holiday cheer

I visit him because he’s a crazy fucker and he needs me. If I don’t go there, he’ll louse up big time. And that will be that. He’ll make toast in the bathtub. Jump off the roof. Hang himself with Christmas lights. Which would be fitting, since it is Christmas and all.

He’s not answering his phone. It rings and rings and rings. This isn’t a surprise. He doesn’t always answer it. Not right away. He lets it ring, watches it ring, and if the ring sounds different than he thinks it should, he answers it. It’s hit or miss with this guy. More often than not, I’m a hit, but today it’s Christmas Day, the only day when I actually plan on seeing the damned loony, and I’m a miss.

Or he is.

I’m not sure.

What I am sure of is that I have twelve miles to drive through a snowstorm to spread some holiday cheer, and he’s got me worried.

He says awful things sometimes. Like earlier today, when the crazy ass actually answered the phone and I had to hang up on him. I couldn’t help it. I had to. He said that all he wanted for Christmas was a gun. He sang that damned song, the one that goes “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth,” but he changed the words to “All I want for Christmas is a real big gun, a real big gun.” He kept singing it and singing it, over and over, so I hung up the phone. I had to. It was pretty scary. Really.

And now I’m calling him back, and he won’t answer the phone. Not even on Christmas. So, I load up what I got for him. Six-foot-tall, fake tree. Two dozen Christmas bulbs. Twenty-five feet of silver garland. He’s already got lights. The day after Thanksgiving he somehow managed to get to a store and buy lights. Or maybe he stole them. I don’t know. 

Of course, I got him what he wanted. A gun. It’s a toy, but Catchey won’t know the difference. He’s wrecked. Not all there, if you know what I mean.

It’s a lever-action, black steel, Daisy Red Ryder BB gun. Without the BBs. I kept those. The last thing I want him doing is loading the sonofabitch and putting an eye out. Especially mine. 

I don’t wrap the gun because I know if I do, he’ll have a fit. He’s got an issue with Christmas wrap. Years ago, his baby brother, Jeffery, choked on a wad of it and died. He was only four. Catchey was eight. When his parents came into the living room, they couldn’t tell if Catchey was shoving the wad of paper in or trying to get it out. That morning, before the Christmas wrap incident, Catchey had threatened to kill his little brother because he had received more toys than he did. So, you see, even as a kid, Catchey had issues. A mean streak. Extreme highs and extreme lows. But when a kid’s eight years old, and his baby brother dies, you give him the benefit of the doubt.

Unfortunately, since that gift of doubt, it’s all been downhill.

His parents are dead too.

His dad died in a fire. Fell asleep in his hunting blind because of the fumes from his heater. Was cooked up when his pant leg got too close to the flame. Catchey was sixteen.

Two years later, his mom whacked herself out. Took a bottle of Tylenol PM and washed it down with a bottle of Absolut. Catchey found her but didn’t report it. Didn’t call for help. Didn’t do anything. He ordered Chinese food and stayed in his room for days. Watched the Yankees in the World Series. Finally, Yang, from Bin Bin’s House of Dong, noticed the stink of the body as he delivered half a dozen crab cheese wontons and a pepper-steak entrée. When Yang returned to the House of Dong, he called the cops.

When they arrived, they knew something was afoot. Catchey had draped a large Yankees pennant over his mother’s body. He had his pants down, was sitting in his own shit, crying on the floor next to her. They were surrounded by empty Chinese food cartons.   

I pass Bin Bin’s House of Dong as I drive through the snow. I get stuck at a stoplight, but some tis-the-season-to-be-jolly Samaritan stops and pushes me out. I keep right on going once he’s pushed me out, and I feel sort of bad for not saying thank you, or for giving a friendly wave, but I got my hands on the wheel at ten and two, and I know God will be proud of me for running to see if Catchey’s okay. Especially on baby Jesus’ birthday.

The push out of the snow was all I needed. An angel. A do-gooder. Somebody looking to make a few bucks. Whatever the case, I get through the snow all right and before I know it, I’m standing at Catchey’s door with my arms full of Christmas.

“Merry Christmas, Catchey!”

He doesn’t come to the door.

“Open up, Catchey! It’s Santee Claus and he’s got presents!”

Still no answer.

I stand waiting for as long as I can. I think about turning back. I could decorate my own place. Whip up the tree, wrap it in garland, drink a few beers, put up some lights and then sit in my living room shooting them out with the BB gun. But no, I think. Poor Catchey. That dumb sonofabitch could have his head in the oven or be lighting himself on fire. Like he’s done before.

That was another scary one. 

“I’m going to light me on fire!” he’d screamed through the phone one morning.

“No, Catchey. Don’t do it. You’ll get in trouble. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’m going to! Come watch! On the corner!”

When I got to the corner outside Catchey’s place, he was there all right. Holding a framed 8×10 of himself and his parents. Dousing it with lighter fluid.

“Time to go!” he screamed.

“Catchey, don’t burn that picture. It’s the only one you got.”

He burned it anyway, or at least tried to. When he sparked that match, the picture went up in flames. Catchey screamed, dropped it, then threw himself to the ground and rolled his body back and forth over the picture until the flames were out and the frame and glass were busted to bits.

“I save! I save!” he yelled. 

And I guess, in his own way, he did.

The picture, torn and smoked by flame, is tacked to his kitchen wall.

I know I have to go into the apartment. I just have to because I’ll feel guilty if I don’t. 

As usual, the door’s unlocked.

Inside, Catchey’s under the kitchen table with a silver colander on his head. He’s flat on the floor with pillows stacked in front of him, aiming a wooden spoon at me as I bend over to look at him.

“Catchey, what are you doing?”

“You’re dead! You talk no more! Shut up! You’re dead!”

“Catchey, listen. I’m sorry I hung up on you. I’m here to celebrate. It’s Christmas!”

By now, Rucks, Catchey’s Maine Coon, has appeared from the bathroom. He’s rubbing his ass on my leg.

“Rucks get you! Rucks get you!” Catchey yells, as he clangs the spoon against the colander on his head. “Rucks kill bad!”

I make like I’m going to swat the cat and it runs into the bathroom. I set the Christmas goodies on the kitchen table.

Catchey reaches up and grabs my leg.

“You Santee?”

I smack Catchey in the noggin. The colander rings like a Christmas bell. 

“Get out from under there!”

Catchey lets go of my leg. He scrambles out from under the table and stands next to me. He puts his head on my shoulder, whimpers as tears swell up in his eyes.

I walk away from him and take the tree into the living room. He’s got his recliner turned facing the window. Covered in Christmas lights. The television is face down on the floor. There’s dried cat puke everywhere. 

Catchey sobs in the kitchen. It bothers me because all he wants for Christmas is a gun, and the gun is sitting right there on the kitchen table. All he’s got to do is stop crying and open his eyes.

I try not to think about it as I get the tree out of the box. It’s in three pieces. The branches all folded up, but it’s a breeze to put together, and I’m surprised at how real it looks, even up close. I sniff the needles for the hell of it, and I swear I can smell pine. I pick up the box and read it. It says nothing about being a scented tree.

“Catchey, stop crying. Come smell this tree.”

He doesn’t come, but Rucks does. Comes purring alongside me. Rubbing my leg. He stops suddenly then wretches and wretches until he hacks up a milky gob of hair.

I walk away, into the kitchen, because I need the bulbs and garland to decorate the tree. When I get to the table, I notice that the gun’s gone. It’s gone and so is Catchey. I listen and can hear him in the bathroom. He cocks and fires, cocks and fires. Squeals with joy.

It almost makes me smile.  

I put the garland and the bulbs on the tree and I’m wrapping the final loop of lights around it when Catchey comes into the room holding the gun.

“A gun!” he shouts, delighted like a child.

The moment might be perfect, a real instance of Christmas spirit, but Catchey’s naked from the waist down.

He does this all the time.

“Where are your pants?”

“I shit!” he yells, still absolutely tickled that he’s holding a gun.

What can I do?

I walk over and plug in the lights. The phony tree looks great.

“Catchey, come smell the tree.”

“A gun! A gun! A gun!”

He cocks the gun, points the barrel into my face, and pulls the trigger. A blast of air whops me in the eye. 

“I kill!” he shouts, ecstatically, “I kill!”

Rucks is behind Catchey with his front paws on the back of Catchey’s thigh, nosing his ass.

I turn the recliner around and take a seat. Catchey moves toward the tree. He bends over and puts the gun under it. Rucks is behind him, sniffing away. 

I stare into the lights.

“I leave the gun for Santee,” Catchey whispers. Then he stands up and walks toward me. Stands right in front of me. His cock and balls dangling in my face.

“Catchey, turn around.”

He does, and there’s shit and bits of toilet paper smeared around his crack.

I stand up and put my hands on Catchey’s shoulders. Poor Catchey. I just want to hug him, to hold the crazy bastard and let him know that things will be okay, but I can’t because they probably won’t be. He’s too far gone, and all I can do is pretend that things have not come to this.

“I give Santee gun,” he whispers.

Rucks is back. Sniffing and rubbing. This time I give him an ever-so-gentle holiday boot so he slides across the hardwood floor and lands under the tree. He casually rights himself, lifts his leg, and licks and licks away. When he’s satisfied, he stretches out onto his side and paws at something I cannot see. His tail whisks back and forth like a pendulum. 

“Catchey, Santee doesn’t come to little boys who can’t wipe their own asses.”

I know I shouldn’t say things like that, but it’s ridiculous. Nonsense. He’s a grown man.

Some days he can get out and walk to the store himself. Some days he can cook for himself. I’ve seen him come out of the bathroom clean and shaven, fresh and new. Why can’t he make it through today, of all days, without shitting himself?

I make him stand in the tub and I get the water started. 

He breathes deeply. Wrings his hands.

“Sit,” I say.

He does, and then he rocks back and forth as I fill the tub. I use as much cold water as I can because I’m afraid of what might happen. And then, it does happen. I try not to look, but I do, I always do, and there it is. Catchey’s throbbing dick, getting bigger and bigger and bigger. He reaches for it, and I do what any civilized being would do. I pop him in the back of the head. Immediately, the excitement level drops.

I shove a bar of soap into his hands and order him to scrub. He bawls and wails, but sometimes you gotta be tough. With kids. With cats. With people you love.

I push him over, grab the shower head, and spray his ass as clean as I can.

“Stand up and dry off,” I say, as sternly as possible. “When I come back, I want you spic and span!”

As I walk out, I pick up his pants. There’s shit all over them, so I put them in the tree box and head outside into the snow, so that I can throw everything away into the dumpster.

How does it happen?

How does any of this happen?

A couple of bad shakes. A stacked deck. A bad deal. Turds in the gene pool.

          

There are layers of meaning to sift through, but I don’t have the time. I don’t want the time. I’m afraid of what I might find.

All around me snow, lights, and holiday cheer. Families getting together. Bundled up and driving by. They’ll suck down eggnog. Share presents. Make memories. Carve the Christmas beast. All of them living better than Catchey and me.

I throw the shitty Christmas tree box into the dumpster. I look up into the sky toward Catchey’s apartment window, expecting to see a burst of flames. A dangling rope. Or Catchey on the edge, getting ready to jump. But from the sidewalk, through huge, whirling snowflakes, all I can see is one thing. Catchey dripping wet and butt-naked, yanking lights off the tree. 

~ KJ

(from the book, DEAD BUNNIES, by KJ Stevens)