Christmas in July

by Alan Michael Parker

  Everyone else at A.B. Park was so alive. The center fielder, R.J., would hit the ball and grunt, and for once, it seemed to me the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

  I’m a knitter, so knitting a hat doesn’t take me very long, and even if I want a more sophisticated hat than a basic beanie, the work’s easy. There are lots of patterns on the Internet—including “Inside Out Chemo Cap,” which I would never make for anyone. I woke up extra early that Saturday morning and went right to my crafts table, drinking my coffee and wearing my art clothes, sweatpants and an old shirt of Bryson’s. I like getting dressed for work, for my job; it’s like going to an office, where today I would be knitting Christmas a purple hat.

  It’s a funny moment, isn’t it, giving a gift? “Here, I made this for you”—that’s a wonderful thing to say, one of the best in the world, as sayings go, everyone should feel what that feels like. I know what I’m talking about. But there’s something to those feelings that isn’t logical. I make a hat, it’s Meg’s hat while I’m making it, and then it’s not Meg’s hat anymore, it’s someone else’s. When I see that person put on the hat, I think, “That’s my hat, I made that.” So I own it again. Gifts come back to me that way.

  Tom Smith at TheStudio.com made beautiful patches for me last year, for the shirts everyone wore at the charity tournament we played at the beach, even the wives and girlfriends. (The ones from GreenStreetArts.com weren’t as nice, and a little more expensive. We made that mistake the year before.) The girls and I all agreed that Tom Smith makes the most beautiful logos and arm patches.

  Once Christmas’ hat was done, which meant I decided not to block the fabric because it would stretch the ribbing too much, I sewed one of the red patches from Tom Smith onto the folded cuff. The girl could roll down the edge and not show the patch, if she chose. Only she and I needed to know what it said. That was important.

  The patch said, “Meg’s Team.”

  After a nice lunch of tuna salad and one of Bryson’s Dr. Peppers, which maybe I shouldn’t have taken, but it was in honor of Christmas, I thought a lot about how to give the hat to Christmas. I thought a lot about her face, and the moment she had that piece of something stuck to her cheek. I especially thought about that moment, and how she didn’t laugh. It occurred to me that while I was sitting in my breakfast room, holding her hat, she could be outside waiting for me to leave, that she might want her Oreos right now. She could be out there—the day was sunny and hot, weather I like, now that the Change has stopped for me, thank god, no more hot flashes—but she could be sweating all kinds of tomorrows because she was dying. Maybe that was why she was drunk in the creek, because she was sweating, drunk, and dying.

  I decided to put the hat in her Things box. I would put the hat in the Things box and then go for a drive in my Kia. I didn’t know where I wanted to drive, just to drive. Maybe I would see something.

  It wasn’t a Secrets hat, or an Ideas hat, just a purple beanie I had made for her. She would find it when she found it.

  I took down her three boxes. That made my curious.

  She had been busy, that child. There were purple notes in her Secrets box, on the purple paper I had cut up for her. I read them all.

  I hate you, the first one said.

  Hose Lady owes me a phone, the second one said.

  You broke my phone!

  I didn’t know I had broken her phone. Was that when she was in the creek? She probably dropped it, I didn’t break it. Just like a teenager to blame everyone. I could leave her a note and tell her she broke her own phone, and she could be responsible for once, and buy herself a new phone.

  That’s not Meg O’Daly, I told myself. Maybe she was responsible.

  I read another note: There’s water in my phone bitch. I wondered if that was the first note. I couldn’t tell the order. But the thoughts mattered. So I just stacked them up and reread them.

  I hate Hose Lady.

  This is a stupid house.

  Why do you care?

  I don’t care about you.

  ppl don’t care.

  I’m going to steal a towel.

  Mrs. O’Daly are you reading this?

  This is fun.

  No one cares b/c there’s no trophy Hose Lady.

  I hate Aunt Nikki.

  Aunt Nikki’s a bitch mom.

  Mrs. O’Daly may I have more Oreos? See I’m nicer than you?

  I hate my life.

  Mrs. O’Daly your grandkids must love you b/c they don’t know you.

  Hose Lady I’m not your pet.

  Mrs. O’Daly you’re reading my Secrets.

  Purples fun.

  Damn straight it hurts.

  Hose Lady where’s your husband?

  I hate my life.

  I hate this house.

  I hate my life.

  Dr. Peppers make my nose tingle vm when I drink fast.

  I hate I can’t stop.

  Hose Lady thank you.

  FIREWORKS

  No one ever remembers what I look like. I’m tall, I’m short, I have blue eyes or green or brown, my hair stands up, my hair is moussed, my hair is cut short, my nose is flat, pointed, wide, sloped, I’m white, I’m Italian, I’m Latino, I’m Jewish. I have a weak chin, I need a shave, I have sideburns, I have a birthmark below my left ear (true), I have long fingers, I always wear fingerless gloves. I’m quiet or I’m talkative. I’m a loner but I like people. I’ve got some of these characteristics, different ones, depending who’s asked—it’s amazing what people can’t remember about me. If you ask my girlfriend, Liana, I’m good-looking, I have sexy wrists, which she says matters. She’s got a great body, and she’s too good for me, I admit it. She’s going to be a badass math teacher once her student teaching’s done and she gets her certification.

  I’m a combination of invisible and really invisible. If you want to know if I’m good-looking and you ask my dad, he’ll say who cares. Ask that girl, Christmas, who I am—I’m the guy, Sam, who caught her shoplifting, who plays Minecraft, and who talked her into doing something totally off the chain.

  I like my anonymity. It’s like a flavor you can’t identify on your sandwich, what is that flavor? When you nuked the two $3.99 fake-ham-and-fake-cheese sandwiches in their wrappers at the MiniMart gas station—where I’m the night manager, like Apu on The Simpsons—without reading what all was on the sandwiches, you had no clue what you were having. Then once the sandwiches got hot enough to eat, you ate them, standing right there. Steaming in their plastic, they wouldn’t taste like ham or cheese, or anything I’d call food. They’re food stuff: a person should know what they’re eating. Sure, you were too hungry to wait, and you were abso-tooting-rooting-lutely drunk as stink. Even though I was stoned, I caught you, and because you didn’t have any money, that’s stealing. I don’t care that you’re dying or whatever, or that you’re just a girl, or you’re gonzo. I don’t care that you call yourself Christmas. I’ve got you now, I can talk you into doing shit, and no one will know I’m behind it all, that’s the truth. I’ve been waiting for you, Christmas. That’s what I told her, and it worked.

  I knew she was bombed because you know. I get stoned most nights before I go to work, but not when I come home, I’m straight by then, and I don’t smoke up again. I know that’s backwards. Remember, I’m the guy you can’t remember, the one you expect to get stoned after work, chilling, but no way, this guy likes sleeping it off and then getting up in the afternoon and thinking in his brain before he goes back to his slave job. Minecraft’s better. Hanging out with Liana’s better. Googling is better. Planning is better.

  On “Silly Evil Genius,” my favorite web cartoon, the bad guy’s always planning, but he comes up with the dumbest shit. That’s why the cartoon’s funny. Lester, the Silly Evil Genius, can’t think of anything really evil to do. I know why he’s like that. Lester’s got no ex-girlfriends. If he had ex-girlfriends, he’d have lots of evil ideas. Ex-girlfriends are the source of wars—just look at Starbuck in the BSG reboot
.

  I’ve got three ex-girlfriends, the most recent being Deedee, who dumped me four years ago. We were going to get married, that’s what she said. But Smash Brothers, boom, I’m dumped. Normally, like other normal guys, I would be a little pissed at Deedee, but being who I am, being pissed takes a long time. It’s slow. I’m a planner, I’m an evil genius, and I love revenge, and I love anonymous revenge even more, and so I wait and wait. I wait four years, grooving on the slow thing.

  I was always this guy, the one who tied your shoes together when you weren’t looking, who had his costume six months before Halloween, who knew what mailbox he would booby-trap next summer, who wrote someone else’s name in the wet concrete of the sidewalk. Being an evil genius means two things: one, do funny and low stuff to people who hurt me; and two, don’t get caught. Now that I’m older, I have changed, I have grown up. Now I have introduced the notion of patience into my evil genius schemes. Patience makes revenge more satisfying. Waiting and waiting and knowing I’m going to screw up Deedee someday—see how I don’t say “fuck up,” I’m more mature than you know—that’s the best. Of course, I don’t intend to screw her up so she gets hurt or anything really bad happens, because I’m not a psychopath and I’m careful about what’s a felony, but doing something funny and mean, that’s my long-term goal. Even if I have to make many small evil genius moves along the way to other people, to keep myself entertained. Thatthh entertainment, as Lester likes to lisp.

  Here’s what I think about fitting into society. Other people, especially other people who play Mortal Kombat or WOW or Counter-strike or any of the other FPS or RPG games and especially Grand Theft Auto, the kinds of people who lose their minds to their Xbox or PlayStations, they might be dysfunctional, but we know who those gamers are. The cliché is that they’re fat and live in their moms’ basements, but that’s an oversimplification. Those gamers, they’re recognizable because we can see their secrets, there’s nothing to make them invisible. They don’t know how to hide. A weirdo is a type. They’re at the mall, they’re online, they’re vulnerable. We see them lose their brains when there’s a Gamergate—but we know them, they’re knowable, and that makes them vulnerable.

  No one knows who I am. I’m not a gamer, a slacker, a pothead, a nerd, a twink, a jock, or a Dilbert. I’m not Apu. I shower, I dress in polo shirts and skinny jeans, respectable as a business student or the manager of your local Sunglass Hut. I have no visible tattoos when I have my clothes on. If there’s a party, I’ll be there, sure, and you’ll talk to me, but you won’t remember our conversation. It’s what I do. If I have something smart to say, I keep it to myself.

  Liana changed who I am, of course. We don’t live together yet, and that’s cool with me for now, but just hanging out with her, I’ve got less time to be an evil genius. I know I’m a guy, and guys are stupid when they’re horny, but it’s not only the sex that makes her special. I have learned to go into my body, and into hers, and disappear, be gone. In fact, that’s a good way to have sex. Although I’m not sure if this is right, it kind of feels like swimming.

  Hanging with Liana means I have to make another set of plans that aren’t evil as I prepare for events that I can’t predict. I know, that sounds backwards too, but when you’re with another person romantically, and now the future’s got definite possibilities, you really can’t know what will happen. It’s like some weird unpredictability factor in a game. Like in Minecraft, you’re playing multiplayer, and you’re concentrating hard because there are too many spiders, when suddenly some Internet bozo you don’t know humps along and wrecks everything you’ve carefully built, and then you’re homeless and the zombies kill you. That kind of brutal, no-prisoners vandalizing in Minecraft is called a “griefing.” In life, my family priest, Father Massima, would call it “fate.”

  Both Liana and I believe in fate. Liana grew up Catholic, like me, only hers was a big family in Colombia. Her father’s American and her mother’s Colombian. Dad was a Marine doing a thing down there, and that’s how they met. I’ve only met the moms once, when she visited from Atlanta, but the dad’s not talked about any more. I don’t think he’s dead. Liana shut up when I asked, and she did that evil eye move, reaching for one of the saint’s medals she wears on a little gold chain, and giving me the death stare. So I didn’t ask again, even though I’m curious. I think she’ll tell me eventually, but we’re not at the point where I can put it there and expect an answer.

  My idea of fate is different. Minecraft teaches us to die and die and die and eventually live. That’s fate. Every day is like that, that’s what I think, and one day, it will be better, but a man has to practice to get there. You have to practice for fate. Which is a little like what real Catholics believe, but not the ones who are evil geniuses.

  I grew up here, Sam Vinieri, the baby of the family, little Sammy V, who became just Sam except to his mother, she still calls me Sammy, even though I’m twenty-six. My mom and dad are both good people; he’s in tool and die and she’s a secretary, although Dad’s had trouble keeping work since ’09, bouncing around various jobs. My older brother and two older sisters went to College Park, and the smartest one in the family, like ever, my sister Julie, is going to be a pediatrician. Another older brother died in the Gulf—Bruce. I miss him.

  I’m more normal than you on the outside. Being an evil genius requires that I maintain all appearances, that my actions appear natural. So I apply to programs—that’s the magic word when I talk to my mom, “programs.” See, Mom, I’ve applied to a program in leadership and business through the Knights of Columbus. Hey, Mom, I’ve applied to a program to be an EMT. Look, Mom, I’ve applied to a great program in social work. I’m convincing. I actually have a BS in Psych from Frostburg State—my favorite course was Environmental Psych, taught by Berkey, he cracked me up—and I look so plain no one knows I’m a college boy. Sometimes I even apply to these programs. Liana likes me to have ambitions, and it’s fun to fill out forms together. When she’s not looking, I finish and close the app without paying the fee: I have stuff to do before the world makes me actually normal. Smart, right?

  Liana knows nothing about my being an evil genius, or my secret revenge plans, or that I ever think about Deedee. Of course, Liana had to meet Christmas, but that became part of the whole thing. Christmas, now that’s a screwy kid. She was cool with the plan from the beginning. If she doesn’t die soon, she could be an awesome evil genius herself.

  There’s more to being an evil genius than planning and punking people. It’s a way of looking at fate and reality and the rest, of showing people who they are. That’s how I think about it: I’m here to show you who you are. I’m here to help.

  For instance, I might be at work, and let’s say I’m not stoned, because I know the cops who patrol the neighborhood have been coming around more often, checking front and back, due to smash-and-grabs being on the rise. I can talk to them when I’m stoned, but I don’t always like to, since they’re cops. They’re kind of innocents, too—I don’t know how to explain that about cops, but they are. They believe in the badge and all.

  Get this: I’m in the MiniMart alone, I’m in my booth, behind my bulletproof glass, the blunts and the Powerball tickets safe too, and an old couple comes into the store. Let’s say it’s one, one thirty in the morning, and they’re decked in evening wear—they’re really old, like Tillie and Tino in that game, Hall of Reapers, the two Sages. I like those Sages; they’ve got cool whisper cloaks. So this old guy in my store, he’s in a tux and she’s got some fluffy fake fur on, even in this weather, and I can see the dark green of a poofy dress underneath. They’re kind of awesome. They could be fifty-five, but I bet she’s younger. Her earrings are long and yellow and sparkly, even in the pissy yellow MiniMart.

  I’m guessing they want bottles of water, now that they’ve put gas in the Lexus. I play the mirrors—if I were stoned, that would be even more fun, watching the customers in the round, weird mirrors, following them in one mirror and then tracking
them in another. Sure enough, they’re reaching for bottles of water in the back, heading up to the front to check out.

  Here’s the evil genius in me. When I saw them at the pumps, topping up the Lexus, I took a twenty from the register and came out from behind my counter and and laid that twenty-dollar bill on the floor in Aisle 3. Now they’re coming up Aisle 4, perfect. Watch and learn.

  “Um, ma’am, sir. If you look down there, we’ve got a two-for-one on Perrier.” I’m pointing from inside my bulletproof booth. I tap on the heavy plastic a couple of times to indicate where. The straightest path to the Perrier is down Aisle 3.

  They turn to look. “Yeah, down there,” I say. Tap, tap.

  What I want most is for him to go first, to be a little bothered he missed the two-for-one Perriers—he’s a dude who notices stuff like that, that’s how he got to be where he is in life—and for her to follow, and then for her to see the twenty. In my experience, he’d just pocket it: he’s an old guy in a tux. But she would have to hold up the bottom of her dress to squat or scootch down, use her left hand to keep the dress off the dirty floor of the MiniMart, and scoop up the $20 bill in her right, and that would take a decision and a little effort, she might feel she earned the free money.

  I want her to have to choose what to do, once she picks up the money. I’m not taking twenty bucks from the till and screwing up my count for just anyone.

  She’s the kind of woman who never sees how safe she is. She lives with cameras everywhere, she goes all sorts of places where she’s being watched, where there are security people scarfing Bugles in bulletproofed booths and back rooms and looking out for her, but she doesn’t know about any of that. She never thinks about it. The world is totally her world, it’s gated for her, and the twenty is hers, if that’s what she decides. She doesn’t have to look around once she picks up the bill to see if anyone’s watching or if she’s doing wrong, she’s that sure. What she wants is hers, that’s how she rolls—and really, she doesn’t even have to think it. Money says she’s right.