Merry Random Christmas

by Julia Kent

Curbing my impulse to shout at him, I walked into the kitchen, pulled out the food, and listened as Trevor talked to him.

  “Unplug the amp, dude, or the neighbors will be on us.”

  “Cool.” Tortilla unplugged, then strummed. I watched his fingers. He wasn’t great, but he knew how to play.

  Trevor gave me an apologetic look. “Hope you don’t mind. He said he plays and wanted to goof around.”

  I thought about the clerk back at the convenience store. “It’s okay.”

  “You guys in a band?” Tortilla asked, head down, watching his own fingers on the strings. The tinny sound of the silenced electric bass filled the room. Normally that was me making the sound.

  Darla walked into the room and planted a big kiss on my cheek. “Merry Christmas, honey,” she whispered, then looked down and squealed, “Donuts! Ooo, maple covered.” She grabbed the second box I’d bought on the clerk’s recommendation and opened it.

  Tortilla practically dropped the bass in his rush to get a donut.

  Four donuts later, Darla was pouring them both a big glass of milk and Trevor was frying bacon.

  I stayed silent, just taking this all in. My Christmas mornings at my childhood home were so different. Christmas morning was all about waking up, having a fabulous, luxurious, slow breakfast, making our way through fresh fruit, waffles, organic, free-range, antibiotic-free hormone-free sausages handcrafted from some Amish farm in Pennsylvania where Mom bought all her meat, and opening up my newest electronic request. I remember one year, in high school, pitching a fit because they gave me a white iPhone instead of a black one.

  Two days after Christmas we had gone to the mall to the Apple Store to trade it in for the right one.

  December 27.

  My stomach cringed with the memory.

  Here I was, watching Darla and a homeless dude Trevor had invited over eating convenience store donuts out of a box while a chicken ate the crumbs off the floor of our tiny city hovel.

  And I was happy.

  Tortilla found his grimy backpack and fished around in it, finally pulling out a small metal object. I went on high alert. Was that a knife? Were we about to be robbed? What the hell had we been thinking, inviting some street guy in here? Happiness washed off me, replaced by fear, and I edged toward Darla, who just sat at the table, completely unaware of what was about to unfold, drinking coffee and smiling to herself.

  Then Tortilla put the metal object up to his mouth.

  And played the opening notes of a Mumford & Sons song.

  “You play harmonica!” Darla said, her smile widening.

  I am an ass.

  Tortilla took the piece away from his lips and gave an aw, shucks grin. “I busk sometimes. People throw down a little money. It keeps me and Popsicle in food.”

  And booze, I thought. The guy looked like he was already drunk. Bet our beer was long gone.

  He resumed playing, and I had to give it to him. He was good. Amateur good. Nothing that would ever get him a record deal, but for a street guy who slept in back alleys and was probably mentally ill, he did all right.

  My skin still tingled with a heightened sense of danger, but it morphed into that feeling that comes from being on alert because of newness, not peril. Today was a day filled with firsts, from waking up on Christmas morning somewhere other than my childhood home to eating a cheap convenience store breakfast to, well—

  Tortilla and Popsicle.

  Trevor started scrambling eggs in a second frying pan while the bacon finished its sizzling, the scent maddening. My stomach growled and Darla held up the open box of donuts. There were three left out of the dozen.

  “Want one?”

  I laughed. “No, but you’re about to go into a sugar coma.”

  She grinned. “The eggs and bacon will balance it all out.”

  I kissed her forehead and whispered, “What’s Trevor thinking? Does he still want to bring this guy to my parents’ house and ask them to watch the chicken?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s crazy.”

  “I know. But Paul’s a decent guy.”

  “Paul?”

  “Tortilla’s real name.”

  “Ah.”

  “Breakfast’s ready!” Trevor announced, pulling a stack of paper plates out of a drawer. No one wanted to do dishes during the holidays, so I couldn’t blame him.

  We three men all settled down around the table while Darla made another pot of coffee, then joined us. Chewing in silence, we scarfed down our Christmas breakfast in a half-pleasant, half-awkward manner that involved careful avoidance of eye contact.

  Tortilla kept sneaking pieces of egg down under the table for Popsicle to eat. Finally, I blurted out, “Isn’t that cannibalism?”

  All the forks dropped. Tortilla looked like I’d slapped him. His blue eyes widened and his brow turned down. Clean shaven now, the lack of hair on his face highlighted how long he’d had a beard, for the newly-shaved skin was whale-belly white except where it was reddened by acne. His hair was clean but hung in long tendrils, curling with a shine that would have been beautiful if it weren’t so heartbreaking.

  “Cannibal what?” Darla choked out.

  “You’re feeding a chicken pieces of cooked chicken egg,” I said quietly.

  The look on Tortilla’s face was pure horror. Tears filled his eyes.

  I felt like a piece of shit, instantly.

  “Never thought about that,” he said sadly.

  “You’re so full of joy, Joe. You should be Santa’s helper at the mall. You know, kick puppies, take candy canes away from babies. Spread the love,” Trevor said.

  “No.” Tortilla came to my defense. “He’s making a good point.”

  “Popsicle don’t care,” Darla added. The chicken looked up and turned its head, giving her a one-eyed blank look.

  “Popsicle is filthy,”Tortilla said, frowning. He grabbed her, then stood. “Mind if I give her a bath in that nice sink in the bathroom? You even have hot water here,” he marveled. “It’ll be nice not to have to lick her clean for once.”

  “No problem,” I said in a rush, eager to stop being the asshole, but also fighting my gag reflex. Ugh. “There’s some nice lavender shower gel that Darla uses. Make Popsicle nice and calm.”

  Tortilla’s smile was crooked, and he was missing two bottom teeth. “Thanks!” He scurried off. The rush of water began in the distance.

  Trevor kicked my ankle just as his phone buzzed in his pocket. I glared at him as he answered it.

  “Hello?” Trev’s face went immediately to confusion, then he handed me his phone.

  “It’s your mom.”

  “My mom?”

  He shrugged and handed me the phone.

  “Joey! Merry Christmas! We miss you here at home, but we understand. Nothing could be better than whatever you’re experiencing with your beloveds.” The s at the end felt like being tased.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “I had to call you on Trevor’s phone after your little stunt last night.”

  “You’re not spying on his phone too, are you?”

  She completely, blatantly ignored that jab.

  “We expect you at eleven! Come for brunch! And bring Darla and Trevor, of course.”

  “I was already planning to do that, Mom.”

  “I already have a present for her.”

  My breakfast turned into a lead balloon in my stomach. “What?”

  “We called and got all the charges dropped against her.”

  “How?”

  “We know people. A lot of people. And, it turns out, you helped, too.”

  “Me? How did I help?”

  “Remember how your naked rear end is all over social media right now?”

  How could I forget?

  “Uhhhh....”

  “Edie Chadron was at that party. Your grandma’s partner who helped form the Vagina Power Collective.”

  “That’s quite a name. Was she the mummy who pinched my sac?”

 
Silence.

  Then a retching sound.

  Dad came on the phone.

  “What the hell did you just say to your mother?” he bellowed. Until that moment, I never realized how much dad sounded like John Ratzenberger.

  “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

  “Jesus, Joe.”

  “Yeah. Happy Birthday to him and all that.”

  “No, I mean—Joanne’s gagging and gasping something about your grandma’s best friend touching your penis and how she needs some Rescue Remedy and her lavender eye pillow. She wants me to find out if her homeopath has emergency office hours on Christmas Day.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Not funny, Joe. Joanne was up half the night making phone calls for Darla. She used Edie’s presence at that party as blackmail against her. Edie’s grandson is an assistant DA. Took nine calls between the two of us, but Darla’s free. No record, no hearings, no nothing.”

  “What?” I sagged against the fridge, relief making my muscles loose.

  Darla gave me a frown.

  You okay? she mouthed. I waved her away.

  “So be kind to your mom, Joe.”

  “I just asked if Edie Chadron was the old woman who pinched my sac when I was stripping last night.”

  Silence.

  “Stripping?” he blustered.

  I guess Mom didn’t tell him the full story about The Full Monty.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “It always is with you, son.”

  “Will Gene be there today, when we come over?”

  Very awkward silence.

  “He might. Why?” Suspicion filled Dad’s voice. I didn’t blame him.

  “I think he should be there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s part of the family.”

  Really awkward silence.

  “I’ll let him and your mother know you feel that way.”

  “I’ve always felt that way, Dad.”

  “See you all at ten.”

  “Mom said eleven—”

  Click.

  “What was that about?” Darla asked. The running water in the sink stopped, the sound of a chicken squawking replacing it.

  “My mom blackmailed an assistant district attorney to drop the charges against you.”

  Darla’s eyeballs fell out of her head and rolled under the refrigerator.

  “SHE WHAT?”

  “You’re free and clear.”

  “OH, NO, SHE DI’INT!”

  Outrage was not a reaction I expected. Relief. Gratitude. Joy. Surprise—sure.

  Not this.

  “Why are you...upset?”

  “Because now I owe her! Big time! And you do not want to be on the owing side of a relationship with Joanne Ross. She owns me, now!”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Oh, please.” Darla said dismissively. “Look at you. She has you by the balls.”

  “Had. She had me. I’m free now.” My hand went to my pants pocket, where the wad of cash from last night rested. Our tour started up again right after the holidays. Frown, our substitute bass player, had done a great job filling in for me on the two concerts we’d done this fall as I recovered from falling out of our bedroom window during sex.

  But now it was my turn to play.

  And make enough money to be truly independent.

  Darla

  “Well, you may be free like a bird and all that shit now, Joe, but I’m the one in a cage. I don’t wanna owe your mama anything. Not one thing. How much did she spend to get me out? I’ll pay her back,” I said, fuming.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she spent much. More that she made phone calls. Pulled strings. Called in favors,” he answered.

  That was worse.

  Way worse.

  “I don’t understand why you’re so upset, Darla,” Joe said, clearly perplexed.

  “Because—because—because now I owe her and she went out of her way to help me but I’m not good enough to be counted as part of your family for a holiday,” I said, the words coming out with a groan at the end, as if I knew I shouldn’t say them in the first place.

  And from the resulting look on Joe’s face, I was right.

  I shouldn’t have.

  “You’re really fixated on this ski trip thing.”

  “I’m really fixated on this whole being treated like your permanent soul mate thing.”

  He looked like I slapped him.

  “Those words really shouldn’t have come out, but there you go,” I said, a rising flush making my heart hammer against my ribs, my arms flailing wildly. “Can’t stuff ’em back in. That would be like trying to put semen back inside a spent penis. You could try, maybe, but it would take a lot of equipment, tons of pain, lack of cooperation and it would congeal and never really be the same again.”

  Tortilla and Trevor stared at me, too.

  I seriously got to work on my metaphors, don’t I?

  “Anyhow,” I said, waving them away, “nobody likes to be excluded. Nobody. Not me, not you, not Trevor.”

  “Not Mavis,” he muttered under his breath.

  Me and Joe shot Trevor a pretty familiar WTF? look.

  “Sorry.”

  “And we’ve all been together for two and a half years. Your mom told you the truth about her and Gene and your dad. You’d think she’d consider me part of your family by now.” I finished that statement with a combination of defeat and triumph in my voice.

  “Darla,” Joe said slowly. “It took her more than ten years to admit to what’s going on with Gene, and he’s not even invited to the family ski trip.”

  “Ten years? I have to spend eight more years being excluded? Damn. What’s she gonna do when we have a kid—let it go on the trip, and not me?”

  Trevor made a low sound in the back of his throat. Joe gaped at me.

  Tortilla stuffed the final piece of bacon on my plate into his mouth. Popsicle walked a drunken line through the living room, weaving around an ottoman.

  A kid. I just said that, huh? More semen you couldn’t shove back in a penis even if you wanted to.

  Joe blinked. Over and over, his hand coming up from his waist, fingers touching his chest. I dimly realized he was touching his scar, the one from his infant heart surgery.

  “I know you love me,” I said, the words coming between two long sighs. “I just wish I could get your mom to accept me.”

  “What about Herb?” Trevor’s question surprised me.

  “What about him?” Joe asked.

  I was grateful for the interruption, for the interlude to not be put on the spot, like being blinded by a police searchlight. That’s what Joe’s eyes felt like.

  “He has a say. He hasn’t been some passenger in your mom’s car of life.”

  I was totally rubbing off on Trevor’s speech patterns.

  “My mom has his balls on a chain,” Joe argued.

  “Then that’s his choice.” Trevor’s eyebrows shot up, the comment meant to stand. What argument could Joe mount against that?

  “You’re asking what my dad thinks of Darla? Or whether he’s the one who doesn’t want to include you guys?”

  Trevor’s hand went to his neck in a mock gesture of offense. “You mean I’m not invited, either?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “What about me?” Tortilla asked, grabbing Trevor’s fork and shoveling the last of his eggs into his mouth. “Am I invited on this ski trip?”

  “It’s not like that,” Joe snapped.

  “Cool. Can I crash here while you’re on vacation?” He looked around the apartment like it was the Waldorf. For him, it probably was.

  “Shut up,” Joe snapped.

  Tortilla took that in stride, walking down the hall to the bathroom. I heard the door shut, then the telltale tinkling sound of a man peeing.

  Joe looked at the clock. “We need to stop fighting and—”

  “We’re fighting? I thought we were just discussing,” I said, perplexed.


  He sighed. “How about we do one thing that normal people do on Christmas morning and open presents by the tree?”

  Our Christmas tree was a little rosemary plant with red foil around the base of the pot. I had taken a few pairs of dangly earrings and hung them like miniature ornaments.

  Three presents surrounded the plant.

  “Shit,” I hissed. “What about Tortilla? We don’t have a present for him.”

  Trevor held up on finger and sprinted into the bedroom. A minute later, he came back with a gift bag, tissue paper poking out, a festive red bag with green, glittery accents.

  “Random Acts of Crazy ski hat.”

  “We have ski hats for swag?” Joe asked, surprised.

  “It was a promotional freebie some company sent us. I threw in a ten dollar Starbucks card.”

  “Perfect,” I said, settling it right in there among the other presents. We wanted Tortilla to feel welcome.

  “What about Popsicle?” Trevor asked.

  “Huh?” me and Joe asked in unison.

  “Popsicle should have a present, too,” Trevor insisted.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Joe said. “It’s a chicken.”

  “Paul treats her like she’s a person. His person. So we should respect that,” Trevor replied.

  “See? Trevor gets it. We’re making Popsicle a part of our little family. You include the significant others in celebrations,” I said archly to Joe, my point abundantly clear.

  “You’re comparing yourself to a chicken,” he replied.

  I shot Trevor a dark look. “Wouldn’t be the first time I competed with one,” I called back as I went into the bedroom. A minute later, I came out with a tiny little hand-knit thing from a box of crap my mama won in sweepstakes and sent to me. I handed it to Trev.

  “What is it?” He turned the item around and around, trying to figure it out. “And what’s the logo say?”

  “Myers Farms.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a chicken sweater.”

  Trevor went back into the bedroom without a word.

  Joe turned to me. “Your mom enters sweepstakes to win chicken sweaters?”

  “No, silly. She entered to win a lifetime supply of eggs.”

  “That’s so much better.”

  Trevor came back with another gift bag just as Tortilla returned.

  “Gift time!” Trevor said. We gathered around the Christmas tree, Tortilla’s eyes full of glee.