December 21, 2012

• Blue Christmas, no turkey

  Christmas dive

  The first Christmas after I’d lost my mom, my dog and my long time partner, I wasn’t up for much. I could barely remember a holiday without any of them. Several kindhearted friends and some folks I barely knew had asked me to spend the day with their families. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less, so I told them all that I was going out of town.              

  That wasn’t so much a lie as overly wishful thinking. I didn’t even really mind when travel plans didn’t pan out. I wasn’t going to be good company. I figured I’d just cook a turkey for myself. Then that idea became depressing. Without even a dog around, I’d end up cooking all day to produce one meal plus a lot of stock. So I forgot to buy a bird. Then on Christmas Day, Facebook friends posted photos of their feasts, and I started salivating for turkey.

  I couldn’t go places where I might run into someone who might mention seeing me to the folks who thought I was out of town. So I drove to a part of the city where I was pretty sure no one would know me. All I found open was an old dive bar that seemed appropriate for my mood. Inside, hardcore barflies seemed as cheerless as I. Moreso, as it turned out.

  “Blue Christmas” played over and over. Everybody had a bitch or two — mostly about family, lawyers and the DHS (Department of Human Services). One guy said his wife had run off with his brother. If he found out where they were, he planned to kill them as a Christmas present to himself. Two different women said they couldn’t contact their children, even on Christmas, because the DHS had given them to their wife-beating husbands.

  After a few rounds of drinks, I no longer gave a shit about blowing my cover. I invited all my new best friends to Prairie Meadows for turkey dinner — on me. There were no takers. Everyone looked away and quit talking to me. I realized that I had turned into the people I’d been hiding from. Worse, I’d violated the unwritten bond that indulges melancholy souls.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, son,” the bartender said to me. “It’s time for you to go back where you belong, wherever the hell that is.”

  • 10:50 pm
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