Don't Look Back

 

Taken on Christmas Eve, ^ this is the last picture I got of my dad. He was never a big fan of posing for pics, so I'm glad he obliged here. My niece and mom said "Cheese" with gusto while dad was quiet. The cancer was getting increasingly painful. I think he knew it might be his last Christmas. That worry was in the back of my mind as I captured this image. 

When we gathered for Christmas at my brother's house the next day, I didn't coax the family into a group pic, dad in front. I regret that... Dad handed out a $100 bill to his kids, grandchildren, and my sister-in-law's son and his girlfriend. With a diagnosis of what turned out to be terminal cancer, his energy depleting, he was generous to the end. He kept his tradition of giving, putting his family before himself on his final Christmas. 

I cry a few times a week thinking about him. The job I have now requires constant motion, so I can kind of use the grief as kinetic energy--but I still cry a good amount. 

If you've ever seen Breaking Bad or Better Call Saul, you know Mike Ehermantraut, the bald and stoic tough old man who fixes problems (sometimes violently) for the Gus Fring criminal empire. Mike does ruthless things, but his character is redeemed by his relationship with his granddaughter. Watching a lot of Saul on Netflix, every time he shares a moment with the little girl, reading her a book before bedtime or quizzing her on elementary math, I tear up. It shreds my chest cavity thinking that my dad's not around to cherish his 2 grandkids anymore. 

Today I slept in way too late. I found that my brother and niece were visiting my mom in my temporary home here. I was embarrassed by the time of day. I spotted a small baseball glove on the living room floor, with a softball inside. Wanting to make amends for wasting too many hours of sunlight on a sunny Sunday, I got my glove from the garage. My niece accepted my offer to play catch with me in the backyard.  

We tossed the ball back and forth, about 15 feet apart. I lofted the ball as soft as I could, aiming for her outstretched glove. She dropped more than she caught, but she's improving. Sometimes she wanted to switch up the routine by "fielding grinders." I laughed and told her it's "grounders." 

I got that shredded feeling in my chest cavity. A mental image came to me. Dad was behind me lounging on the patio, leaning back in a lawn chair, watching us. In my mind's eye, I saw him--wearing sunglasses and his Brewers hat. Relaxed in his upright posture, smiling his thin, understated, genuine smile. He was watching the 2 of us toss the ball back and forth. 

I became choked up saying something like "You don't have to be afraid of the ball. I know you can catch it, every time." 

In reality, the back patio was deserted. I didn't want to turn around. The image remained vivid. On the verge of tears, I was seeing 2 people/ 2 perspectives at once. 

I thought to myself: "Don't look back. Don't look back." 

Idiot Writes Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I turn to you in your infinite realness because you represent the true meaning of Christmas: the presents. I've got a hankering for some cool stuff and I've been nice all year long, so you gotta hold up your end of the deal, fatso.

As for any potential red tape regarding my claim of niceness, bare in mind that I wrote that story “Down with Santa” way back in December, 2013. That was last year! Now that it's 2014, I'm operating with a clean slate and a clear conscience.

Like it or not, tubby, it's time to cram all the goodies on my wish list into that magic sack you tote. You can't spell “commercialization” without “me,” so for starters, gimme a Hoverboard.

Yes, a Hoverboard, and not one of those crummy Hoverboards that can only go on land. I want to float above that water. Not unlike Jesus. Oops! My bad on the name-drop. I didn't mean to bring up your competition.

Anyway, there's a lot more cool stuff I want from you. I think you'd better add a cup of espresso to that jug of eggnog you keep stashed in your sleigh, 'cause Santa, this is gonna take a while.

By Christmas I'll be needing a wheelbarrow-full of wool socks—and I intend to keep the wheelbarrow, of course. Priority one is not freezing to death this winter. Actually, I take that back; the Hoverboard is priority one, but the wool socks and not getting frostbite and dying—that's kind of important, too. Other Christmas presents you'd better give me—OR ELSE—include an indoor hammock, a case of Miller High Life, that Andre Dawson baseball card when he was on the Cubs and sporting a jerry curl hairdo, an oil drum filled with nacho cheese, a fooseball table with secret tilt-control switches that allow me to cheat and always win, and a bar of solid gold engraved with Batman's signature.

Wait! How did I get this far into the letter without mentioning EZ Bake Ovens?! Put me down for five.

I'd like to add a genie lamp to my order. Don't worry, I won't be asking for infinite wishes. That's bush league. I am a law-abiding man of integrity! If you must know, I'll be wishing for that copy of Playboy from 1996 with Jenny McCarthy on the cover, a gun (any kind will do, but unregistered is strongly preferred), and a million dollars-worth of the finest and most dangerous fireworks ever made in America.

And while we're on the subject of wishes, could you put in a good word for me at the Make-a-Wish Foundation? I pray it doesn't happen, but if I get terribly sick, it would be a relief to know that at least I'd get to meet Aaron Rodgers, or even the chick who played the cheerleader on Saved by the Bell, as a solid fallback option.

Let's see... what else? Oh! Playstation controllers. Give me, like, a hundred of those. I want to make sure I have enough, 'cause when things don't go my way, I like to smash 'em. It's cathartic, you know? A hundred Playstation controllers is all I ask, along with all the other cool stuff.

Speaking of which, can you also bestow me with the Ferrari from Scent of a Woman, 50 square feet of additional space in my apartment (to be completed by no later than Boxing Day), and some matching bullets for the gun I'll be getting from that genie? You'd better respond with a jolly “Yes, indeed!” If not, I'll have no choice but to finally convert to Judaism. So help me Santa, if you fail me, I'm going to title my next December story “Santa's a Gordo Schmuck.”

If I could make another addition to my queue, I want Hollywood to produce another Rocky movie, and Santa, you're the overweight man who's gonna pull those strings to make that dream a reality. Can you believe they've only done six Rocky's so far?! I say keep 'em coming. You can't spell “public” without an “I,” and I demand another Rocky installment. Oh, and I want Rocky's next opponent to be the Predator, and I think it would be super-dramatic if the referee was played by Mr. T. Consult me for any script changes or casting problems, especially if Mr. T asks for too much money.

I suppose the only other items on my list that you absolutely must give me—that is, unless you want another Dreidel-spinner on your hands—would have to be a rock from the moon that I could sell on eBay, a Segway with a big plow attached to it, a lifetime's supply of Extra Sweet Watermelon gum, a two-hour singing telegram from Sir Paul McCartney, and the original stone tablets that list the Ten Commandments.

I mention this last one because, if I don't get everything I want from you, Santa, I will be forced to search for answers elsewhere, and those answers might not have anything to do with material possessions. Heck, those answers could involve a spirit that is priceless and immaterial, a positive attitude we share with our community, and an appreciation for the loved ones who give our lives so much purpose and support. Golly, maybe I've had it all backwards sending you these demanding letters since I was a first grader up until my current age of 31. Perhaps I should cut you some slack and trim my requests down to the wool socks, the EZ Bake Oven, and the Rocky movie, and focus on making other people happy this Christmas...

It's a tough call... I'm torn 'cause I still like cool stuff! Tell you what: I should sleep on it. Mind you, I'm leaning toward doing the right thing here, Santa, but if I don't, I'll be so extreme in celebrating your commercialized Christmas that I'll check out how much I could get for those sweet Commandment-tablets on eBay.

Sorry about all the fat jokes (even if they're true).

Your Fully Grown Believer,

Nick

Down with Santa (edit)

^What a crock of shit this is.^

At the age of seven, I became a Santa-atheist. It wasn't by choice. As the youngest in a family of Catholics, I was, by consequence, the last of the true believers in Santa. Months before Christmas, my older brothers got struck by a mischievous whim; they joined forces and exposed the truth about the fat man in red to me. When my mom was called into the room and she somberly nodded that yes, what they had told me was true, I was crushed. I whimpered and wept, which was as enthralling to my older brothers as a fireworks display.


Devastated and disillusioned, my wounded imagination connected the dots to other figures of dubious existence. In no time, flying reindeer, the Tooth Fairy, and Johnny Appleseed were defrauded, too. My faith in God wavered. I put the Man Upstairs on notice. Adults forever lost a great deal of credibility.

There are other ways to learn the truth about Santa. My sister, for instance, found out while playing a home-game of Family Feud. The survey was “Make-Believe Characters.” An older cousin unassumingly guessed “Santa Claus.” Survey says? Ding! They won that round but lost their childhood innocence. Well-played, Parker Brothers.

A more common debunking occurs when kids walk in on their parents scattering presents around the tree. This can be unpleasant, too, and it can become disastrous if dad and mom also got sidetracked role-playing as horny Santa and drunk Mrs. Claus.

Since the Santa mythology pretty much ruined my whole outlook on life, I've come up with some suggestions to parents when the time comes to dispel the fib they really didn't have to tell in the first place.

Parents who love science-fiction flicks are advised to hold out their hands and offer their kids a choice between gobbling a blue Sweet-Tart or a red Sweet-Tart. Tell them that the blue Sweet-Tart, unlike the Santa-colored one, will allow them to see the true nature of life and reality. If they choose the blue candy, go Morpheus on those kids and reveal the truth about the Santa-Matrix. If they choose the red candy, consider disowning them.

Moms and dads who voted against Obama should let their children know that Santa wears red because he's a communist, a slob with a bleeding heart who dodges income tax at the North Pole and only works one day a year, a pinko who runs a not-for-profit business, and a 47-percenter whose very existence should be denied. (Truth be told, I stole this idea from Rush Limbaugh.)

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.