mary snarked. Trevor was good natured and slightly distracted. Matilda sniffed imperiously. Grandpa muttered about my hair. Dad made Star Trek references. Mom chattered about her book club. And I, being the youngest and least successful (at least Mary had left two utterly heart broken men in her wake), floated at the edge of things...and fought the Greeblies.
The Greeblies were an invention of mine. Tiny little voices that muttered and snapped at the back of my head whenever I had to lift my head out of my own life and see the rest of my family. I'd see Trevor leaning against Matilda, his hand caressing her back.
Hey, look! He's a millionaire and has a beautiful wife. What have YOU done, you total fucking virgin?
The Greeblies sang out.
I looked at Mary, who was pouring herself another bit of wine.
Hey, look. At least Mary has a fucking personality. She dyes her hair rainbow colors and cheats on her husband with other women. At least she
does
something, unlike you, you boring white bread asshole.
Shut. Up. Greeblies.
But since nothing exciting had happened to me the entire semester and I had accomplished nothing of note and my only skill was playing video games and watching dumb youtube videos, I had nothing to talk about that anyone would give a shit about. So the conversation continued as we settled down for dinner. And the Greeblies? The Greeblies kept up with their nattering.
***
The roast beef was gone. The mashed taters had been licked up. Mary had put enough wine down her gullet to destroy at least three grape fields. And the ice cream, the chocolate chips, the pumpkin pie and the whipped cream were all gone. We were basically balloons now. Which meant it was time for the Yalestone Family Yearly Snubbing of Tradition. Mom and Dad were both atheists. Grandpa didn't care. Grandma was too earnestly, intensely dedicated to the whole 'kindness to sinners' and 'turn the other cheek' part of Christianity to raise a fuss. Mary, Trevor and I were raised by atheists, meaning we were also atheists save for that worrying five year period where Mary had been really into Scientology.
Which meant rather than opening our presents on Christmas, we opened our presents on the night before Christmas.