A Christmas Slug

It was a gift from my friend Steve Carls. He wanted me to cheer up, be less of a humbug. A recent breakup? A dead dog? Family and friends thousands of miles away? Fat chance, I told him. I’m not ungrateful, mind you. It was a nice gesture. A small, green weeping branch that smelled of pine, sported twin red baubles, and sat in a green plastic pot. I did follow the directions at first. Watered it at proper intervals with tepid water, kept it in indirect sunlight. That lasted a few days. Then work got busy. And there were obligatory holiday parties at which my sole purpose was to drink. In my countless December-induced drunken stupors, I’d stare blankly at bad sitcoms and avoid the sad stare of the wilting tree with its surrounding halo of brown needles.

Here I am on Christmas Eve. No festivities tonight. Just me and some well whiskey that I couldn’t afford. I’m watching a terrible remake of Miracle on 34th Street and wondering how this holiday can get any worse. After a few glasses – and interspersed shots – of the copper liquid, I snatch the green pot, spilling the arid earth amongst the brown needles that litter the ground. I strip the baubles and launch them across the room, where they shatter into hundreds of sharp pieces that will torture my bare feet for months. For whatever reason, I begin to laugh uncontrollably. Tears run down my cheeks. I take a sip of whiskey, spill some on my shirt. Then I have the ridiculous idea of pouring the remaining slug into the arid soil. It disappears. I pour another glass for myself. And another generous shot for the dead branch. The bad remake repeats. A cataract haze soon creeps over my eyes. After a final shot for the branch, I lose consciousness.

The bells of the adjacent church wake me at 10 am. On the television plays the original Miracle on 34th Street. In front of me there sit a small, green weeping branch with twin red baubles, an empty bottle of whiskey, and a postcard that reads, ‘Tis the season after all. Merry Christmas! S.C.’