Cold-Cocked by the Christmas Cheeseburger Freeze

Did you celebrate Christmas with:

An aspen tree?

A homeless man singing carols?

Summer sausage a cheese block, and a few cold cheeseburgers?

That’s how Peter and I celebrated ours; at least that’s what we tried for. Well, the homeless man celebrated with us too, until he stormed off. And he may have celebrated at a halfway house or YMCA somewhere, and I don’t know if double-counting holiday celebrations is kosher, as the Jews might say.

It began three weeks ago with this colossal argument about whether Peter and I were obliged to celebrate Christmas. Peter loathes it because he doesn’t know if he believes in God and it’s ‘overburdeningly a family affair’ (he reminds me his parents died in a car crash four years ago; he gets a lot of mileage out of that. And yes, he does actually say ‘overburdeningly.’ Who does that?). He also thinks Christmas is too commercialized, but Peter thinks everything is too commercialized; he’ll even avert his eyes from those hairspray department store advertisements that drape bus station shelters – like he’s going to buy hairspray anyway. For my part, I argued that Christmas is an important holiday because friends, lovers, and even strangers (not just family, Peter!) unite to demonstrate their love and appreciation of humanity. Plus it’s Jesus’ birthday, and even if you don’t believe in God, I think we can all agree that the J-Man was a spectacular guy and all-around Good Samaritan numero uno. Peter didn’t catch on that my folks’ abandoning me for a Disney cruise completely undercut my point about ‘family uniting,’ but I wasn’t going to help him win any arguments. Peter needs to keep on his toes if he wants to score points. As you can see, I clearly dominated this argument. Christmas was on.

Once Peter agreed to celebrate Christmas, the obvious next question was how. As I’ve probably mentioned, this arises because Peter’s parents are dead and mine decided they’d rather flop around on a big red boat exclusive of me, since they consider me “all grown up.” What the hell does that make a pair of 50-somethings on an ocean liner with Dopey? Anyway, first we had to find a suitable celebration location, and our options weren’t attractive. Peter rents a mildew-y basement from this family of e-bay profiteers. I’m dead serious – father, mother, and son all sit around and buy and sell things on e-bay. As far as I know, that’s how they put food on the table. Anyway, who wants to spend Christmas in a mildew-y basement? Not I. And my apartment is now persona non grata (in the proverbial apartment universe), since it flooded last week and destroyed everything and is now even mildew-y-er than Peter’s, so I’m momentarily crashing with a girlfriend. Who thought our living spaces would be would be defined as how much mildew each contains, at Christmastime, no less? We could hypothetically celebrate at my girlfriend’s but she is really, really messy and I’d have to spend a week picking her underwear and silverware out of the couch and from behind the television. Plus, I wanted to fit in some kind of church service, in the spirit that Christmas should be celebrated with others. Peter swore he wouldn’t go to church, but eventually I convinced him to go to one, even if to just stand outside. That sparked a notion: why don’t we hold a Christmas picnic outside St. Mary’s Basilica?  Granted, it would be nippy, but we could hold our own little tree-lighting ceremony. Now that would be a classy way to celebrate.

We struck a bargain. No mass, but we decided to design our own celebration and hold it outside of St. Mary’s Basilica. (I think Peter won most of this round. He does that from time to time.) We invited our closest friends, whoever was still in town anyway. Peter wanted to invite all the beggars that stand out by the highway interchanges near church, but I steered him away from that idea. It’s not that I don’t think they’re potentially nice people; it’s just that they’re kind of creepy. And what if they kill us? “Lovers Slaughtered during Solemn, Highly Original Semi-Public Tree Lighting,” would make a great story, but it’s not a news item worth dying for. Then we argued over tree type (Peter has to argue about everything!) and settled on any other tree than pine. Ridiculous, I know. But since Peter has to find it, haul it and decorate it, he can chop down a damn oak for all I care.

St. Mary’s Basilica, Dec 22, Sunset

They leaned forward to appreciate the meager heat Pete’s old Buick produced – Pete huddled against the vent air and Kathy’s arm, and Kathy slouched into the center console. 23 degrees Fahrenheit outside; it could have been worse. Churchgoers tramped down the Basilica’s steps as the last evening mass concluded, smothered in fuzzy, garish holiday-wear and bound for strings of cars lining Hennepin Avenue, bound for red-and-green parties and cookies with sprinkles and overplayed renditions of “Silent Night.”.

“This doesn’t feel very communal, Peter. We’re missing out on the communal-ness, the potential of communiality we could be sharing with these nice people.” Kathy waved at the retiring Catholics.

“I said I’d go in with you, you’re the one who insists on staying out in the car, you insisted we should stay away from mass. I told you a million times I’d freaking go.”

“Yea, because that was our bargain and I keep my agreements. No mass.”

“Kath, we can go in. I told you I was willing.”

“This is Christmas, you can’t just compromise your values. We’re searching for purity and meaning here, Peter. That’s why we designed our own celebration.”

“I’m celebrating because there is no alternative. God himself couldn’t avoid Christmas if he wanted to. I really don’t care one way or another, we can attend a mass if you’d like. I don’t think that compromises my core values, since I don’t really have any.”

“We’re not going in. Also, God is a woman. Furthermore . . .” Kathy cut herself off. “Okay, though, maybe we can stand outside and greet the church-goers as they leave.” She hopped out the car door, chattering to nobody in particular before Pete could even mouth off an asinine remark. He instead settled into shifting from radio one station to the next, enjoying the abrupt clashes of pillowy static with rhythmic beats and tinkling guitar strums. Clipped talk show phrases garnished the mix: . . . and the winner of one hundred thousands dollars . . . I don’t think Santa would go that far . . . four U.S. troops dead in Afghanistan . . . you’re crazy! you’re crazy! you’re crazy! . . .

After some time Pete abandoned the radio to take up a defensive position against the hood of the car, watching Kathy gin up holiday cheer. Aside from frightening a few older couples and scaring a small child to tears, the crowd received her enthusiastically. Pete checked his watch; his buddy, and his surprise, should be here any minute.

In short time the Basilica was a lonely pile of rocks propping up the setting sun. Kathy whirled down the steps, free from her final conversational fling. Pete thought about the ridiculous Aspen tree strapped to the roof and figured it couldn’t wait; he started in on the tie-downs. They were frozen. A man appeared at the bumper and started hissing. Pete jumped and swore.

“You got the stuff?”

            “Jesus, Charlie, you scared the Christ out me. How are you man?”

            “Good. You got the stuff?”

            “Yea, hang on a sec.” Pete circled around and popped the trunk, fishing inside for a brown paper sack. Kathy had seen the exchange and was bee-lining their way. Pete had hoped to start Charlie singing before Kathy noticed. That was the surprise; Charlie sang with silver tonsils up on the pedestrian bridge over Lyndale Avenue every evening.

            “Peter, who the hell is that man?” She hissed.

            Wondering why the hell everyone was hissing, Peter wore his soft face and replied “That’s Charlie, my holiday surprise to you. He’s going to sing Christmas carols.

            “Are you kidding me? He looks crazy.”

            At mention of the word crazy, Charlie looked up and twitched.

            Kathy lowered her voice. “Peter, where did you get him from? Hey, is that a bag of hamburgers?”

            “Cheeseburgers, actually, payment for the Charlie’s services.”

            “Plus he smells like garbage. Did I mention that when I said he looks crazy?”

            “Kathy, he is nominally homeless. He probably spends time in, or near, trash dumpsters.”

            “Peter!”

            “Relax. Are Ann and Steve on their way?”

            “Nobody’s on their way, everybody bailed. Apparently nobody cares about celebrating Christmas in an exciting new celebration.”

            “You said celebration twice in that sentence.”

            “Shut up.”

            “Here we go, Charlie.” Peter strode over and handed the sack to Charlie; Charlie pulled out a burger.

            “These cheeseburgers are cold.”

            “I know man, but I had to keep it surprise.” Pete discreetly nodded at Kathy and grew his eyes wide to press the point; she noticed and kicked his shin, “Anyway, they’re fresh. I just bought them,” Pete checked his watch, “oh, about 47 minutes ago. By the way, I haven’t introduced you two. Charlie, Kathy . . . Kathy, Charlie.”

            “Alright, fine. Let’s set up the tree then.” Kathy rolled her eyes and stamped her feet and reminded Pete of a dying horse.

            “There’s a problem with that Kath – now don’t get angry. The tree won’t untie from the hood.”

“PETER. Get the tree down!”

Pete yanked again at the ropes. “Somehow they got splashed with water on the way over, the knots are all frozen.”

“Hey Charlie, lend me a hand with these ropes.”

“No.”

“Oh come on, man. They’re frozen.”
            A cheeseburger slapped Pete in the face.

“Did you just throw a cheeseburger at me?”

“Ya.”

Pete swore under his breath as he fumbled again against the ropes. Tugging led nowhere; sawing with his car keys was fruitless and aggravating.

            “Hey Charlie, I bought you the damn cheeseburgers. At least sing for us. You came here to carol.” He turned to Kathy. “Look, the tree isn’t coming off the roof. I’m just going to string the lights across it. Why don’t you break out our picnic?” Kathy stamped and hissed but went about with the picnic.

            Baritonic syllables of “Santa Baby” piped through the air, filling the gaps left between downtown-bound cars on Hennepin Avenue. Pete wrapped lines of twinkly string lights around the aspen. He plugged the adaptor into the Buick’s cigarette lighter and the roof roared to light. Kathy dug around for the salami and cheese in the trunk. Charlie paused between verses to munch on cheeseburgers but managed to belt renditions of “Most Wonderful Time of the Year” and “All I want for Christmas is You” before wandering off. Kathy fed them salami and cheese slices as Peter stretched strings of incandescent lights lengthwise across the aspen. Kathy stood back as he finally plugged the adaptor into the Buick’s cigarette lighter. The aspen roared to light. Pete stepped back and they stood together in front of their creation.

            “This is magnificent, Peter.”

            “It is.”

            The aspen went dark.

            “What just happened, Peter?”

            “Umm, we probably blew a fuse. Let me see if . . .”

            “JESUS CHRIST, PETER!”

            “Well it’s not my fault, let me see if . . .”

            “Let’s just go home, Peter.”

            “Okay . . . your mildew-y place, or mine?”