HOME IS WHERE I PASS OUT ALONE FOR THE HOLIDAYS

By

Grievous Jones

Five miles is a long way barefoot. And it's snowing. And I've lost my pants. And I am drunk. But, this wouldn't happen to anyone. Instead, it happens to me, Grievous Jones. My mother named me that. She was a drunk as well. I'm not as bad as she was. I'm not shooting holes in the trailer wall and screaming that the Mormons are coming to make her marry her cousin and she in only fourteen but she grew up in Utah and that's the way it is there so please don't let them take her, no! God, the horrible things I remember about Christmas.

She's gone, my mother, Cornucopia Jones. I have twelve brothers and sisters. Not surprisingly to me, we don't speak, ever. Except at the holidays because... I have no idea why we speak at holidays. They have all moved on. I remain. The youngest, the smartest, and the laziest, I carry on the local name. They may be rich and fortunate, have families and big cars. But, I got the trailer.

I am stumbling back to the family manse. I was at a party. Don't remember whose, just another guy, like me, who lives in a trailer. Chastity was there and she was looking fine. I think I tried to kiss her, I don't know. After last Christmas and an unfortunate sick-kiss episode she wouldn't speak to me all year. But tonight, she looked just fine. I think. Unless. Maybe that wasn't her. Not sure.

There's the cracked oak that lighting hit. Only a mile left, thereabouts. Johnson has let his inflatable Santa collapse, again. Looks like Santa on the sauce. I laugh. His dead truck is buried under a foot of snow. In the Spring him and I are going to fix it up and cruise for chicks. Not having a car in the country is a serious bitch. If I hadn't lost my license, I'd be out there. It's a good thing they deliver welfare checks by mail. Otherwise, Christ, it'd be hell.

I see the lights. I left them on. I knew I'd be half-dead drunk, frostbit, and stumbling by the time it was dark. The door's never locked. That's a good thing. All the keys I don't have are in my pants that are in some guy's trailer five miles away. This is a season for blessings. It really is.

Soaking my feet in iced water to thaw them out, I crack open another beer. No point in getting a hangover as soon I defrost. Keep the buzz going has always been my motto. And if I could afford a tattoo, that might be a good one. I'll have to look into that.

Whoa ho, there, on the table, underneath the Christmas tree, where no wrapped packages sit, no tinsel tinkles, no bulbs twirl, no star shines, just a string of aging white lights hang, is the answering machine. It's blinking at me. There are two, little digital numbers on the cheap red display. Hopping on half-frozen feet, I get closer to see. It's he number eleven. No matter what, my brothers and sisters remembered. No matter how far they go or forget useless old me, they still call home at Christmas. I press play. It's eleven messages from me, from the party. I was lonely. I was drunk. And like always, they forgot. I do the same thing every year. Calling myself, hoping, someday, they might appear.

I also wish they'd send some money, or beer, or beef jerky. I'm hungry.