“Someone’s having a midli—”
“Squeeze in,” Brad shouts, grinning widely. Oh, okay. You’re glad you didn’t finish that sentence.
You have to basically sit on Blitzer’s lap because there are only two seats. This is seeming less cool by the second.
Brad speeds away, sailing through a few stop signs before making a quick left-hand turn. He stops in front of a church. It has a nativity scene on the lawn.
“I’ve got an idea,” Brad says, looking at the two of you with a wicked grin. “Let’s get the baby Jesus.”
What are you, twelve?
“Oh, dude, that would be EPIC,” Blitzer says from beneath you.
Seriously?
You clamber out of the Porsche. Whatever, Brad can vandalize all the churches he wants; you’ll just watch. If you play along for the night, you’ll be in. And Brad does seem to get invited to some really killer parties…
“So?” Brad’s walked around the side of the car and is looking at you expectantly.
“What, you want me to…?”
“I mean, unless you’re chicken.”
“Oooooooh,” Blitzer says, eyebrows raised.
Do they really expect you to do this?
* * *
If you want to fake an injury to get out of it, go HERE.
If you want to steal church property, go HERE.
“Mistletoe!” you yell cheerily, running over to where Sad Sack’s standing.
Everyone turns to look as you pucker your lips and close your eyes, swooping in—in what you hope is a very Brad-like motion—for a kiss.
Sad Sack jerks her head back at the last second. Oh god, you’ve overshot the landing. You lose your balance and tumble to the floor.
“You already had your chance,” she says, stepping over your body.
“Ohhhhh…BURN!” yells Brad.
Everyone erupts into laughter.
“Swing and a miss,” you say with a self-deprecating smile. You pop up from the floor quickly, even though you think the fall might have ruptured your spleen.
You grab some ice from the punch bowl and try to inconspicuously press it against the small of your back. Once you feel confident you can make it down the stairs without exacerbating your maybe-injury you leave, annoyed, embarrassed, and sore.
You check your phone back at your apartment.
Thirty new Facebook mentions?
You click the first notification.
Someone’s posted a video of you going in for the kiss and falling. The second and third notifications show the same scene shot from different angles.
No need to read all twenty-seven…no wait, fifty-six…eighty-three? Jesus, why are so many people commenting on this thing?
The newest one is from…oh, man, Brad. You should have known Brad wasn’t really on your team.
There’s a new one from…your third-grade teacher? When did you even become friends on Facebook? And why would she say you were “always socially awkward”? That’s not true, is it?
Oh come on, your mom is piling on? You should have never let her and Dad go on a Christmas cruise; they’re clearly mean drunks.
The End.
Be honest with yourself: that group of anemic-looking dudes by the snack table is more your speed.
You almost run over; even if you have no conversational in, you can grab a few mini-quiches. Everyone loves a mini-quiche.
“Sorry you feel that way, but my alignment’s chaotic evil. I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to…because I’d never want to,” a slightly overweight, schlubby guy with long, curly hair says. Someone nearby snorts.
“That’s bullshit; you were just pissed I got more XP from the orc battle,” the weedy guy with the vampire coloring and glasses pouts.
“Whatever.”
Dungeons and Elves nerds! You have more than an in here—you have your entire adolescence to discuss. That will get you through to…at least 10 P.M., right?
“Did your character die?” you say to Vampire. He looks over, startled at being addressed by someone outside his circle.
“Yeah. This asshole killed me.” He points at Schlubby, who’s grinning smugly.
“That sucks. I once leveled a paladin up past fifty then got decapitated ’cause my DM was pissed I made out with his sister.”
Vampire nods understandingly. “Whatever, I need to roll a new character tonight anyway. We were gonna play the special Christmas edition module over there,” he nods to a corner, “but we need a fourth player. Victor won’t DM for a party of two.” The guy who hasn’t spoken yet, a short guy with hair so pale he looks eyelashless, nods in agreement. Presumably that’s Victor. “You in?”
You want to be so badly; nights in Jim Ikola’s basement, battling trolls and demon armies while you got drunk off cordials from his parents’ liquor cabinet, are some of your happiest memories.
But you left that part of you behind in college. No one there knew you as a D&E nerd, and you were more than happy to step away from “social reject” into the role of cool, hiply nerdy guy.
* * *
Fuck it, you’re nerding out with these guys. Go HERE.
No, the risk is too high; people here could know Lindsi, after all. Tell them no HERE.
“Actually, I don’t really know much about Kwanzaa. I was just trying to be culturally sensitive to all…religions?”
“You mean you were profiling, right?” John shakes his head. “Since we’re being honest.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see someone approaching. Oh no, it’s Brad, the coolest guy at your old office! You should have known he’d be at this party. Everyone loved Brad.
“Hey bros, what’s the word?” he asks.
“This guy,” John says, sticking his finger directly in your chest, “just wished me a happy Kwanzaa.”
“Oof. You Kwanzaaed John?” Brad laughs, hitting John on the back chummily. Of course they’re friends. Classic Brad.
“I might have. A little.” You swallow hard. “But it was an accidental Kwanzaa-ing,” you add. If Brad’s using the word as a verb, you can too, right?
“Dude, you just admitted you didn’t even know what it was. Maybe try understanding the tradition before you start throwing it around.”
“You really don’t know anything about Kwanzaa?” Brad looks legitimately surprised. Oh, come on.
“Well, no. Seriously though, who really knows about Kwanzaa?”
“Kwanzaa, the holiday, first celebrated in 1966, that grew out of the black power movement?” Brad smirks slightly.
John nods solemnly. Seriously? There’s no way everyone would know about Kwanzaa if it were that recent.
“Kwanzaa, which in Swahili—a language chosen for the holiday as a cultural unifier”—Brad leans in like you’re pals—“translates as ‘first fruits of the harvest’?”
“Mmmhmm,” John agrees.
As if Brad even knows where Swahili is. You’d point that out, but you’re not actually sure where it is, either.
Brad keeps going, listing “fact” after “fact” about Kwanzaa. You’re starting to think he and John are playing an elaborate joke on you, but there’s no single point you’re certain enough of to bet on. You already Kwanzaaed the guy once. If you’re wrong now, that’s it.
“Anyway, you should read up on it.” Brad smiles broadly. “It’s really an interesting celebration.” He turns to John, leading him away. “You can’t blame people for not checking their privilege,” you hear him say as they walk off.
Fucking Kwanzaa…
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
“Of course I know what Kwanzaa is,” you sputter.
That’s not entirely untrue, though explaining it to someone who really knows might be a bit beyond your capacity. But John’s looking at you expectantly, so you go on.
“Some people think of it as a sort of African American Christmas,” you start.
“Christmas is black Christmas,” John says, annoyed.
“Of course, I don’t dispute that. That’s just how ignorant people think of it.” Nice backtracking. “Which is what I was going to say before you cut me off.”
“Sorry.”
Focus now. Try to remember those five minutes of that one day in elementary school.
“Kwanzaa, as I’m sure you know, stems from…the rich…bake sale tradition…in Creole culture.” Oof, that can’t possibly be right.
John frowns slightly, but doesn’t correct you. Might as well keep going, the damage is already done now.
“It’s a common misconception that the holiday arose as a reaction to the brutal campaigns Andrew Jackson led throughout the South in the War of 1812.”
The War of 1812? You possibly know even less about that than about Kwanzaa.
“Right, right,” John says, rolling his hand in a “go on” gesture. You try to conceal your shock. Somehow you’ve been right up to this point. Can you possibly come up with more?
“But in fact, some of the earliest traditions aren’t Creole at all, as they’re so often portrayed. They’re not even Native American. The, um, milking of the goats ceremony…” Is that even remotely close to a thing?
“My grandma was always so into the milking of the goats.” John shakes his head ruefully.
Phew.
“Anyway, the genesis of the milking ritual goes back to ancient Rhodesia,” you say.
“Known today as Kenya, of course.”
“Of course,” you agree, feeling more confident now. “It could only happen at the end of harvest, as I’m sure you recall, largely due to time constraints…”
• • •
PERSPECTIVE SWITCH: YOU ARE JOHN
The milking of the goats ceremony? That sounds vaguely familiar, but you are 99 percent certain this guy just pulled it out of his ass. But what can you say? It’s not like you can counter with some real part of Kwanzaa.
You seriously need to Wikipedia Kwanzaa the second you get home.
Then at least the next time this happens, you’ll be able to call out ignorant assholes when they’re so clearly bullshitting. For now, though, you basically have no choice but to play along with this idiot. After all, it would be just your luck to call out the one thing he’s actually getting right.
You should mention yams, follow it up with something vague about Pan-Africanism, then get the hell away from this conversation.
Fucking Kwanzaa…
The End.
“Anything I can help with?” you ask Lauren.
Hopefully she’ll know you’re just trying to be polite.
She hands you a multipage list.
“Sulfite-free? Does eggnog even contain—”
“You’ll find that in the next town over. I’ve listed the address of the creamery,” she says. “It’s the only eggnog the boys can drink.”
You look at the list, repressing a sigh. You can’t even pronounce half the words on it.
“Just curious—what’s this?”
“Oh, Gregory loves his spicy Austrian cheese spread.”
“Is there another option I can pick up somewhere nearby, or—”
“I’ll just do it myself,” she says, snapping her fingers for the list.
“No, no, no. I’d be more than happy to go to the Austrian specialty shop in”—you look down—“Bakersfield.” That’s fully four suburbs away.
If you stick around any longer, there’s no limit to what Lauren might ask you to do.
You grab the gift you’re donating to Toys for Tots and rush out the door.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You sneak out the back door before Lauren can force you into indentured servitude.
You walk around your hometown.
It takes all of fifteen minutes before you’re bored. Plus, it’s starting to get cold.
There’s only one option that will eat up time and keep you warm: the bar.
Before you go, you stop at the Toys for Tots bin. Donating to charity means you’ve earned a few Christmas drinks, right?
You walk in and order a beer.
You feel calm for the first time since you’ve arrived.
But you also feel like a shit for not helping out around the house…
* * *
If you want to head home out of guilt, go HERE.
If you want to stick around for a few more drinks, go HERE.
You look at the Christmas tree. It’s so soulless, every ornament like a page out of a Crate & Barrel catalog. Whatever happened to homemade ornaments and pounds of tinsel?
You squat down and start reading a few of the tags.
Weird. Apparently this one is from you to Harrison. The box is way too small to hold all seven Harry Potter books in their decorative cardboard case.
You pull a strip of tape back and peek under the wrapping paper. What the fuck? A junior geologist’s kit?
You quietly hunt around the house in search of the book set, checking all the cupboards and crawl spaces.
Finally, tucked behind a stack of books about the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the laundry room, you find the Harry Potter set.
You wrap it and replace the geologist’s kit under the tree.
• • •
“Harrison, it’s your turn,” Lauren says. You’re all gathered around the tree, waiting patiently while each present is opened. Otto looks like he’s about to self-asphyxiate, but he says nothing. Clearly Lauren has the boys trained.
Harrison homes in on your gift, ripping the paper off hungrily.
“HARRY POTTER! YES, YES, YES, YES!”
He jumps around the living room, holding the books over his head.
“THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!”
Lauren gives you the stink-eye and pulls you out into the hallway.
“What were you thinking?” she hisses. “Those books haven’t had any of the inappropriate material redacted.”
Seriously?
Harrison sets the books down in front of the fireplace and runs over to give you a big hug. Lauren takes the opportunity to slip across the room.
“Oh no. Look what you’ve done, silly,” Lauren says, kicking the books into the fire. “You’ve accidentally burned them.”
Harrison turns around, obviously confused.
“I didn’t…what?” He stares, horrified, then bursts into tears and starts rolling around the carpet.
“NOOOOOOO!”
Your sister is staring daggers at you. She mouths, Don’t. Say. Anything.
You keep your mouth shut as the books go up in flames.
The End.
You tiptoe into your nephews’ shared room, half expecting them to still be up playing.
They’re dead asleep.
“Psst.” You give Harrison a gentle pat on the back. “Harrison. Wake up.”
“Is it Christmas already?” he mumbles
“Even better. We’re going on a Christmas Eve adventure.”
“But it’s bedtime.”
“Bedtime can wait. Right now I need you and your brother to get into your winter clothes, okay? Then meet me downstairs.” You put a finger to your lips. “But shhhh. Your mom and dad are sleeping.”
Harrison looks confused.
“But we have to tell them if we wake up in the night.”
“That’s okay. I’m giving you a free pass. I can do that as your uncle.” Maybe that will plant a tiny seed of rebellion. God knows he needs one.
The boys sneak downstairs, massive grins on their faces. You double-check to make sure they’re properly equipped to go outside.
Hats. Check. Gloves. Check. And…a triple layer of snowpants? Okay, better than none.
“Where’re the sleds?”
Harrison points to the shed outside.
You throw on a coat and head out to the shed. The drinks are keeping you pretty warm. Inside, you grab a bright orange sled with four helmets attached to it.
“What’s the best hill around here?”
Harrison points to a mound in front of the house that’s maybe ten feet long.
“Mom says this hill is safest.”
“That’s not a hill.”
You point to the real hill behind their house.
The boys are obviously impressed. “Can we really?”
“Of course. You’re with your cool uncle.”
You take a couple of runs down the hill, everyone laughing, then Harrison tumbles off his sled at the bottom and somehow manages to cut his lip.
“I’m bleeding!” he screams.
You examine the cut. It’s pretty minor. But he’s near tears; clearly any sort of injury is rare in this household.
* * *
If you want to tell Harrison that it’s no big thing, go HERE.
If you want to fix his cut yourself, go HERE.
If you want to tell your sister, go HERE.
You stab your fork into the chia seed soufflé.
No matter how much you eat, you don’t seem to make a dent.
“Oh, I knew Jim French,” you say. Hmm, that came off a bit sexual. “Gregory, let me refill your wine.”
Lauren shoots you a death stare. Clearly the party isn’t the best way to annoy her; getting Gregory to have fun is.
By the time you finish eating, you’ve polished off a couple of bottles together.
“Gregory, any interest in playing a little pickup hockey after dessert? There’s a rink down the block, right?”
“We have to get ready for bed, Gregory,” Lauren says sharply.
“Gregory is a grown man. Let him speak for himself.”
“Well…” He seems to consider.
“Gregory, you’ll be out well past nine.” Lauren taps her watch meaningfully.
“I think a little exercise will do me good,” Gregory says, grinning. “It’s just a shame that rink isn’t to international standards.”
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