Christmas Day

For who else is today just another day? I am not being cynical, only observant. Or not, technically, as one might be said to “observe” the holiday and my intention here is to convey the opposite. I haven’t said the phrase Merry Christmas all day. But I’ve texted it.

It’s another night at the DnD, or Dunkin Donuts, working on my short story. It’s about a single father who has to deal with his violent six-year-old son. It’s somewhat comedic (the climax is completely over the top) but there is a dramatic through-line. There is a message, catharsis, a turning-point – a change of idea, or what have you.  I wouldn’t call it my Tour De Force. It’s a fun little piece of clay that I enjoy kneading and stretching, working on my techniques of exposition, dialogue, description, and narration.

I do see a lot of the same faces here at my Better Than Starbucks Home Away From Home. Young and old, mind you. You may picture the guy in the army jacket with a lobotomy scar forked across his bald head, or the homeless lady who hopes to avoid sleeping in a “shelter” that is teeming with sexually frustrated drunks, or the retired college professor who reads the newspaper like Clark Kent looking for a life to save, or me. You might picture me playing the role of any of the above, if you’re up to it. You’d be wrong, though. The regulars are not who you'd expect.

There’s an attractive sixteen-year-old who I’ve seen here late into the night, with this friend or that, this boy or that one (or both), and there’s the short plump woman in her Santa hat standing at the counter for a free refill that the business is not obliged to give her, but hey it’s Christmas, and she smiles and makes a joke, says "I'm Mrs. Claus!" but, frankly, she looks more like the poor woman the real Mrs. Claus (get it?) tries to set up on dates with this elf or that, to no avail. Bless her soul, you might think, if you’re up to it. The guy in the pea coat comes here as often as I do, but rarely stays unless he's in a group of five or more. My shoulders slump as three generations of a single family pour in and take up all the seats, even squeezing next to me and taking long glances at this newfangled contraption I'm typing on. These are my friends, now. These are my friends now.  

Last Christmas I gave you my heart, the very next day… who sang that song again? I can barely hear it over the CNN broadcast playing out of the monitor stationed directly over my head.  In the event that the TV falls off of its hinge and Schiavos me, I want you to tell my mother and my brother that I said Merry Christmas. 

I think I’m going to start writing now. This has been a good warm up. The blood is flowing, dark red like Santa’s heart. I hope you don’t think I’m strange. I care what you think, in all honesty. I hope it's okay.

Brandon