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Authors: Drew Ferguson

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BOOK: Remembering Christmas
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“Not until day after tomorrow. No one works on Christmas Day,” he said, pulling a flask out of his pocket and, in the spirit of the season, offering James a nip. “So where you want me to drop you off?” he asked.
James could see the man was anxious to start celebrating a traditional redneck Christmas thirty-six-hour drinking marathon. He stared out the window at the phalanx of bright motel signs, each one promising cable TV, premium channels, and free continental breakfasts. Quality Court. Quality Inn. Red Roof Inn. Holiday Inn. Travelodge.
“That one,” he said, pointing at the Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge up ahead to the right, seduced by happy memories of clam strips and peppermint-stick ice cream, wistfully longing for a roadside America that had vanished thirty years ago.
The driver snorted when James wished him Merry Christmas as he pulled away, dragging the fickle luxury vehicle behind him. The motel registration office was damp and moldy, and the lingering smell of industrial-strength cleaning solvents quickly doused the flickering flame of Ho Jo nostalgia. The Bengali matron at the front desk was polite yet insistent, somehow managing to seem deferential as she rushed him through check-in. Her sari was the traditional orange of a Howard Johnson's rooftop, but there was no sign of Simple Simon and the Pieman and no dining room or counter. She pointed to a pair of vending machines when he asked where he could get something to eat. The selection on the Christmas menu was barbecue chips, Butterfingers, and Diet Dr. Pepper.
“You don't have a restaurant?” he asked. He felt cheated, scammed, the victim of an unconscionable fraud. This was supposed to be Howard Johnson's! Where were the frankfurters grilled in butter and macaroni and cheese?
“Restaurant over there. One half mile,” she said, pointing toward the front window and a soaring neon sign, high enough to be seen from the turnpike ridge, announcing that KAY'S KOZY KORNER was the place in town to EAT.
The rain was still coming down hard as he trudged to his room, but the temperature was dropping rapidly. Winter was arriving just ahead of Santa Claus, and he cursed himself for leaving his gloves and hat in the car.
It was almost seven o'clock when he called his mother to break the news he wouldn't be arriving for at least another day and a half. He complained about the shabby state of the hospitality industry, hoping for a little sympathy and maybe leniency for the unpardonable sin of having ruined her Christmas. It was obvious from the tone of her voice she wasn't buying his story and suspected he was actually still in the 10022 zip code area and on his way to a hoity-toity holiday party with his glamorous New York friends.
“Little Carol Ann will be devastated,” she insisted.
“Little Carol Ann will somehow find the strength to survive.”
Carol Ann, the daughter of James's sister, was hosting her first Christmas Day dinner as a married woman, a celebration guaranteed to be a
Martha Stewart Living
and Costco nightmare in the spirit of the ghastly wedding celebration he'd attended in June, with eleven attendants and enough pomp and circumstance for the betrothal of a Windsor.
“I'll be there as soon as I can,” he promised, unable to convince her that, under the current circumstances at least, there was no place in the world he'd rather be than sitting down at his mother's table on Christmas Eve for country ham and ninetyproof eggnog.
“It won't be the same,” she said, hanging up to pull her pumpkin pie from the oven.
He was too wired to sleep, so he showered and changed into dry clothes and ventured out on a scavenger hunt for something edible. The rain had changed to a steady snow that had quickly blanketed the streets and rooftops. The winter storm transformed the Town of Motels into a department store–window Enchanted Village. The inflatable Santas and Frostys and Rudolphs, their power cords buried in snowdrifts, seemed animated by magic. He took a short detour, making a pilgrimage to the illuminated crèche on the lawn of the First Lutheran Church. The town was perfectly still, the only sound the crunch of fresh snow under his feet. He shoved his freezing hands in his pockets and, through swirling gusts of snowflakes, headed toward the EAT sign, quietly singing “Away in a Manger.”
The door flew open as he approached, and only his quick reflexes enabled him from narrowly escaping a broken nose. The tow truck ogre stumbled out of the restaurant, fumbling with his keys, staring at James wild-eyed, no glint of recognition on his face. James slipped past him, pitying anyone the man encountered on the icy roads tonight, and stepped into a thick fog of cigarette smoke. Christmas cheer was flowing from the beer taps. Holiday revelers, mugs in hand, already six sheets to the wind, were howling along to Springsteen's “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” on the jukebox. It was a rough-looking crowd, weathered by hard work and hard drinking. The girls wore Santa caps and NFL gear, and there was nothing jolly about the distended, swollen bellies of the men. A fight broke out at the pool table, and a tray of bottles and glasses shattered on the floor before a fierce-looking dyke in a snowflake sweatshirt could hustle the pugilists out the door.
“Merry Christmas,” the boy behind the bar hollered. “What are you drinking?”
“Can I get a menu?” James shouted over the scalps of the drinkers hunkered down at the bar, arguing over the best way to eliminate the Muslim threat to their godly American way of life.
“You got a choice. Popcorn or pretzels,” the kid laughed, pointing at the baskets of bar snacks. “The cook called out sick. It's on me,” he said, refusing James's money as he handed him a shot of Crown Royal and a frosted mug of Bud Light.
The boy bounced along the bar, cheerfully pouring booze, taking bills, and handing back the change. He knew all the customers by name and smiled through the abuse that was heaped upon him whenever one of the regulars had to wait longer than twenty seconds for a drink. James was tired and hungry, and the whiskey went straight to his head. He set down his empty mug, ready to call it an early night, when another round appeared on the bar. He waved his palm and shook his head, but the young man insisted he accept the drinks. He figured he should at least tip the kid for his generosity, but the boy frowned and wagged his finger.
“Your money's no good here tonight. Can't accept it,” he said, turning away to appease the loudmouthed drunk who was cursing him for neglecting his empty glass.
The motel was within stumbling distance, even in a blizzard, and James deserved to get a little buzz going after the shitty two days he'd had. He tipped the shot glass to his lips and let the whiskey burn his throat. The bartender looked like a college kid, barely legal drinking age, tall, square-jawed, with bright green eyes and a mop of floppy hair. He had the type of sharp features that would grow into a rugged masculinity as the soft layer of baby fat around his jaw and chin melted away with age. His voice, even when shouting, had an eager-to-please pitch that was slightly feminine, but his imposing size, six feet two or three, with broad shoulders, kept him from seeming swishy or gay. He winked when he caught James staring at him—nothing lascivious, just a friendly gesture, a secret message to a stranger who'd wandered into his bar that they were kindred spirits, fellow travelers, despite the obvious twenty or twenty-five-year differences in their ages.
“What's your name?” he asked, as he splashed Absolut and cranberry juice into a glass for a tough-looking babe who'd wedged herself into the crush of drinkers, staking her claim with an elbow planted firmly on the bar.
“What's his name, Jason?” she slurred, as she gave James the once-over, her piercing stare made even more unsettling by a lazy left eye.
“Jimmy,” he said, surprising himself by using the name he'd been called in his Appalachian boyhood, the name that no one outside of West Virginia but Ernst had ever used.
“What did he say, Jason?”
“He said his name is Jimmy.”
“Where's he from?” she asked, as she fumbled with a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
James, figuring he was safer admitting he was a New Yorker here than he would have been in the tow truck, had an odd, irresistible urge to impress the young bartender. “I live in New York,” he said.
“La-di-da,” the woman sneered, unimpressed. “You're too old for Jason, Mr. New York. You hear that, Jason? He's too old for you.”
Something across the room caught her attention, and she suddenly lost interest, making a beeline for the jukebox where the dyke in the snowflake sweatshirt and a mullet-coiffed fireplug were looking awfully cozy, singing along to “Merry Christmas, Darling.”
“Who's she? Your mother?” James joked, pretending to be miffed by the concerned intervention.
“Who? Wendy?” he laughed. “You got to be kidding. No.
That's
my mother,” he said, pointing at Miss Snowflake Sweater. “Aunt Wendy's her girlfriend.”
James figured he was stone drunk, hearing strange voices, and hallucinating that a lesbian militia had invaded this hillbilly backwater on Christmas Eve. He tossed back another shot—his third, or was it fourth?—and cradled a mug of beer while Jason placated the restless natives demanding another round.
“I love New York,” the boy shouted as he worked the taps. “I'm gonna move there.”
Sure you are kid, James snickered. Your senior class probably went to Manhattan for a field trip. Times Square was awesome, and
Wicked
changed your life. You're going to find a great apartment like Will's from
Will & Grace
and land a fabulous job as an assistant to a fashion designer or Broadway producer who will recognize you as a genius. In a year, maybe sooner, you'll be rich and famous and have an even richer and more famous boyfriend who will always be faithful and, after New York legalizes gay marriage, you'll have a beautiful wedding and an announcement in the Styles section of the Sunday
Times.
Christ almighty, he thought, shocked by his cruel cynicism; he was sounding like Felix and his bitter summer housemates. When did little Jimmy Hoffmann of Parkersburg, West Virginia, become such a misanthrope, he wondered?
“Right after I graduate,” Jason declared.
“You know New York is pretty expensive. Maybe you should get a job first,” James said, feeling oddly protective of this merry, open-faced boy. The booze was making him feel paternal toward this naïve kid and sentimental enough to romanticize the little hick from Parkersburg who spent his entire four years at UVA imagining his wonderful life in the bright lights of the magnificent island he had only seen on television and at the movies.
“Oh, I have a job. I interned in a recording studio last summer, and they offered me an apprentice engineer position. I start in June.”
James couldn't picture this big country boy, handsome but unpolished, his vowels thickened by a mountain drawl, surviving the city. James was probably confused, hearing only bits and pieces of the conversation, distracted by the deafening racket of a packed barroom. . . . Did the kid say he'd been an intern? Where? Doing what? James had already forgotten. He was moving beyond a pleasant buzz, well on his way to becoming staggeringly drunk. Time to cut himself off and find his way back to the motel. But his new best friend behind the bar had different ideas.
“Cheers,” the boy said, pouring two more Crown Royals and proposing a toast. “Nice to meet you, Jimmy. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”
Jason swallowed his shot and winked again. His cheerful smile, all cheeks and bright, straight teeth, made it impossible for the gesture to look as dirty and suggestive as he intended.
“Don't you be disappearing on me, Jimmy. Mom says I have to close the bar tonight.”
 
James stood by the bed, trying to steady himself, rocking on the balls of his feet.
“Okay, okay, I'm coming,” he croaked, hoping to silence the persistent pounding that had roused him from blissful oblivion.
He opened the door and threw his forearm across his face, shielding his bloodshot eyes from the blinding sunlight reflected off the fresh, clean snowdrifts. He was greeted with a Merry Christmas and an awkward peck on the cheek as Jason swept past him, a large bottle of water in one hand and a paper cup of steaming coffee in the other.
“I figured you'd need these. And I wanted to make sure you were awake. You look like you could sleep through the day. Here, drink this first,” he said, handing James the water.
He chugged the entire bottle without taking a breath. His dehydrated body could have absorbed three of the five Great Lakes.
“How's your head?” Jason asked.
Not bad actually, considering the amount of alcohol he'd consumed last night.
“You almost bit off my fingers when I forced you to swallow those aspirin last night.”
“You know too much about hangovers for a kid,” James protested, his raspy voice cracking and breaking like a pubescent boy's. Christ, had he been smoking last night too?
“My mother owns a bar. Remember?”
He did, vaguely. It was coming back into focus. The noise. The whiskey and the beer. Someone pulling a gun and waving it at a suspect girlfriend. Pissing on his shoes at the urinal. Something about Boston and the Berklee College of Music. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” James standing on the bar singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Falling on his ass on the ice. A pair of dykes laughing and swearing as they dragged him from the car and threw him on the bed. This boy, Jason, yanking off his pants and pulling the blanket up to his chin, wishing James sweet dreams as he gave him a chaste good-night kiss on the forehead. And, God, no, please, no, yes, yes, he did: James grabbing the kid by the arm and pulling him down on the mattress, pleading with him to spend the night, promising he wouldn't touch him, just sleep, all he wanted was to sleep with him.
BOOK: Remembering Christmas
10.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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