On any given day, I’m an angry, bitter, sarcastic son of a bitch. It’s true, just ask my wife. I like to say it’s part of my charm. I do however, have two weaknesses—two chinks in the armor that leave me a cheesy sentimental fool:
Animals and Christmas.
I’m a sucker for the holidays. I turn into a little kid around this time of year, whether I like it or not. I have no shame. I watch Christmas specials, listen to holiday music and buy the seasonal beer from my local microbrewery. Our house is decorated from top to bottom.
Yet, somehow, through it all, I’ve never written anything holiday related.
Ever.
Last year, I decided to do something about it. One of the best things to do over the holiday season is revisiting dear old friends. Though mine are imaginary, I thought it would be fun to give them a call anyway.
In my novel, Rorschach’s Ribs, Part One of the book ends as the last leaves of autumn are drying up and falling to the ground. Part Two picks back up in January, with only the vaguest of holiday reflections.
In Part Two, Escher describes his Christmas season as such:
“Things have sped up here in the last month or so. I have vague, blurry memories of an awkward Christmas with the fam, consisting of homemade gifts, pity and alcohol…the holidays came and went in the blink of an eye and I am not complaining.”
I thought it might be a fun holiday treat to give you a little more insight into Escher’s Christmas. It’s essentially, just like those hokey, Very Special episodes of any given sitcom from the 80’s—minus Joey Lawrence.
I published it last year around the holidays, and a print version will once again be available to purchase in the coming weeks.
This year I thought I’d slowly repost it for you. Think of it as a Slacker Advent Calendar…
This is a bit of a continuation of the novel, so if you haven’t read the book (Rorschach’s Ribs) this delightful holiday story might not make a lick of sense.
So, without further adieu, here we go….
I began developing an overwhelming sense of doom just after Halloween.
One day after, to be precise.
The world changed within the blink of an eye. A feeling of forthcoming, prolonged dread washed over me as I crossed the threshold from the cool and dreary parking lot, into my local Target department store in search of deodorant and toothpaste.
I go to Target a lot. It’s got everything a single, unemployed guy needs; laundry detergent, underwear, frozen pizzas and video games. If you have to leave your house, better to get it all out of the way in one place.
It’s really just a nicer, slightly more expensive version of Walmart. Given my current financial crisis I should have just gone to Walmart, but that’s beneath my social class; Walmart is for white-trash and the county dwellers. It’s the trailer park of department stores.
Hipsters and city folk go to Target. It’s the packaging.
Target hired a better ad agency, I guess. I wonder if they’re hiring right now.
But I digress.
It hit me the moment I was within the warm confines of those hallowed walls of commerce.
I had just been to Target a few days prior, the day before Halloween, to buy socks and body wash. A few days before that, I was there buying boxer shorts and razor blades.
I had to buy my necessities in increments; my unemployment checks were just about to run out, and the job market was bleak. I only bought things after I completely ran out, and had no choice in the matter. Every time I used my debit card it felt like a game of Consumer Russian Roulette. It could be declined at any purchase; it was just a matter of time.
We were all feeling the crunch.
The last time I was at Target, there were witches, bats and various non-offensive Halloween clichés hanging from the ceilings and covering the end caps. The entire back half of the store was filled with children’s costumes, Styrofoam tombstones for your front lawn and thousands upon thousands of bags of candy. I got a cavity and a sugar rush just walking down the aisle.
Two days later, however, I found myself lost in a winter wonderland.
Looking back now, it was more like a blizzard.
Gone were the black cats and spider webs dangling down from the ceiling. In their place were non-denominational snowflakes symbolizing any and every wintertime holiday, without actually representing any of them. A soft hum of holiday music resonated from the ceiling, and a used car lot of artificial, self-lit Christmas trees filled the spot reserved for lawn furniture during the off season.
“It’s too soon,” I sighed to myself. “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”
It wasn’t always like this. I could swear that when I was a kid the holiday season didn’t start until the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. That was the unspoken rule. When Santa rolled by, preceded by giant balloons shaped like our favorite cartoon characters and a visit from the Rockettes dressed as naughty Mrs. Clauses, mixing childhood innocence and sex with every kick, it was like the ball dropping in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
Happy Freaking New Year, Merry Freaking Christmas. It was officially the holiday season.
It seems like the holidays have arrived sooner and sooner every year since. It’s the retailers. They’re playing with our minds. Stores are so eager to get consumers into the holiday shopping (and spending) spirit, they start it just a little sooner as each calendar year passes. I give it a few more years before the “Christmas in July Sale” is actually a sale on Christmas items in July.
This feeling of dread only grew, the closer I got to the holidays.
The week before Thanksgiving, in a moment that could only be described as a premature ejaculation of the holiday spirit, How the Grinch Stole Christmas was aired on TV, and that uneasy feeling washed over me once again.
I wasn’t ready; it was all moving too fast. I felt like Christmas slipped me a rufie and was trying to date-rape me.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate Christmas. I’m not a Grinch. I watch “A Charlie Brown Christmas Every Year”—I love the smell of pine needles.
But…
Christmas is an expensive time of the year. I was down to my last month and a half of unemployment checks, and I hadn’t even begun shopping for anyone’s gifts.
I couldn’t—that required money.
Unfortunately, so did rent and heat, and while Christmas was coming fast, winter was coming even faster.
So, with every holiday decoration and Christmas special I saw, I was reminded of just how broke I was. Every Very Special episode of a sitcom left me with a nagging feeling of self loathing and impending doom. Every commercial that showed happy consumers dancing around with kitchen appliances while a pop star sang a modern rendition of an old Christmas classic reminded me of how desperate my times were about to become.
Tags: christmas, consumer, fiction, holiday, Rorschach's Ribs, sitcom, very special, xmas
