Dear _______,
Merry Christmas wherever you are! Let’s hope there’s snow & hearts aglow & the yuletide is gay. I’m all for happiness. “Don’t you be a buzzkill, Mr. Jeff.” That’s what my therapist, Jennifer, calls me. Not Buzzkill. “How’s Mr. Jeff?” she asks upon seeing me. And isn’t it great to be seen? To be heard? The choirs and bell ringers and shop keepers sweeping snow off the sidewalks and the City Crews clearing ice from the streets to keep cars from swerving into ditches.
KAKE TV is showing reruns of “Santa’s Workshop.” My friend, KAKE anchor, Annette Lawless, said on Facebook that these ‘70s reruns would feature that puppet chef, KAKEman. My friend, Dan – a scholar and citizenship award winner in high school – a man whom I’ve known since kindergarten, responded, “You better not be effin’ me.”
So are you ready for Christmas? Tree trimmed with tinsel and bulbs? Lights on the house? Pumpkin pie and all that? I am, but I must say it wasn’t easy making it to this point. I’m always ADHD, but in the past few days, I turned it up to 11.
I lost a library book. I looked for days. Under chairs, my bed, the sofa, cushions. Couldn’t find it.
Then I lost something more important.
My girlfriend, Holly (as in Christmas holly) helped me clean my room one day. I didn’t know where to start, but she was the brains. She gave directions and I followed them. Room was as clean as a whistle. I sent a picture to my son, Sam, and he responded, “Holly is badass!”
It was her idea to place a basket on top of my dresser as a safe place to keep my car and house keys and wallet in. Do I always follow this orderly fashion? What do you think?
I tore the house apart looking for my car keys with no luck. It was imperative that I find them by 9 a.m. the next morning, because I had an appointment with Jennifer. Then I had to get to work.
I get charged for any appointments not cancelled 24 hours in advance. And work!
“Well, Lord, it’s in your hands,” I prayed as I sat on the rim of the bathtub. Then, as I opened my eyes, turned my head and looked down to tie my shoe, I saw the library book sprawled open, lying face up behind the toilet. It must have fallen off the tank. I reached down and underneath were my keys.
(I guess the toilet was a good place for a Charles Bukowski novel. Crude, drunken jerk that he was.)
Be nice to all retailers
Just before my appointment, I watched the TV in the lobby of Jennifer’s clinic. A man who looked like the real Santa Claus was putting kids’ names on the naughty and nice list in some Hallmark movie. Then Jennifer came out of her office. “Well, how’s Mr. Jeff today?” After the appointment, I stopped by the library, dropped the Bukowski book into the book slot and went to work.
But oh no, my problems weren’t over. In the evening after getting off the clock, I drove to my hometown of Jett, Kan. (pop. 4,000 in the ‘70s) to get my hair cut and buy some Christmas presents from one of the quaint little stores in the Jett business district on State Street.
I stopped at Tiffany’s Boutique to buy some clothing for my daughter, Kenzie. I prefer to pay in cash like that financial guy Dave Ramsey suggests, but I didn’t have it. “I see you take VISA,” I said to Tiffany, pointing out the sign with pictures of MasterCard and all the rest.
“You bet we do,” she said.
Next, I walked into Jayme’s Barbershop, always a happening place in town. An old high school friend, Dustin, was sitting in the barber chair, getting his beard trimmed. And who else did I see in the shop, but Santa Claus? Standing between two women wearing Santa hats, sleeveless red and white vests, black mini-skirts and nylon hose, making their legs resemble the beautiful window lamp at the Parker house in the classic film, A Christmas Story.
“I’ve been a good girl this year,” the woman by the Christmas tree said. “I think I deserve a spanking!”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Santa said, his breath stinking of gin. A vulgar man just like Charles Bukowski.
But I knew it wasn’t the real Santa. I could tell that. He was a squirrelly, short fellow (I was taller than him) with a stringy white beard that resembled the strands of a floor mop. He took out a picture of himself walking down State Street wearing nothing but his Santa hat and a red speedo, his bowl full of jelly hanging down like a cup that runneth over. Oh my, this wasn’t the pious Santa praying over the baby Jesus in that picture my mom had. She always went overboard on Christmas.
I was still carrying the bag from Tiffany’s Boutique.
“Who’s the present for?” Fake Santa said. “You got a little woman action goin’ on.”
I wanted to sock him in the teeth.
“This is disgusting,” I said to Jayme and all within earshot.
I went on a diatribe about how this scene reminded me of the Oct. 9, 1982 episode of Saturday Night Live, hosted by Ron Howard, in which he portrayed Opie all grown up and back in his hometown. But Mayberry had gone to pot. Floyd’s Barbershop was now Floyd’s Sex Parlor.
“Jeff, you need to get a haircut and chill,” Jayme said, slapping the barber chair as Dustin got up and fished for his wallet.
After the haircut, Jayme had me looking like a million bucks. She always does. I flipped her a twenty and Jayme, a well endowed woman, gave me a big hug like she always does after a haircut and I must say I enjoy them both.
I hid the big boutique bag in the trunk of my car where Rugrat wouldn’t find it and went to the Kwiki Mart to get gas. But oh! Shoot the brains, man, I couldn’t find my debit card. So I retraced my steps. Tiffany’s was closed. So I went back to Jayme’s Barbershop.
Who did I see in the barber’s chair, but my old friend, Slusser. Slusser and I have known each other since first or second grade.
“Well, hey, J. Guy,” Slusser said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Oh, I’m in a bad way,” I said, and asked Jayme if she’d seen my debit card in the shop. Of course she hadn’t.
“I’m a mess,” I said. In the past couple of days, I’ve lost my debit card, my keys and a library book.
“A library book!” Slusser said. “You can get in a lot of trouble for that.”
“Oh, I know. Did you see the episode of Seinfeld with the library cop?”
Slusser nodded his head. A serious yes.
“Look in your bag & all under your car seats,” Jayme said.
“For the love of Jesus, I have, Jayme. I’ve looked there.”
“I guess you’re gonna have to get a hold of Tiffany.”
“Do you have her number,” I asked. She didn’t. Of course, she didn’t.
I wound up staying all night at my brother, Jeremy’s house, because I didn’t have enough gas to get home, nor enough cash to fill up my car. We drank Christmas beers and watched Friends.
“You dork,” he said. “You used to lose your keys all the time. I started hiding them ‘cuz you’d pay me money to find ‘em.”
“I knew you were doing that, you shitass.”
Anyhow, I texted my friend, Beth, who owns Bethanie Brewer Hair Salon. She texted Tiffany who texted me and said, “Yes, you left it. Stop by the store at 9:45 tomorrow morning and I’ll give it back.”
So I’m a mess, albeit a mess who got his keys, library book and debit card back. But I’m not as much a mess as Holly’s brother, Smithy. (You remember Holly? My girlfriend?)
Smithy is a pothead. A stoner. Toker. Reefer head. Totally baked.
“That guy’s been stoned since the third grade,” someone told me.
But one day Smithy went too far.
He tried a new drug, a flowery psychedelic substance with a long stem that you stick up your butt. Then you light the face of the substance for a hit. One stoney afternoon while Smithy was listening to “Champagne and a Reefer” by Muddy Waters, Smith took a match, a stem & his anus. He gave it a go.
He thought he was submerged in purple water, yet able to breathe as he saw sharks and minnows turn into mermaids with percussive conga shell breasts and ever enlarging and shrinking heads. Then he saw a donkey which talked to him much like the donkey that talked to him, much like the donkey that spoke to Balaamin Numbers 22:8 of the Bible except this donkey was taking a dump, much like my college roommate, Spanky, who shit with the bathroom door open and tried to engage you in conversation like he was LBJ or something. Except the donkey dung transmuted into testicles on the mermaids which coalesced into one abominable snowman, his crystallized testicles like the opening of the seventh seal as the trumpet sounded and sounds were colors going all four of us on a psychedelic trip and in ether, the words i buried st paul i buried st paul i buried st paul Where’d you bury Moses? Screw you. I buried st paul
…and holy cow!
Never again, wanting to risk taking a bad trip, Smithy has sworn off the drug you smoke up your butt. Besides, he burned his anus. Smithy is doing better these days, clean and sober on the Marijuana Maintenance Program.
In other news, Kenzie will graduate from high school this spring, Sam graduated from Grossmont Community College with his associate's degree and is now majoring in video games at Wichita State & I returned to WSU to earn a master’s degree in history.
Well, ol’ Jeff better get his ass outa’ here, but before I sign off I just want to say Merry Christmas Happy Hanukkah Kwanzaa or whatever…just have a happy holiday and if you can, smile and keep a little of the magic with you all year if possible. You know you can go on Facebook, say racist or homophobic stuff and bitch about Trump, Bidenomics, Palestine or Israeli, but where does that get you? If you live in America, just be happy for your First Amendment right to stand on a corner and say, “The president is a dirty twat” no matter who he or she might be. May you find the Real Santa, may you find the true meaning of Christmas, oh and don't lose a library book or smoke a drug up your butt. Or if you do, be careful. My love to all. God bless.
The past few years have kind of sucked and Christmas ain’t always easy. I miss Mom, Dad, Step-Mom, Uncle Don, Uncle Dave, grandparents, the whole lot of them, and believe you me, I will keep all that I’ve ever known alive for as long as I’m breathing and I hope you will too. I say we go out with this song. For all the loved ones out there.
Seasons greetings. Your friend,
Jeff