Step Three
“John, aren’t you going to open your presents?” Laurie said. That’s my mom.
I tend to call my parents by their first names because it really gets to them, and partially because I feel like they are fellow adults in my life, not my parents.
“Of course I’m going to open my gifts, Mom. It’s Christmas! I’ll be back in a minute, then I will open them. Ok?” I quickly ran up the stairs to my room.
I really hate Christmas. Family, food, and spending money for relatives that don’t even call me on my birthday. A family should remember that type of shit, but not mine. Nope, I have the dysfunctional Brady Bunch with chain smokers, alcoholics, and inconsiderate money mongers.
I hear my Mom as clear as a bell, but I ignore her as usual.
“Are you coming down!? We are waiting for you!”
I almost need to cup my hands over my ears. When she yells, she’s like a yelping dog that just got a kick in the side. I look in the mirror. I’m getting out of shape. I have the beer belly of a fifty year old drunk. The bags under my eyes are a hideous concoction of yellow, purple, and brown, like the sunset right before it rains. I have a slight five o’clock shadow. I stare hard into my eyes.
What the hell am I doing to myself?
“JOHHHHNNNNNN,” Laurie yelped.
“I’m coming! Holy Toledo.”
I’m not sixteen anymore. For Christ sake I’m twenty one, I’m in college, cut me some fucking
slack!
She’ll never stop hounding me. One-Two- Three! It’s like I’m swallowing poison. It was burning all the way down. I quickly rinse, and run down the stairs. I’m pretty good with my sobriety until the holidays roll around.
“Mom, Dad, Gabby, I’m sorry I kept you waiting, but the cookies left for Santa needed to come out,” I said as I gave my jello-like tushy a good pat.
“John! Your sister is only four! Cut-it-out,” Dad said.
His face had a scarlet tint to it, and his eyes got real big. His brow was stiff, making the lines in his forehead more apparent than usual. I always love getting a rise out of him. It’s easy. Like stealing candy from a baby.
“Alright, Danny Tanner.” I wait a second so he can cool off.
Gabby, is the only “normal” person in my family. She looks like a Mexican jumping bean. She is running and jumping all over the place, from the couch to the fireplace, to another couch. It’s cute.
Well, now is that dreadful time to open a gift and act like I enjoy it. It‘s going in the garbage or under my bed anyway.
“Let’s see what Santa brought me!! Whoopie!”
Fuck my life, this sucks.
I start with the big box, knowing it would be something ridiculous. I bypassed the card knowing it would piss my mom off. I look up with a slight grin to see my mom having a conniption. She must be a facial contortionist.
“Oh I almost forgot the card. Silly me.”
Well that’s sweet, they love me, they are proud of me. Couldn’t ask for a better son?? That’s a
crock of shit, ha.
I try to keep a straight face, but I let out a slight cackle.
I’m going to be a great man one day, I just need to find my path? What does that mean?
Well at least I had a hundred dollar bill in there.
“Thank you so much, I love you guys.”
I have to restrain myself from cringing. I get my lethargic ass out of the recliner, and slowly walk towards them, and give them both a hug and mommy gets a little kiss, from her “boy”. My father of course has the strong musk of Marlboro. He smoked two cigarettes in the five minutes I have been downstairs. He thinks cutting down is going from Mediums to Lights. For a psychologist, he’s pretty dense. Where was I? Yea, the big box. It has red wrapping paper, with little Santas all over it.
Turns out the big box is good for once: Guitar Hero Three.
I just start to look up and I notice Laurie is staring at me like a dog stares at you when you‘re eating dinner.
“Wow, this is really awesome, thanks so much.”
I could tell my mom picked out the present from the ear-to-ear smile. She was happy I actually like it.
“John, open the small one next,” Lloyd said.
“This one?” as I point at the green one.
“No the one that’s scrappily wrapped,” Lloyd said.
I play stupid to keep them happy. Of course I know which one it is. The only time a present my dad picks out looks good is when a sweet old lady from Macy’s wraps it.
This is an odd shape present. What the hell can it be?
The bottom is flat and hard like a small piece of wood, and the rest is wrapped like he was in a rush. I open it skeptically, curious to the content. There is a baseball glove with a baseball in it.
A baseball glove? Is this guy friggin serious?
“Lloyd, I hate baseball, you know that. I haven’t played since..”
“Keep going John, there’s more below,” Lloyd interrupted.
“What the hell is this a sick joke?”
Dad quickly said, “I’m sorry, I just thought we could throw the ball around like we use to. . . John.”
I get out of the recliner rather quickly this time, I grab my gifts, said thank you for everything and I head up the stairs. It is a picture frame with an old picture in it. I can feel the
tears building up behind these brick walls. I was eleven. I was wearing my baseball uniform playing catch in the back yard with Lloyd. My mom had taken the picture, then went inside to get the phone. Lloyd and I were joking around saying that I was going to be a Yankees pitcher someday. I hate the Yankees. Our catch was interrupted by the shriek of Laurie. She told us Aunt Susan just died. She Overdosed. She was an alcoholic.
I lock the door and go straight to that sleek, cold, bottle that’s sitting there. She’s just waiting for me to grab her by the neck and pour her into my blood.
Why would he give me that picture. That is the day I lost faith in baseball and in God. He knew. What a jerk. I’m like a little girl, I can’t even hold back my emotions. Aunt Susan, was and still is my favorite. She went to almost every little league game I had. Half of the time she drove me to practice. I really loved her, and I wish she knew that. She cared about me, unlike my parents. No one even came up to see how I am doing. Family, ha!
One-two. This time it is like water. I sit down on the edge of my bed, picture on the floor, bottle and shot glass in the other hand. This time a quick one-two-three.
Why are shot glasses so small? The standard shot glass should be at least twice this size. Who invented the shot glass anyway, a God-dammed midget? Still not feeling anything.
