A Most Unholy Day & Night

Last month when I linked the pre-Christmas post I had written on my Facebook author page, someone commented that my writing was always profound. I kicked that word around for a good, long time while frantically finishing my shopping. The only conclusion I came to was, like another word someone and I were recently talking about it, that is one that has some weight to it.

Our Christmas Eve plan was to go to a friend’s house. Both having three kids of similar ages and living around the corner from each other, we’ve been friends for decades. Last year we celebrated with them and had so much fun that we were looking forward to a repeat. But first Maggie, Mal, Rubin (Mal’s partner), and my two grandkids went to the performing arts center to see the matinee performance of The Nutcracker. We have done this for the last few years and this time my grandson had reached the age which my daughter said was old enough to go. I was exhausted and last year fell asleep during it. My prediction was that I would do the same this go ’round. I made it through the first half, we went to the lobby, and the grown-ups in the group (sans me) had a glass of wine. When we returned to our seats and the house lights dimmed, there was the distracting noise of someone opening a bag. While Joseph and Mary were wandering around Bethlehem on their donkey looking for a place to have a kid and little dancers were doing step-ball-chain on the stage, someone behind us decided it was time to partake in that corned beef sandwich and bag of chips they had stuffed into their coat pocket. Rubin turned around and gave them the stinkeye. When the show ended and the lights went up I turned around to deliver the old-lady-stinkeye which is more effective because it’s been done much longer. The offenders had skedaddled as one might expect since they were lunching at A PERFORMING ARTS CENTER DURING THE PERFORMANCE. The audacity Rubin and I said as we were leaving as my six-year-old grandson exclaimed, “This has been the best Christmas Eve of my life!”

When we got home I saw a message from my friend followed by a phone call. She had Covid, our Christmas Eve plans came to a screeching halt, and so Michael and I decided we’d get Chinese food (a la A Christmas Story). I have been ordering take-out from the same restaurant for over thirty years, made some choices for five of us, and called it in. The phone rang and rang. I tried again and then again. I was certain they had to be open and so we decided to drive over and place our order.

We walked into the packed restaurant, lines of people waiting for a table, the phone lit up like a Christmas tree ringing and ringing. When we saw one of the harried owners and asked about placing a to-go order, she wrote it down, said it would take an hour, and to come back. Not what we were expecting but at least we had a dinner plan in the works. When we returned to pick up our food the restaurant was even busier with groups of families crammed in from the cold and waiting for a table. Occasionally a group would leave, another group would get seating, three more groups would walk in the door. Grandparents hobbled in like wise men around the manger and sat waiting amongst us. I whispered to Michael, “I hope if the time comes that I am using a walker that the people I love don’t drag me out in freezing weather on Christmas Eve to a packed restaurant because I think it’s probably going to kill half these people.” In the meantime, the husband half of the owners kept disappearing while the wife kept telling us our order would be “two more minutes.” Over in the corner, a short, middle-aged, white guy (SMAWG) said, “My wife and I come here every Saturday at noon. I’ve never seen it like this.”

After waiting a good while, a tall, angry white guy (TAWG) comes in the door and he’s got an ax to grind because nobody is answering the phone. When he gets the attention of the daughter of the owner and says he wants to place a to-go order she tells him they can’t take any more orders, that the kitchen can’t keep up with what they have, and he stares at her menancingly because apparently nobody has ever told him no. The wife gets wind of the problem, comes over, looks at his order, and says they’ll do it. There are some words exchanged in Chinese between mother and daughter. I have no idea what they are saying but I am backing the daughter because TAWG seems exceptionally unlikeable. SMAWG leans over and says to him, “My wife and I come here every Saturday at noon. I’ve never seen it like this.”

From the back of the restaurant comes another guy to pay his bill. He announces that they need a plumber and because it’s utter chaos nobody pays attention to him. Then his wife and young daughter join him and he asks if she went to the bathroom. The wife says the toilets in the women’s room were being plunged. “Just take her to the mens,” her husband said. “That’s backed up, too,” she says and then he not so quietly said, “Just have her go on top of what’s in there and don’t flush it,” and I was like I CANNOT DO THIS ONE MORE MINUTE. “She can’t,” the wife says, “there’s too much in there and I lean over to Michael and whisper, “Are they really doing this here? Are they really going to keep talking about the shitter being full?”

SMAWG weighs in with, “What you have here is a sewer backup. One wrong move and you’ve got a restaurant overflowing with everything in that toilet,” and I feel a dry heave working its way up the chain of gastro command. We hear someone say to us “two more minutes,” TAWG stops fuming for five seconds to say this is ridiculous, and SMAWG says, “My wife and I come here every Saturday at noon. I’ve never seen it like this,” and while Mary is in labor with a bunch of men standing around and doing nothing I think about strangling this guy in her name. There is more discussion about the toilets and the wife says, “It’s a good thing they have a waste management guy here.” Her husband chuckles and I wonder why that’s such a good thing if he’s not offering to do anything about it. They decide maybe Walgreen’s is still open and they leave so their daughter can pee there. The husband and wife owners pass by and are arguing in Chinese. He’s flustered and sweaty from plunging. She keeps telling people they can get a table when clearly they are beyond capacity. I’m on his side. SMAWG says to nobody, “My wife and I come here every Saturday at noon. I’ve never seen it like this,” and I was like FOR THE LOVE OF THE NEWBORN JESUS WILL YOU LET IT GO.

After forty minutes our order is ready. They read it off and everything is there. Mary has a healthy baby boy, some kid thinks drumming in her face is helpful, and we have Chinese food. It’s a Christmas miracle. We head for home only to come across a backup of cars waiting to turn into a tiny cul-de-sac known as Candy Cane Lane. I have seen it a thousand times. Every house is over-the-top decorated for Christmas. When Mark was alive he said, “What if you’re the guy who doesn’t want to do this? What if you’re like eff it. It’s too cold. I’m not putting up the lights and a fat, dumb snowman.” I told him he’d probably get silenced, stuffed in a storage shed, and end up on a Dateline episode. A few days earlier when Michael and I drove by it he said, “Huh, do you have to do this if you live on this street,” and I started seeing a pattern in the men I choose. Behind the line of cars Michael said, “Maybe I should go around them,” and I said “Gun it,” and finally, blessedly we arrived home with our dinner.

We filled our plates, played a game of Yahtzee, I got a little hammered. The next day we we told Maggie and Nate about our wild night trying to get some food. Then we opened gifts, the grandkids happily played with their new toys, we hugged each other and said thank you I love it. I do not have a single profound thing to write about any of it except that like every year it was A GIGANTIC CLUSTER WITH ENTIRELY TOO MUCH PEOPLING INVOLVED and that for the first time in many years it felt good to love every wild minute of it.