CHRISTMAS EVE WITH MY FATHER
(or “JUST FUCKING RUN”)

By

Patrick Dean

My faculties return in the middle of a casino; the scene is shining and catastrophic, shifting and returning. A momentary snapshot of a towering wheel of lights and a seemingly irate crowd of patrons. Gamblers losing precious time. Pairs of folded arms matched with sour looks. My hearing fades in slowly and spottily, soaked with Coors Light and Jaegermeister, and suddenly I am surrounded by a cloud of disruptive noise. Something internal is telling me that I should be paying closer attention to the din of the casino floor, when someone breathes in my ear: Run, just fucking run...

It is my father. Of course. I recall suddenly and soberly that it is December 24th (although at this point it may already be after midnight, the police report will turn out to be vague on this) and that cops are generally very lenient on Christmas Eve. These are the lessons I have learned from my father.

He shuffles past me, turning sideways to part the crowd. His normally conspicuous Hawaiian shirt becoming less so as he advances into a sea of Hawaiian shirts. When he is lost from sight, the wall seals shut again and for a brief moment I dream that the disturbance leaves with him. It is a trick of the ear, still not fully adjusted to the racket one (or both) of us has caused in this wrecked place.

Something is fatiguing my right arm. I look down and notice a rocking, squirming pet carrier clutched by four numb fingers and a searching thumb. I have no idea how this got here, but it seems important. A point of contention, perhaps. My father is now some yards ahead of me, walking briskly and with purpose. I really should catch up.

The pet carrier is obscenely heavy. I have to use both hands on the girlish grip to support it as I struggle to keep up. I take a quick glance inside to reassure myself that it is, in fact, my own two cats within the cage and not stolen goods. Something still doesn't make sense. It feels too solid to contain only terrified house cats. I look again. There are two objects larger than the cats clunking around inside the carrier. I realize it is likely the pair of my father's boots, as I see now that he is shoeless, and running with a half-reclined, painful looking gait. He wheezes and bellows something crude back towards me. It is absorbed by the casino and I miss it.

This is the second casino we have been to tonight, I believe. Perhaps the third, but certainly not the fourth. I did not have my cats at the first casino, I am sure. We may have picked them up from my apartment after leaving the first one, as my apartment is near enough to Harrah's for such a choice. I am still not certain why the cats are in the carrier, however. This seems to be the source of some of the current misunderstanding. I do not believe cats are allowed in casinos, regardless of their confinement.

You can't have those cats in here, man!

I was correct. These cats are breaking the law. The gentleman that informs me of this also yells something choice to my father about his lack of footwear. This man seems official and is avoided as such. I manage to waddle up behind my father, neither of us breaking a quick walking stride. He is hobbled by age; I am hobbled by a forty-pound crate of assorted items. It is unlikely we will escape at this pace. Over his shoulder, Dad suggests we ditch the cats. I inform him this will not happen, not unless he wants to go boot shopping. He grumbles. We press on.

The casino workers seem just as excited about us leaving their establishment as we are. They're moving out of our way now. We don't question this. The doors are near. Just before they snap shut behind us there is a raucous peal of shouts from within. Congratulatory, no doubt.

Dad and I struggle through the thick, night air, hoping to make it to the parking structure. Sad, reluctant police sirens pull off the highway and meander to the casino's opposite entrance. Dad and I end up on a concrete bench just inside. Everything about the situation is silent and cold, grey with the fact that it is Christmas Eve at midnight, and we are on the wrong side of a prominent public disturbance. I am completely winded, and likely suffering from the first stages of hypothermia.

Dad?

Yeah?

Why the hell are my cats with us?

My father considers the question. His senses seem to be coming back online slowly. He may have only heard half of the question.

Dad—

You said they were lucky cats. You said they were like magic beans, I think.

I look inside the carrier again, more closely maybe. Either Dad or I have added a pair of salt and pepper shakers to our winnings, along with most of a place setting. There also appears to be a takeout box from a barbecue restaurant in the rear of the cage. The cats are each curled up inside of one of my father's boots. They seem content. A searchlight swings over our heads.

Dad?

Yeah?

I don't think these are lucky cats.