Merry Christmas by Patrick Sean Lee (black authors fiction txt) đ
- Author: Patrick Sean Lee
Book online «Merry Christmas by Patrick Sean Lee (black authors fiction txt) đ». Author Patrick Sean Lee
December 24, 1958
Late in the afternoon Margaret McGuire came knocking on our door. It was Christmas Eve, and Mom had invited her to have dinner (and drinks) with us, and then visit for a while until the start of Midnight Mass at the witching hour. Precisely.
Iâm SkipâŠMorley, that isâŠand this is what happened that night.
Jimmy McGuire, my best friend who lives next door, had spent the day with me, which in itself isnât all that unusual. Weâve spent most of our free time together since his mom bought the little brick home next to ours five years ago. That was right after she divorced George. Heâd abandoned her and Jimmy; run off with some floozy to South America to check out rubber trees for Henry Ford, Mom once told me. I donât know if thatâs true. Henry Ford died a long time ago I think. But whatever happened, wherever he went, Margaret hit the sauce pretty heavy after he flew the coop. I donât quite get it. I mean, if he took off with some other womanâwell, I donât understand all that love stuff.
Margaret worked at Crowley Rubber Companyâwhich is where she met George. I donât know what he did there, but whatever it was, I think it was with a lot of the ladies who worked there.
Anyway, we were bored stiff by five-thirty that afternoon, and I could see Jimmyâs brainwaves beginning to spike. In the morning weâd incinerated the last battalion of my little plastic soldiers down in the basement, which pissed Pop off because of the really foul smell that drifted up through the ceiling joists and floor. When we heard the old doorbell clank and clunk, Jimmy hopped to his feet as though he owned the place, as though heâd been rescued by some kindly saint, and he ran to answer it. I was right behind him, a guest in my own house. There stood his mother, swaying pretty bad, grinning. Even from where I stood, I could see that her eyes were only half-opened. Already sheâd gotten a good start on the nightâs festivities.
ââWho broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons!ââ he said to her, stopping her at the threshold with a hand on her shoulder and the scrutinizing glare of a barroom bouncer. âWhatâs your business here, woman?â
I couldnât help but laugh, watching the look of Huh? rising on Mrs. McGuireâs face. She had her bottle in one hand, and a breadbox-sized present wrapped far more neatly, it looked to me, than she was capable of doing it, tucked under the other arm. She was ready to do some serious celebratingâif Jimmy would just clear out of her way. Her hair was pretty much all fixed upâpretty much, that is, in the style of ten or fifteen years ago, and she wore a not-too-carefully applied glop of lipstick, which brilliance would make even a fire engine blush with envy. It made her lips look puckered, kindaâ like Betty Boopâs.
âOh, get out of the way, silly,â she laughed, trying to casually tap him on the shoulder with the bottle clenched in her hand. Her eyelids drooped a little, I think the signal from her brain floating on its sea of rolling alcohol waves that it wanted to just shut down for a while, but she went on. âAnd donâ be talking in nasty riddles tonight. You watch your tongue; itâs the Lordâs birthday.â
ââWho bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delightââŠsure, Mother! I thought it might be you under all that paint, but I wasnât sure âtil I saw them sparklinâ eyes. God, yaâ look beauteous. Yaâ did a good job with the rouge, too. Get on in here, Verne and Rosie and another bottle or two are waitinâ for yaâ out in the kitchenâŠGod werenât born, though, for a couple more hours,â he whispered. He stepped aside and gave her a peck on the cheek as she giggled her way past him.
âWell, thatâs better,â she mumbled. Who cared what night the Lord was born, anyway, Iâll bet she was thinking? As long as there was Mr. Jim Beam hanging around.
Not far behind her, right on schedule from some distant planet, another voice began to grow. It was that of cousin Sylvie. She and Aunt Corey made their way up the front walk, and soon enough they too were assaulted by Jimmy and one of his raspy lines from Howl, that bizarre poem by this guy named Allen Ginsberg. Unlike his mom, though, who was used to the meaninglessness of the verses, and most times drunk enough not to pay much attention to them, neither of my relatives had the slightest idea of what he was saying. They looked at one another and then at him as if heâd gone nuts, or gotten into a bottle of bourbon. Jimmy had taken to wearing a black beret when he discovered Howl a month or so ago, and that made them hesitate and stare. They stepped back and really concentrated on it. Being old maidsâsecluded, in love with things like collectable salt and pepper shakers, rose gardens, fishingâdumb to the real happenings of the world, neither of them had a clue that the hat was only part of the larger costume of his new life. Jimmy had become a Beatnik. But, commandos wore berets fifteen years ago. Smartly dressed gentlemen killers of Fascists. Brave men who loved the free world and Misters Churchill and Roosevelt. Jimmy must be entering into a new and laudably patriotic, warlike phase, they had to have been thinking. Ready, these days, now, to go after Communists hiding under every rock in the country. God bless his young soul.
But what were they to make of the gibberish?
Aunt Corey salvaged the moment. âMerry Christmas, Jimmy. Now, take off your hat and move out of the way. Weâre adults, dear. You must always remember that.â As always, her voice was low and musical, emitting an air, not of adult arrogance, but rather a soothing directness that suggested his life could actually become more meaningful if he obeyed.
And so he did. Got out of the way, at least. He jumped aside, removing his beret, and he bowed gallantly. This seemed only to intensify the uneasiness of Sylvie, who stood behind her mother, always capable of being rattled even in the presence of a cooing baby. The poor womanâs head bobbed and jerked as though someone had hooked her up to our electrical arc super zapper, and she gritted her teeth. I thought she looked exactly like she needed a good stiff drink to calm her down. Lord knows, every summer she and Pop drank enough beer up at our cabin in the mountains, and she always seemed so at ease thenâŠOh, waitâŠno she didnât. Alcohol just made her jitters worse now that I thought about it. If Coors made her stumble a little up there in the high country, Jim Beam was destined to bring her crashing to her knees five thousand feet lower, down here in the city. She eased past Jimmy, and he tried to plant a kiss on her cheek.
They threw their coats onto the backs of the chairs in the dining room, and went out into the kitchen to join my folks and Mrs. McGuire who were hard at the business of setting up the evening for a first class Christmas donnybrook. I could hear the clink of glasses being joined in salutes, laughter, and here and there an, âOh, bullshit, LaVerne!â
After the adults had kissed and punched one another for a little while, I bent down and picked up the present Iâd bought for Jimmy from its spot under the tree, and said to him, âHere you go. Open it.â
He looked at me with surprise, not expecting to have received a gift, I guess, and especially one that visibly moved him with its festive black wrapping. âWhatâs this?â
âItâs for you. I got it downtown this week. I hope you like it.â
âButâŠI didnât get you a thing. IâŠâ
âThatâs okay. I wasnât expecting anything. Really. I just thoughtâŠwell, since weâre both alive and well andâŠoh, gosh⊠just Merry Christmas. Open the darned thing up.â
I grabbed his arm and pulled it away from his side, placing the small package into his outstretched palm. He dropped his gaze, not to the gift lying in his hand, but past it to the fraying carpet. For a moment he just held it in his hand, not moving.
âOpen it! I want you to see what I got you. Go ahead.â
He looked up and threw that crooked little smile at me, then ripped the black bow and black paper off and read the title aloud.
âA Coney Island of the Mind. Lawrence FerlinâŠFer-lin-ged-i. Ferlinghetti? Crap, never heard of him.â Jimmy opened the cover, flipped into the body of the small text a few pages, and then silently read some of what was written. He turned another page. I saw his eyes scan down it, and then he turned another, and then another. Finally he went back to the page heâd started at and studied it for a minute.
âThis is good stuff. Whoa! Really good. Yeah, this cat knowsâŠwhereâd you pick up on this guy?â he asked looking up at me. âYou donât read poetry. Gosh, thanks! Ferlinghetti. Yeah, I like âim. Bet he knows Ginsberg.â He closed the cover and read the title again, then turned the book over in his hands, savoring the feel of it. He lifted it to his face and sniffed it.
âThereâs a special smell that a book hasâŠyou ever notice that?â
âAhâŠno. Not really. Well, yeah, I guess maybe so.â
âYeah. Like its very own perfume or somethinâ. Unique. This one smells a lot like Howl, but different, somehow. Mustier.â
I watched him run his nose up and down it, his eyes opening and closing.
âI think itâs good that you have a friend for Howl. I have no idea what a Coney Island of the Mind might be, but it sounds a lot like a place where the wolf in the Ginsberg poem could sit on the boardwalk there, maybe go on one of the rides. Maybe thatâs where the wolf really lives,â I said.
Jimmy closed his eyes, and I saw his lips moving, reciting certain lines. And then he smiled and opened them to me. âYeah. Could be right.â His eyes drifted shut once again, â ââŠwho vanished into nowhere Zen New JerseyââŠConey Islandâs in New Jersey, I think. Pretty sure. Yeah, that might just be where the wolf lives,â he said.
âNo, no. Itâs in a place called Brooklyn, or by it. I looked it up. They have lots of rides and stuff there, like at Elitchâs. A beach, too. Maybe you and Sara can go there someday. Maybe me and Carol can go with you! Weâd have a blast, donât you think?â
âWell, first thing yaâ gottaâ do,â he said with a laugh, âis get her to talk to yaâ again. Then weâll all take off to see Sara and this Coney Island joint.â
As Jimmy and I dreamed dreams of disappearing into Beat-land and amazing romantic adventures in dark haunted houses in amusement parks, the adults waltzed back into the living room carrying their drinks and scads of good cheer. I could see Mrs. McGuire hanging on cousin Sylvieâs shoulder with one arm as they walked through the dining room, blabbing and waving the drink in her other, like she was lecturing her. Sylvie nodded her head often, though I wasnât sure if she was actually agreeing with Mrs. McGuire, or
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