“Hello!” I said, stretching out my right hand. “My name is Laurie.”
He extended his sickly, yellow limb that was either nicotine-stained or hepatitis-laden and mumbled back that his name was Lyle. It was like shaking the hand of a baby. Limp, effortless, and, you knew, full of bacteria and possibly a touch of turd. Then he stretched his leather lips a little, and I took it as a smile, although chances were more likely it was in response to a pain pang from within that had suddenly bubbled to the surface. Lyle. Well, I thought, that’s easy to remember. You’re tall and skinny and look like a decomposing Lyle Lovett. I could remember that. And I did. From then on, every time I saw Lyle in the hall or on the stairs, I bestowed upon him a greeting that was bold and warm and cheerful. “Hello, Lyle!” I’d proclaim, and most of the time he would acknowledge my hello by shifting his watery red eyes in my direction. Honestly, I wanted more from him, so I felt it was appropriate to move on to the more familiar and gregarious “Hiya Lyle!” and I combined this, not with an ordinary wave, but with an arching sweep of my whole arm to let him know just how happy I was to see him, even if it was just because it was good to know he was still alive and that the brownish fluid seeping through my walls was probably just a water leak after all.
But apparently, our moment had been lost. Lyle just simply stopped responding and went back to ignoring me, despite the fact that I continued to greet him, although a little less warmly. Fine, I thought, fine. Break up with the Hello Project. Do whatever you want, LYLE, even though you really never even once said it. You were really never a part of it, anyway, you just wanted the benefits of “Hello!” without the actual work. That’s fine, Lyle, when your body fluids eventually do start seeping from my wall, guess who’s NOT going to be saying, “HELLO? 911? I think my neighbor is decaying!”
Then, of course, there was Anna, who honestly just could not be bothered to say “Hello!” Compared with her, Lyle had the exuberance and zeal of the purple Wiggle strumming a banjo and singing, “Cocky Want a Cracker!” Anna was a cold fish. After my initial attempts at helloing her failed to elicit so much as a flinch, I tried a different approach. I usually only saw her when she was on the grounds of the apartment building, throwing the ball to Camille Claudel.
“Your dog is so smart!” I called to her as Camille Claudel chased the ball, flags of spittle streaming from her jowls.
Anna said nothing. Didn’t even look at me.
“Camille Claudel is the prettiest dog in the building,” I pandered. “That’s what I think.”
No response.
“Rodin was an overrated Play-Doh amateur!” I said in a last-ditch effort, but Anna remained a well that had run dry of emotion and neighborly love.
As I stood there as Anna ignored me, I decided that was it. I was done wooing Lyle and Anna—if they didn’t want to participate and be nice, then that was okay with me. Absolutely A-OK, I told myself. Can’t be troubled to say “Hello,” because it’s a biiiiiggggg trouble, believe me. Takes so much effort. All you had to do was say it back. You didn’t even have to initiate, just respond. You know, what’s the big deal? HEL-LO. Two syllables. HEL. LO. An investment of two syllables to let your fellow neighbors know they can count on you because we ALL LIVE TOGETHER, the same old lady is touching all of our underwear! I guess you’re just too cool to say “Hello!”
Fine. Sure. I can play that. If that’s the way you want to be, then don’t you look at my girlfriend, she’s the only one I got. How do you like that?
Maybe you also can’t say “Good-bye, Stranger. It’s been nice. Hope you find your paradise!”
How’d you like that beating up through your floors day and night because the guy downstairs is not very nice and so drug-crazed that all he can relate to is a constant, excessively loud Breakfast in America loop from 1979, which is probably the last time the asshole felt any twinge of solace or ambition as he watched the thin strings of hope drift farther and farther from his grasp at the same time? It’s like having Mackenzie Phillips living downstairs! They whistle on that album, you know, there is whistling! That is the kind of person who doesn’t say “Hello!” Anna and Lyle! The kind of person like Supertramp Guy!
Why can’t you say “hello!”? Why? What is the big deal? It’s the neighborly thing! Say “Hello!” Do you want me to burn my apartment down, do you? THEN SAY “HELLO!” GODDAMN IT. SAY F***IN’ “HELLO,” OKAY? SAY “HELLO” OR THE NEXT TIME I LIGHT A CANDLE I AM LEAVING IT UNATTENDED!! I WILL WALK AWAY FROM IT AND GO INTO A WHOLE OTHER ROOM!
Just then, a miracle sort of happened.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” Anna said as she suddenly turned, pulled the iPod earphone out of her right ear and then her left.
I shook my head as Camille Claudel padded over and swung some frothy spit on my leg.
“I can’t usually hear anything when I have these on, but were you . . . were you just singing a Supertramp song?” Anna asked, staring at me.
I shook my head again silently, merely and infinitely relieved that she had not turned around a quarter of a second earlier when I was also flipping her off.
Suddenly, the front door to the building swung open and who was it that walked out and immediately propped himself up against the wall and lit a cigarette?
“Hello, Anna,” he said, complete with a cheery wave.
“Hello, Kyle,” she replied.
Oh, I thought to myself. Oh.
I quickly walked to the front door, entirely ignored Lyle, and was halfway up the stairs when I heard Anna say to Kyle (Lyle), “I think I just found out who’s been playing all of that Supertramp.”
I did not see this as an obstacle to the Hello Project; quite the contrary. If they wanted to start a satellite chapter in the building, I welcomed it, especially if I no longer felt I had to alert authorities if Lyle (Kyle) hadn’t been spotted clutching a wall in several days. He was now someone else’s Hello responsibility.
Lyle (Kyle) eventually moved out, and the day that he packed up his stuff, I spotted a gray, identical figure shadowing him everywhere. I thought, Well, what do you know, Lyle (Kyle) will be dead before that truck is packed; his ghost has already arrived and is about to take over, but it turned out it was just his dad. Anna, well, I still hate her guts.
In the meantime, we’re looking for a house, and when we find the right one, I can’t wait to have a whole new set of neighbors to say “Hello!” to.
Ha ha ha!
Hope your year has been equally as magical,
The Asshole Family
Acknowledgments
Dear Santa:
I know I’ve been on your Santa Shit List for a while, ever since we met at that work-related Christmas party and I confronted you about the tin dollhouse you brought me in 1974 and then I called your friend a midget, but as I have explained numerous times, little people make me curious and a couple of badly mixed mojitos and some Mexican Xanax can make any girl a little combative. ANY GIRL—even, I bet, Shelly Janes, who lived across the street and DID get a wooden Victorian dollhouse that year, despite the fact that my letter was far more compelling and descriptive. SO WHAT if she spent the whole summer with two broken legs in a body cast to correct being pigeon-toed? How is that my fault? I wrote “wood” in my letter, too, remember, “W-O-O-D,” not “TIN PIECE OF SHIT FROM KMART WITH THE FURNITURE AND DOLLHOUSE FAMILY LITHOGRAPHED ON THE WALLS.” It was like a Twilight Zone dollhouse! What little girl wants to play with dolls that are impossible to touch? Anyway, I was hoping that we could have worked past that, but the last couple of years’ worth of treats for me under the Christmas tree have demonstrated that you are not especially interested in “growing our relationship in a positive direction.” I mean, really, I know you are pissed, but honestly, coal in my stocking says enough. Going the extra mile and sticking a whole bag of Kingsford in a full-body girdle was a little nasty and somewhat personal, particularly the Post-it Note that expressed how the lumpy coal butt looked so realistic. Very merry, Santa, very merry, but
P.S., I’ll bet your ass doesn’t look any better under fluorescent lights. Plus there are people out there who are way worse than me, and you know it, like the googly-eyed crazy shoplifting Runaway Bride who invited five thousand people to her wedding and then split because the seating chart was too hard. MORE PEOPLE HATE THAT GIRL THAN HATE ME. Stick some coal in those eye sockets, why don’t you? Those black holes are each the size of a Weber kettle grill!
But that’s not why I’m writing, although I really do think that the Runaway Bride deserves a wedding gown full of coal if you’re going to play that game. I’m writing because now that I know the way you work, I don’t want you putting some people on the Santa Shit List just because they know me. They are very nice people and deserve nice things under the tree, not a coal effigy of themselves that maliciously and deliberately points out their body flaws.
Those people are:
Bruce Tracy; Jenny Bent; my old man; my family; Jamie; Jeff; Kelly Kulchak; Adam Korn; David Dunton; Shari Smiley; Kathy White; Sonya Rosenfeld; Kate Blum; Jennifer Jones; Donna Passanante; Heather Megyesi; Aimee Dexter; Katharine Enriques; Pamela Cannon; Beth Pearson; Maralee Youngs; Amelia Zalcman; Laura Goldin; Kimberly Obitz; Meg Halverson; Bill Hummel; Theresa Cano; Kathy Murillo; Kartz Ucci; Doug Kinne; Kate; Nikki; Sara; Sandra; Krysti; Gary; Sessalee Hensley; Jules Herbert; Craig Browning; Duane Neff; Amy Silverman; Deborah Sussman; Cindy Dach; Laura Greenberg; Beth Kawasaki; Eric Searleman; Michelle Savoy; Charlie Levy; Patrick and Adrienne Sedillo; Charlie Pabst; Colleen Steinberg; Erica Bernth; Jill Anderson; Maryn Silverberg; Becky, Marie, and Rhonda from Fairfax; Bill Homuth; Sharon Hise; Changing Hands; every bookstore who hosted an event and CRM on the last tour who was so very nice to me (especially in my new hometown of Eugene); and bookstores everywhere for still stocking my books.
AND ESPECIALLY Tom Nevins, because this book was his big, fat, fun idea, and, naturally, the Idiot Girls, particularly the ones on the Idiot Girls Board, who make me laugh, spew out my Pepsi, make me want cake, and who have made our Idiot Girl world so very much brighter and a delightful, hysterical, and a little bit dirty place to be. I adore those girls and I am proud to be among them. They are the most wonderful, funny, supportive, and caring ladies ever, Santa, and if you mess with them, or any of the people on my Nice List, I’m not just going to call your friend a midget next time. My lumpy coal ass will be doing some kickin’.
laurie n.
www.idiotgirls.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LAURIE NOTARO loves Christmas, despite the fact that last year she was the unfortunate recipient of a jar of previously owned bath salts and an XXL sweater with a snowman on it. She does not subscribe to the saying “It’s the thought that counts” when the thought is actually “If I clean it off and put a bow on it, she won’t know I used this,” but she does think it’s funny to call out on the Holy Night “Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum!” because it makes her mother mad. This is her fifth book.
ALSO BY LAURIE NOTARO
The Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club
Autobiography of a Fat Bride
I Love Everybody
We Thought You Would Be Prettier
Copyright © 2005 by Laurie Notaro
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Villard Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
VILLARD and “V” CIRCLED Design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
“There’s a Gun Somewhere Under the Christmas Tree” (originally published as “Hair of the Dog”) and “Jingle Hell” previously appeared in Autobiography of a Fat Bride by Laurie Notaro (2003), and “Christmas Death Trap” (originally published as “For the Birds”) previously appeared in The Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club by Laurie Notaro (2002), both published by Villard Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.villard.com
eISBN: 978-1-58836-507-1
v3.0
An Idiot Girl's Christmas Page 10