A Typical Day Went Like This.
Christmas break was substantially different for me in senior year than it had been in prior years.
During junior year break, a typical day went like this:
I woke up in a large, warm bed while someone made breakfast downstairs. I had a little brown poodle who casually greeted me when I arrived in the kitchen, at which point I started complaining about my breakfast and asking if I could have Peanut Butter Crunch instead. (I could not.) I complained loudly and moped silently all day about how hard my life was, about how much I wanted to get out of this stupid house with its stupid rules. I showered for 55 minutes, using all the hot water in the house. I locked myself in my room, buried under my headphones, and blasted Violent Femmes at full volume to drown out the world. After dark, I smoked cigarettes outside, sulking until the wee hours. Eventually I fell asleep in my warm, comfortable bed.
During senior year break, a typical day went like this:
I woke up smashed into a very cold wall while Larry elbowed me, trying to reach his cigarettes. He called from the bed “ya in there Dante?” to determine if the bathroom was empty. Danny would grunt and the toilet would flush, enticing Larry into the bathroom and sending Danny out the front door. I’d chain smoke cigarettes until Larry reappeared from the bathroom to have sex. Afterward, without showering, I’d light another cigarette and pull on yesterday’s jeans. We’d go to the diner downstairs, where I’d consume chocolate milk and bacon, then we’d hit the streets … for 30 yards. Inside Barry’s Bar, Larry said a loud hello to the other old men in there, then we’d drink for hours, pausing only to go back to the apartment and have more sex. We’d play the jukebox and drink until dinnertime, at which point we’d order burgers and then drink until the bar closed.
On big days during junior year:
My parents, sister and I would hike through a tree farm to cut down the perfect White Pine. We’d decorate the tree with a hundred ornaments, each one with its own story, then wrap garland around its branches. We’d drive around looking at lights, go sled riding if there was snow, or make a snowman in the yard with a real carrot. We’d go to church for a candlelight service and have a wonder-filled Christmas morning with so many presents we couldn’t count them all, and they were all exactly what we wanted.
On big days during senior year:
We’d walk through the snow to Caputo’s and buy square pizza that tasted like dish detergent. We’d take the bike across the river to Paul’s Place, next to the strip club, and drink until well past closing time. Or we’d hit Denny’s at 3 a.m. and order eggs “lookin’ right at me baby” for Larry and pancakes – sometimes with chocolate chips – for me. We did not go to church or decorate a tree or buy each other presents.
By senior year, I didn’t even want to look at Christmas lights. I knew what I was missing. I detested the beautifully decorated holiday houses. They reminded me that something better was still out there, something simple that used to be able to make me smile.
The only thing worse than my pre-Christmas angst was living through Christmas day.