Ally’s second entrance is much better received. Lois had washed and blow dried Ally’s hair, restoring to its usual brilliant deep red sheen, and Ally is indeed dressed in a festive and clean sweater, ready to pass out hugs and holiday cheer. She feels like a doofus in the homemade reindeer sweater. Embarrassing. But, she looks much cleaner than she has in a month, which is a relief to her mother. Ally steps up to Jason and gives him an extra-tight hug. “Merry Christmas, Jason,” she says.
“Merry Christmas, Ally. I miss you!” Jason hasn’t been feeling well and he’s missed Ally’s company over the past few weeks. “Sorry about the wrestling match. That would have been an awesome present!” He makes an exaggerated sad face at her and then smiles. She had bought the two of them tickets for the Christmas Skullcracker, featuring Stryker Nash, which was to be held that evening. With the AWG no more, the match was cancelled. Ally had been trying not to think about it, and when Jason mentioned it, it brought tears to her eyes, liquefying her eyeliner. “Hey, don’t cry,” Jason says, throwing an arm around Ally’s rounded shoulders. “It’s okay.” He pats her back.
“No,” Ally says, “it’s not okay.”
She staggers along the expanded goat path which runs through the dining room—clogged with people in addition to a reduced amount of miscellaneous junk—into the kitchen where Lois talks with a neighbor. The neighbor is trying to sell her custom cabinetry, says she’ll be able to store all the junk that surrounds them, no problem. “Out of sight, out of mind,” he says. Obviously, he’s never been inside the mind of a compulsive hoarder.
When things are out of Lois’s sight, she panics. Just cleaning up for the party had caused her to cry and hyperventilate as Earl wedged things in every available inch of garage and attic space. She may not be able to see everything in seven-foot-high piles lining the walls of her home, but she keeps a mental catalog of every single item in each pile. Once in a while, though, she’ll see something at a store and, forgetting that she already had one, she’ll buy a duplicate. That explains how the Formans had come to own sixteen cheese graters. Lois didn’t set out to collect things, really. Collections just happened. And she knows just where all of her collections belong. (Hint: not in the garbage, Earl.)
Ally stumbles into the kitchen and throws herself into Lois’s arms, bawling. Jason follows close behind, looking confused.
“Jason,” Lois says, “what’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“I…I…I just said it’s okay we can’t go to wrestling tonight,” Jason says, frowning. “Did I do something wrong? Can I help her?” Lois loves Jason. He is such a sweet boy, always wanting to comfort and help others. In another life, she is sure he’d make an outstanding doctor. Or maybe a priest. She is once again thankful that he is Ally’s best friend, her boyfriend.
“No, Jason, she’s okay,” Lois says, patting his shoulder. He looks pale. She makes a mental note to ask Trish if he’s been feeling better. He’d been sick for the past two weeks. “She’s still a little sad about Stryker, that’s all.”
“Oh,” Jason says. “I’m sad about him, too. Hey, Ally, will you come downstairs and watch Twilight with me?” He knows that Twilight is Ally’s favorite movie, and if anything can get her mind off Stryker Nash, it’s sparkly vampires. Ally tears her face away from Lois’s shoulder and looks at Jason. She reaches for his hand. He grasps it in his own and leads her downstairs, smiling and telling her how pretty she looks. Lois smiles after them.
“Hey, Merry Christmas, sis,” Lois’s brother, Keith, steps into the kitchen and grabs her in a bear hug. He smells like cheap whiskey and cigarettes. It is good to see him anyway. He pulls back and puts two envelopes in her hand, one says “Lois,” the other says “Ally,” in a barely legible scrawl.
“Hey, yourself! I’m glad you came. How have you been?” Lois looks at the envelopes. “What’s this now?” As if she doesn’t know.
“Oh, I been better, but it’s Christmas—you don’t wanna hear all that. It’s a night for partying and good feelings, not misery.” He grins at her. He looks older than his years, older than his older sister. “That’s your Christmas present, of course, same as always.” He ruffles her hair and turns to head for the back deck, where most of the adults are gathered (away from Lois’s indoor junkyard), in search of a drink.
Every year, Keith gives everyone in the family a lottery ticket for Christmas. Not a scratch off, but one that he has to pick a special number for, the big lottery, the mega one. He uses each family member’s birthday, address, and part of their phone number in different combinations, derived from some cockamamie formula known only to himself. He’d been a statistics professor at Pitt before he got bored, moved to Maryland, and went into car repair. “Got bored” meaning his own self-medicating hadn’t allowed him to continue in academia, at least not without some heavy-duty counseling anyway. Playing the lottery had become a passion of Keith’s, the only one that hasn’t gotten him into trouble. Yet. Nobody in the family ever wins much, but every other year or so, someone would get fifty bucks or something.
It isn’t an extravagant gift, but it is kind of fun.
Not that I condone gambling or anything.
7. Autophobia / awˈ-tō-fōˈ-bē-ə / fear of being alone or of oneself
Just to review, Christmas is a season of hope, right?
Well, it’s not for those who owe great wads of cash to the banks of America.
After being out of work for several weeks, with extended periods of idle time at his disposal, Stryker sets about finding alternate employment. Not for himself, but for the stacks of bills and dunning notices that choke his mailbox. First, he folds each envelope in half and uses it as a coaster. Ta-da. Simple, really, and the mats keep the four-thousand dollar coffee table free of unsightly Bud Select can rings.
Other uses? The corners of said envelopes make outstanding toothpicks or fingernail cleaners. They are wonderful for protecting your hands in the massacre of household spiders and insects. Have a cold and hawk up a clot of greenish-yellowish boogery stuff? Spit it on a collection agency envelope and fold it in half. Excellent biohazard receptacle. Wobbly bar stool or table? Fold one in quarters and put it under the short leg. Stuff a pillowcase full and take a nap. Make confetti for birthday parties. Line your birdcage, of course, or spread beneath your car before changing the oil. Feeling a little chilly? Heave a stack into the fireplace and light a match. Those unwanted communications have a veritable plethora of uses. Twice as many if one actually opens the envelopes and extracts the contents.
The phone calls, though, Stryker can’t think of a damn thing to do with those, so he stops answering the phone. That becomes a non-issue, though, once the phone service is shut off for non-payment. Cable is the next to go. No more Gene Simmons Family Jewels or a dozen episodes of Family Guy every night.
The heating system in his drafty Tudor mansion begins to malfunction, but as he does not have the cash to have it serviced, he goes out and buys a couple of those portable heaters. You know, the ones filled with oil. He prays that he won’t become one of those people he occasionally reads about in the paper who have their houses burned to the ground by these unreliable appliances.
He has no savings account. He lives in a luxury home, drives luxury cars, and owns a luxury boat, which he has to pay to dock at a luxury yacht club on the river. Like many celebrities, he embodies the stereotypical material-rich-but-cash-poor Rock Star Lifestyle.
Finding alternate employment for himself is a more formidable challenge than making stuff out of the bills he can’t pay. The possibilities of car repossession and mortgage foreclosure loom larger with each failed job interview. Every wrestling organization in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and West Virginia has already turned him down, saying he is too big—meaning, too expensive—for such small-time regional outfits. After it becomes clear that no one will put him back in the ring, he applies for manager jobs, promoter positions, anything wrestling related. One organization offers him a position as a concessions attendant, b
ut as they will not allow him to drink the beer as he dispenses it, he decides to pass on that minimum-wage opportunity.
This will not be a Merry Christmas at all.
He is invited to a party, though. That extremely thoughtful Gemini, friend to all, calls to invite Stryker to his annual bash. “Hope you can make it. I know you won’t be working that night.” Rubbing it in about the cancelled Christmas Skullcracker.
Bastard.
But, Stryker will go to Gemini’s party, just like he always did. He has nothing better to do. He has no family of his own, his parents are dead, he has no siblings. All he’s ever had is wrestling.
He climbs into the Navigator and drains his last can of Bud Select. He launches the empty vessel over his shoulder, wishing he had another. He can’t face Gemini sober. He drives to the other end of Squirrel Hill, looking for an open beer distributor or liquor store. Squirrel Hill, where Stryker’s stately home stands, is home to a large Jewish community, so he doesn’t anticipate any trouble finding an open establishment. And, he is right. The Liquor Stop, right next to Louie’s Lox, is packed with holiday drunks—excuse me, “merrymakers”—who apparently celebrate Jesus’ birthday by getting completely loaded.
Nice.
You people, I swear…
Stryker grabs a fifth of Belvedere vodka and steps up to the counter.
“Hey, Merry Christmas,” he says to the Middle Eastern cashier.
“Merry Christmas,” the cashier says, ringing up his booze. “Would you like perhaps to be buying a lottery ticket? Jackpot is huge, over three-hundred million. Everyone is buying tonight.” He smiles at Stryker, revealing a mouthful of gold-capped teeth, bringing to mind a James Bond character. Stryker hates James Bond.
“Three hundred mil, huh?” Stryker looks at the hundred dollar bill in his wallet, the last of a dying breed. Normally, he thinks playing the lottery is a total waste, but since it is Christmas, Season of Hope, he buys two tickets.
He drinks half the vodka on the drive to Gemini’s house in Upper St. Clair.
“Hey, look who’s here,” Gemini says, pulling him through the open door by the sagging shoulder. “You’re looking a little flabby there, buddy,” he says, giving him a playful punch in the paunch. “How ya doing? Come on in, join the party. Everyone, Stryker’s here!”
Gemini disappears into the crowd of hundreds squeezed into his sparsely furnished McMansion. The crowd pulses and buzzes. Stryker watches his old friends and co-workers mingle with their new WWC brethren. He hadn’t really thought about the WWC contingent being at the party. He feels alone. He is alone. Unemployed. Friendless. And angry.
Nyxxa leans against a lighted trophy case, talking to some new WWC diva. He catches Stryker’s eye and waves him over, but Stryker looks away. Nyxxa got picked up by the WWC. Nyxxa, the rookie. Nyxxa, the horrible actor. Unbelievable. The General presides over the bar, talking to some young WWC faces about the “olden days.” That fucking old traitor. Stryker was once like those young guys, hanging on the General’s every word, ready for an exciting career, fame, fortune, women, self-actualization.
He’d gotten it, too. And now, it’s all gone.
And the General was in on the whole goddamned thing. Call it a burn.
What is Stryker even doing here, surrounded by these scumbags?
Stryker swills vodka and shoots menacing glances at Drake Murray, the WWC’s arrogant CEO. The man who said Stryker “lacked personality” and refused to take him on after he bought out the AWG. Jerk. Stryker throws back another shot and fights the urge to walk right over and kick Mr. Drake’s smug ass. He imagines the deliciously satisfying crunch of bone as Alan Rush sidles up and throws a heavy arm around his shoulders.
“Hey, man,” Rush slurs. “It’s good to see you’re getting out. I didn’t think you’d come, but, then again, I didn’t think you’d show up at that autograph signing, either.” He laughs, spraying aromatic spittle into Stryker’s face. Germs. Stryker takes a small bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket, tips a few drops into his hand, and quickly spreads it across his face. He loathes his new role as everyone’s favorite punch line. “You find work yet? I know it must be tough thinking about going back down to the minor leagues.”
“Yeah.” Hauling around his own gear, sweeping up the VFW hall after putting away the folding chairs, getting ripped off by small time promoters who don’t know the first thing about what they’re doing. He doesn’t tell Rush that no one will take him, even though he’s begged every promotion in the area. “I’m kind of thinking it’s time for something new, you know? Can’t wrestle when you’re old, you know? Don’t want to break a hip or anything.” Heh heh. It is such ugly work, swallowing your pride.
Rush twists his lips and furrows his brow, swaying a little on his feet. “Hey, what do you think about cars?”
“Um… They beat walking?”
Rush gives a polite laugh. “No, I mean selling them. You ever thought about it?”
“Not really, no.” What does Stryker know about selling cars? He is a wrestler, for Christ’s sake, always has been.
“You might do all right, being a celebrity and all. You know, my brother owns a lot and his sales could use some help these days.” Rush reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out his wallet. “Here, here’s his card. Give him a call, tell him I sent you.”
A used car salesman. Stryker, not believing it could be possible, dies a little more inside. But, he smiles and mutters a polite “thanks” as Rush walks away to clap someone else on the back. There is no freaking way he’ll sell cars.
Yeah.
Stryker stands on the fringe of the crowd, watching his old friends engaged in animated conversations with their new colleagues. I’m happy for them, he tells himself. But, he isn’t really. He may be a good liar, but he sucks at lying to himself. A confused bitterness and searing desperation metastasize inside him. The sheer blackness I see within him worries me and will soon send me in search of guidance.
I’d never met anyone like this guy before. I told you I was young.
“So, whadja bring me?” Gemini’s Santa hat had fallen over one of his eyes and his red bowtie hangs untied, dangling down the front of his wine-stained white shirt. “This is a Christmas party, where’s my present?” he breathes into Stryker’s ear before turning to shout to the mob. “Hey, who wants to see what Stryker Nash brought me for Christmas?” he yells to the crowded room. “Hey, you know what Drake gave me? Huh?” Gemini drags Stryker over to the wall of glass that overlooks the circular driveway. A gleaming silver Rolls Royce sits in a perfect circle of light. “Nice, huh? Think you could buy one of those with your new book of food stamps?” He smiles his drunken jackass smile far too close to Stryker’s own face. The men stand nose-to-nose, eyes locked in obvious challenge.
Stryker steps back and sucker punches his old friend in the smirking mouth, finally getting to hear that crunch of bone he’s been craving. Gemini reels backwards and falls on his posterior, ripping a woman’s dress in the process. She screams and runs, twisting her ankle in her six-inch heels. The crowd, gathered around Gemini, freezes, their mouths gaping in drunken disbelief. Someone produces a cell phone and snaps a picture, but other than that, no one knows what to do. Stryker pulls out his wallet and plucks out a slip of paper.
He hands Gemini one of the lottery tickets he bought at the Liquor Stop.
“Merry Christmas, asshole,” he says on his way out the door.
Shrieking laughter carries him over the threshold and follows him down the drive, past the Rolls, to his own vehicle. “A lottery ticket!” someone screeches. The hysterics grow louder even as Stryker retreats.
That same laughter follows him home and keeps him from sleeping for many nights, but he finds a way to vanquish it.
Sometimes, vodka is just as good as kryptonite.
Not that I would know first-hand, of course.
8. Cherophobia / keerˈ-ə-fōˈ-bē-ə / fear of merriment
She doesn’
t feel like going to work. Again. The peach-colored capsules her mom makes her swallow every morning don’t change a damn thing: Stryker is still fired from wrestling, Doug at work still calls her a retard, and all she wants to do is sleep. She doesn’t see how the pills make anything better. But she takes them, like a good girl, to keep her mom off her back.
Finally agreeing to go back to work also shuts her mother up.
“Hey, ‘tard,” Doug greets her in the break room as Ally loads her Jonas Brothers lunch box into the refrigerator. The grin on his acne-riddled face reminds her of Batman’s enemy, The Joker. “Whadja bring for lunch? Powdered sugar doughnuts and cheese doodles? That’s why your ass is so ginormous, you know, idiot.” He sticks out his tongue at her and laughs.
Ally doesn’t see what Doug’s pretty cheerleader girlfriend could possibly find attractive about the guy. An ugly orange crew cut hovers above his evil It clown features, his leering smile made all the more sinister by the foodstuff encrusted braces on his teeth. Ally finds him repulsive. He is the starting quarterback on the Thomas Jefferson High varsity football team, though. Ally guesses that must count for something in the world of “normal” high school. She hadn’t noticed that sort of thing when she’d gone there, but she wasn’t “normal.” She supposes that being a star quarterback excuses one from exercising any form of social grace and means that one may act like a total butthead anytime, anywhere. Doug even had a football scholarship to Penn State all lined up.
Ally wonders why someone so ugly, in both the physical and behavioral sense, has so much luck in this life.
Oh, and, for the record, Ally is not retarded; she is mentally challenged, or, better yet, developmentally delayed. She has an IQ of eighty-five, which means that there are “normal” people out there of similar intelligence. People who work 9-to-5 jobs, people who live in their very own houses, people who have and care for families of their own. Ally thinks she could handle all of that, no problem, if only her mother would let her try. Her daily living, communication, and social skills are all highly developed. She plays Trivial Pursuit with average success, reads at an adult level, and has even completed several continuing studies courses at Duquesne University. She does not like being called retarded.
Short Bus Hero Page 7