share your christmas cheer
It’s getting to be about Christmas time, and all the kids are asking for a seasonal story. I got to thinking about the Christmas tree farm off Route 33 but I never worked there. A bunch of people I know did, and I’m wondering if they could share some memories of what it was like to chop down conifers and strap them to roofs for a few weeks out of the year. Or do you have any other Christmas related work stories? Sean Macdonald and I counted bras at JC Penney’s one year for after-Christmas inventory. That doesn’t count.
I worked one Christmas day at Cumberland Farms. I don’t remember anything special about that. A day at the convenience store feels like a day at the convenience store.
Anybody out there kill geese for Christmas dinners?
Best Christmas Story ever —
My brother was spending his first year in Christmas during the gulf war in 1990-1991. There was a great build up to this war if you remember with Bush Senior really laying it on and Saddam calling for the “Mother of all wars” Remember? We thought Iraq had some great arsenal but it turned out to be a house of cards. Saddam swung on the end of a rope some 18 years later, but that’s beside the point.
My brother was going off to Iraq to cover the war and no one knew if he was coming back. In fact, my father considered him dead already.
So pops would shuffle around the house, deeply depressed while I slept on the couch, crippled by a foot injury which had dashed all hopes I had of becoming a professional baseball player. My baseball glove, probably a Christmas gift years earlier, collected dust, utterly useless like my foot.
My pops would pass me in the morning and give me one of those smiles that a dying dog gives when its stomach ulcerates. I wanted to kill my father, to put him out of his misery but I was too weak and suicidal.
“How did you sleep?” my father would ask.
“I didn’t sleep. I lay here thinking about what a waste everything is.”
I had heard my father shuffle to the bathroom to piss all night long. he hadn’t slept either.
“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine?”
“Keep mocking me. Go ahead.”
“I wonder what Brooklyn is doing.”
Brooklyn is my brother. My dad said this with the tone of voice someone reserves for a wake.
“Probably loading his automatic rifle to kill some loitering kids.”
I meant it. That’s what the army actually did anyway. Dropping death on innocents every Christmas.
“God damn it. You think you know everything.”
My dad was pissed. His face got red. He got in my face.
“You don’t know what you are talking about!”
I turned away.
“Ok, dad. Sure. You’re right. Whatever. Go on.”
I waved my hand at him, taunting him like a little kid. He slapped my arm and raised his fist.
“You don’t know a THING!” he yelled. “You know nothing. NOTHING!â€
His fist shook in the air between us. A pathetic christmas tree leaned against the wall in the other room, undecorated, dying for want of water. My foot throbbed. The x-rays had been bad news.
“Go ahead. Fucking kill me. Kill me like Brooklyn is going to kill those little kids.â€
Spit drooled off my dad’s chin. He had been spitting with rage. He hated me so much right then, all his hate boiled over. He stepped back and we stared at each other for a few moments. I wanted to fight him but was too weak. I had been on a hunger strike to protest the war. The only person who knew of this hunger strike was my family. It had been two days since I had eaten.
“Every day the United States spends in Iraq I will not eat.†I had pronounced during a dreadful Thanksgiving dinner during which my dying grandmother had gotten drunk and dropped a glass of wine on the table cloth. As he carved the Turkey my father had said that if Brooklyn died he would assassinate the president.
“Whatever,†I said. “You live in this country. You pay your taxes. If Brooklyn dies then you killed him. You’re a coward, just like every other tax payer in America. No one has courage. This is the most disgusting country in the world. I renounce my citizenship. I renounce this family of rapists.â€
I lay back on the couch, my sweat had long ago discolored the fabric of the seat cushions. My father turned away and got his coat. He normally ate some oatmeal before he left but this time he just slammed open the door and banged down the icy steps to drive to work. I could hear him peeling out on his way down the driveway. I was so unhappy. I was crippled and depressed and had no future and was hungry and in a country that had betrayed me, was killing in my name, was a fraud. Across the street some Christmas lights blinked in the post dawn fog. Red white and blue red white and blue. Patriotic Christmas lights, like the yellow ribbon on the tree out front, a marketing strategy by Kmart.
I struggled to my feet and with the help of my crutches I stumbled to the front door and opened it, knocking down a Christmas wreath hung on the door knob. I looked at the yellow ribbon and the newspaper on the snowy front walkway with the headlines “We will win!†and a smiling, blood thirsty President Bush. I looked across the neighborhood. The first time I spoke my voice broke like dry sand. The second time was loud. The third time was a scream.
“You all ought to be ashamed of yourself!â€
Comment by oggy bleacher — December 21, 2008 @ 1:17 am
That farm was hell to work at, the married people would always be the worst, they both had different ideas of a tree,,,,,,,, but they drove one car to tie it to, so in the process from finger pointing their tree,,,,, to the middle finger as they drive away,, it was always a power of example to me always stick to my guns and never get married, sure i will be alone when i die, but at least my tree will be nice.
Comment by poopies — December 21, 2008 @ 5:05 am
Best job I ever had, managing a phone sex line. Most money I ever made, best benefits I ever had, bonuses for Christmas and Gay Pride (owned by a lovely lesbonic). I didn’t always want to deal with a family Christmas, so I’d volunteer to work it every other year or so. Plus I got paid double time. In an eight-hour day, I’d place, maybe, 7 calls (average day was around 100). Wives and children and kinfolk kept our regulars away. I’d sit for hours, drinking the champagne my boss would always bring in, smoke some green right there in the office and merrily sing along, at the top of my lungs, to Christmas music. Friends who’d celebrate the holiday in the city would come by to visit, and I’d answer the occasional call, most of the time explaining that I was not the woman he’d be speaking with, and no, I wasn’t interested in getting him off for free because it’s Christmas. The one thing I still remember to this day, the loneliness in every single voice on the other end of the phone. It’s a Hallmark Family Christmas for some, with matching sweaters and carols ’round the tree, while for others it’s a handful of their own cum in a darkened room. Only in America… and maybe Germany.
Comment by jb — December 21, 2008 @ 6:00 am
probably a few Japanese Christians too.
Comment by Rolston — December 21, 2008 @ 10:26 am
jon i talked to steve Kroitzsh, yesterday, he phoned me while i was waiting for todd hamilton to get done unplugging the TV from a kid who owed him money above the clip joint, steve said hi,
Comment by poopies — December 21, 2008 @ 3:19 pm
dear mister rolston:
please check your mail.
you are arriving soon.
there is an assignment that is contained inside the envelopes.
i am borrowing castanets.
sincerely,
ms. murphy
Comment by butter brains — December 21, 2008 @ 4:00 pm
Thanks. Those were awesome holiday stories.
poopies, remind hambone of OJ Simpsons recent sentence for taking something that was his with out persmission.
ms. murphy, i have recieved the assignment and have bought a guitar.
Comment by Rolston — December 22, 2008 @ 11:52 am