With all that's been happening this month, I almost forgot a holiday tradition. Merry Christmas kiddies.
So There I Was. . .
Home for the Holidays
So there I was, ankle deep in snow, watching as my sister’s kids bawled their eyes out. Every Christmas, for reasons I still can’t fathom (okay, it’s for the presents), I go home to spend a ‘delightful’ couple of days with those members of my family crazy enough to come together. This year, however, I was hoping to spend a tad more than a couple of days, say, a couple of months. Ever since the party/riot of the last century (the 21st century officially began Jan 1, 2001, but it still got the title regardless of what century you say it was in) had destroyed my home, I’ve been living in a tent in my back yard, while lazy, overpaid, underskilled union construction workers rebuild my house. In any case, the tent, while nice, was getting a bit cold, and spending the coldest months of winter in it was not my idea of fun. So, staying in my parents house, despite the horrid implications, was sounding better with every weather report.
So, I took the bus home, using the proceeds of my latest blood and semen sale to pay my way. When I arrived, I found Grandpa, on my dad’s side, busy with a load of metal and what looked like gun shells in the front yard, and my nieces and nephew crying in the doorway. I immediately sprang into action (I do that sometimes, despite myself). Every Christmas, for as long as I can remember, Grandpa has threatened to shoot Santa dead for trespassing, same with the Easter bunny and President Washington (kudos to those who get that joke). Needless to say, he’s out of his mind, and not in a good way (yes, there are good ways to be out of your mind, it’s loads of fun, you should try it sometime). As such, most of us kids learned early on to ignore the ravings of the old man. Of course, setting up what looked like radar controlled anti-aircraft artillery in the front yard is enough to dishearten any little kid, especially my five, seven, and nine year old nieces and nephew. I quickly explained to the kids that Grandpa didn’t have a chance in heck of shooting Santa down. First of all, Santa probably uses advanced stealth technology and secondly, Grandpa couldn’t hit the broad side of a jolly old elf if he was
six inches (15 cm) away.
Grandpa, somehow, overheard this and said “Damned if you’re right. I need flak to take down that good for nothin trespasser!”
The kids began bawling again. I quickly told them that all the military surplus stores were closed this time of night and Grandpa would never get flak shells. Besides, flak is so inaccurate, he’d probably take down a 747 before he even got near Santa. The children instantly perked up, gave me a hug, then took off with the gifts I gave them. No, I didn’t get them new gifts, it was the junk I got last year that I wrapped and gave to them. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but when you’re virtually broke with your stuff being held for ransom by nazi storage depot owners, you have to make sacrifices. This is one of them.
Inside didn’t look any different then the last time I was there, last Christmas. The tree looked like it hadn’t been moved since then, and knowing my dad’s back, it probably hasn’t (don’t worry, its artificial). The cute little angel with that strange pointy tree topper sticking up her butt still sat on top of the tree, blinking the steady beat of “Silent Night” thanks to a strange string of lights that beeps Christmas music (unless you push Santa’s belly, which reduces the volume to nothing but blinking lights, as it was now). Ornaments I made when I was in grade school still hung from its branches along with the ones my sister’s kids made. God, do my parents love being grandparents. The kids had already put their gifts under the tree for Christmas morning (tradition) and were clambering around me for more. I opened my bag and they grabbed at the presents, most of which weren’t theirs, and moved them to under the tree with great excitement. Sometimes I love being an uncle.
Speaking of kids, my sister and her husband were busy enjoying a roaring fire, until the youngest kid changed the channel to see what else was on. Jake, my sisters husband, began yell as if the kid had just started World War III. Of course, she started crying and ran over to my sister who promptly elbowed Jake for being a jerk. Jake is okay, I guess, if you like loud mouth, greedy, selfish, self centered, brain dead, jackasses. Have I mentioned that I don’t like him? It’s a wonder that my sister stays married to him. I know she’s smarter than that, should couldn’t really love him, could she?
That’s about when my mom rolls up (literally), yells at Jake for taking things to seriously, then gives me a hug. There’s nothing on Earth like a hug from your mom, nothing. In my case, of course, it means a pain in my back as I have to lean over to hug my mom when she’s in here wheelchair. Oh well, I can stand a little pain. She then led me into the kitchen where my father and his mother were busy preparing the Christmas eve meal. Normally, we’d simply order pizza, but with Grandma around, we have massive vegetable trays that last well into the next day. Meanwhile, two turkeys sat in the fridge waiting for tomorrows pseudo cook-off between mother and son. Two meals isn’t a bad thing though, because even if I can’t stay, I’ll have plenty of leftovers.
Back in the living room, Jake, that cheap bastard, put a bootleg copy of that Grinch movie in. The absolute worst thing about Jake is not that he’s cheap, but that he can afford to not be cheap. God, do I hate that slime. As the children settled down and strained to hear the film, I managed, finally, to get my other Grandma’s attention. She was relaxing in my dad’s chair (a no-no when I was growing up, then we got a dog and that theory went out the window) with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and her hearing aid on the table next to her. Explains why she didn’t notice my arrival earlier. She greeted me as normal then demanded to know where her worthless son was. Then she blew smoke in my face and called me a worthless loser again.
“Well,” I said. “At least I’m not Jake.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jake yelled.
Grandma laughed, she knew a joke when she didn’t hear it, and this had to have been a dosy because it got Jake off his ass. He started toward me, only to have my sister stop him mid step and drag him back down onto the couch. That’s about when Tommy, the previously mentioned worthless son, and his family arrived. I like Tommy, and he hated Jake, so we got along splendidly. My cousins, five and eight each, clambered around the tree looking for presents, then gathered around TV to enjoy the badly recorded film (the shadows of people walking and talking in the theater was crystal clear though). The veggie trays were now laid out, and for the moment, there was peace, mainly because you couldn’t hear the damn film unless every noise within five miles was tuned out. Then my uncle Tim, the good son, showed up. My dad’s brother could do no wrong, and his kid, little Timmy, was an angel. And we all know that means the kid is rotten to the core. In fact, I usually buy my dope off Timmy, at a discounted rate (we are family) but when he’s around Grandma, he became a being sent by God. I wish I had thought of it, I really do.
The rest of the night went surprisingly well. Jake and I didn’t get into a fist fight (usually happens at least once every Christmas) and Tommy didn’t either. As the night wore down, Timmy and I smoked some weed off the back porch, enjoying the way the cold air made the smoke into funny shapes (were we ever high). Eventually, the rest of the family headed off to bed leaving me and my mom to lay the remaning gifts out under the tree. All in all, a peaceful night. As I went to bed, I had a funny feeling that something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it just then, but there was a problem.
Then I remembered, at about two in the morning, when I first heard it. For the most part, I’m a night person, except Christmas eve since I have to get up so damn early (around 6 am) for the great unwrapping. Anyways, during those long, sleepless nights, I stay up and watch old war movies and documentaries on TV, and after a while, you get used to the sound effects and the real noises of certain weapons. This was flak, and I realized what had been missing, my Grandfather. I ran outside to see, and hear, a horrible sight. My Grandpa was sitting in a turret he built, firing flak shells high into the air, at what I’m not sure. I turn, looking for some answers, any answers, and instead find my family.
My sister and Tommy’s wife were comforting the children while my mom and the Grandmothers were at the window of the darkened living room watching on in wonder and terror. Jake was hiding behind a car while Timmy was busy with another joint trying to figure out what the hell all the fuss was about. Meanwhile, uncle Tim and my dad were discussing which mental home my Grandpa should be placed in when this was all over. Only Tommy and I seemed to realize that something, anything, had to be done to stop this madness.
With the flak cannons beating on our eardrums, I leaned toward Tommy and gave him my plan. “Let’s get him,” I said. Okay, so it wasn’t much of a plan, but my feet were cold in the ankle deep snow, and I was sleepy. He nodded, so we charged ahead. We lept onto the back of the turret and grabbed my Grandpa from behind. Now, my Grandfather is a big man, we’re talking Andre the Giant big, so he about threw both of us for a loop. Tommy finally manages to grab his arm and the gun turret starts spinning wildly. The trigger, for some reason, had gotten stuck, and now flak shells were being tossed through the nearby buildings, including my parents house. On shell crashed through the window, over my mothers head, and between both grandmothers, and into the Christmas tree, turning the living room into a scene from Backdraft.
While my mother and grandmothers ran/rolled for there lives, I grabbed for the trigger and tried to get it unstuck. That’s when I saw it. A red dot of light, apparently not connected to the turret. I looked up to where I figured the beam came from in time to see a deer shaped head with a bright red nose and a laser sight. A quick, and unintentional, due to the thrashing my Grandpa was giving Tommy, look up revealed a sleigh like object being pulled by eight deer shaped objects, and a falling bomb. I screamed, and with a strength I never knew I had, I grabbed Grandpa and dragged him out of the turret and on to the ground, just in time. A second later, the turret exploded in a fireball.
At least eight fire companies had to be called in that night. Most of the block had been destroyed, again. I have a distinct feeling that few, if any of us, would be allowed back into this neighborhood. Not that it mattered, my parents house was torched, and now I had to go back to living in my tent.
As the last of the flames went out, Jake finally said something. “Cynthia,” he said to my sister. “Your grandfather is a ****ing moron.”
As much as it turned my stomach, I had to agree. Then, he turned to me.
“It must run in the family.”
My parents took up residence in my tent, which uncle Tim and Tommy improved greatly. It should be fairly warm this winter. Tommy went home, a hero to his children for saving Santa. Timmy was busted for drug possession because he insisted on lighting a joint on the smoldering remains of my parents home. Tim is trying to get him out, but I doubt his chances. Grandpa ended up in a mental home, and Grandma visits him everyday, hoping that he’ll be better soon. The other Grandma went home so she could ***** about life in peace. My sister spent New Years at home with her children and a lawyer, though I’m not sure why. And Jake, well, he’s in the hospital. I tried to explain to the officer that I didn’t mean to break every bone in the man’s face, but they wouldn’t listen. So I’ll be spending some time in the local jail. Not quite my parents house, but at least its warm.
All in all, this has to be the best Christmas we’ve had in a long time.
