12/25/97 - Christmas Tree
This apartment sure is quiet. I'm in the corner unit, but two of my
walls still face other tenants, and I've yet to be bothered by any kind
of noise from either of them. That's what I like about this place. I
like quiet. I like to be left undisturbed.
You already know about one of my neighbors,
but what's surprising is that I can't hear anything from the other one
either. The other one is a fourteen year old kid, whose bedroom is
right on the other side of my living room wall. I call him "Buckey",
because he stops by and knocks on my door every once in a while, either
because he needs change for a buck, or he's lost his key and needs a
place to hang out.
Buckey has his own chair right here in my place, which he is allowed to
sit on while he waits for his parents to get home and unlock his door.
Then he leaves quietly, usually after asking for change for a dollar.
For his birthday, I gave him a dollar, and he asked me if I had change
for it. I don't know what he's doing with all these coins, but I'm sure
it's very exciting.
I've listened for sounds from Buckey's room, but I never hear anything.
Not the stereo blaring today's latest pop hits, not inane babbling with
his friends on a telephone, not even a television delivering the
sounds of a woman's orgasm from some porno tape he smuggled in. That's
how thick these walls are.
So tonight, like every other night, it's nice and quiet in here.
Except tonight, I don't want it to be quiet. It's Christmas Eve, and
while I have no particular interest or involvement in the religious
significance of the holiday, everyone else is out having fun, and I'm
sitting here in the living room, writing this column on a frayed notepad
with a mechanical pencil, with just a small lamp, on a low setting,
casting an amber glow about the room.
I want to hear something, some sounds of glee and liveliness from my
neighbors, something to make me feel like I'm not totally alone on this,
a night usually dedicated to companionship, togetherness, and love. But
all I hear is the scratching of this pencil, and the tinkling of the ice
cubes in my glass of gin. Even the cats are asleep.
Oh well, at least I have my Christmas tree.
It's not actually my tree, but I like to think it is. See, looking out
the back of this first floor apartment, from my glass patio doors, you
can see the entrance to this apartment complex, and the street which
leads up, then disappears around the side of the building, eventually
emptying into the parking lot up front. But there's a little patch of
trees right between the entrance and the point where the street goes out
of view to the side, and smack dab in the middle of this patch is one
lone evergreen tree. This is my Christmas tree.
I like this tree, because it sits there all year, obscured and concealed
by the big, tall trees around it that dwarf its meek presence. But then
winter comes, and the big trees lose their foliage, and now it's his
turn to shine and dance in the sun. I'm sure this is a very
philosophical, inspirational metaphor for something, but I'm too tired
to explore it.
What makes the tree special tonight, though, is the fact that just a
little while ago, I saw maybe five or six Montgomery County police cars,
along with an ambulance, turn into the entrance, lights flashing, and
drive up the street, around the building, and into the parking lot. I
can't see the cars from here, since my unit is in the back of the
building, but their lights are still on, flittering and flickering
against my tree out there, covering it in dazzling red and blue
Christmas lights. I don't believe in a higher power, but I do believe
in delightful coincidence, and this one made me smile. If that tree had
presents under it, it would be the best damn looking Christmas tree in
town.
Normally, I'd go out and check to see what the heck's going on, but
right now I'm struck with a fit of tranquility, probably due to bemused
reflection on the serendipity of my glittering tree, or maybe it's just
the gin.
Writing this column "manually" is more difficult than I'd expected. For
one thing, my hand's getting tired, but more importantly, I no longer
have a "shift-F7" key to hit to help me come up with fancy words like
"serendipity". I'm working without a net, let's say.
Hard to believe that this time last year I was on a plane to Las Vegas,
sitting next to my then-lovely-companion, planning our betting
strategies, giggling with giddy anticipation about the wonderful, neon-lit oasis that was about to welcome us into its maze of traps and
pleasures. I miss Vegas. I would like to go back there, preferably
sooner rather than later, but I've yet to find a new job since unwillingly
becoming unemployed, and I couldn't afford the cab ride to the airport,
much less weeks of drinking supposedly "free" drinks at a blackjack
table.
I bet it's not quiet anywhere in Vegas tonight. My Christmas tree,
trooper that it is, still isn't quite glitzy enough to remind me of the
twenty-four hour party that is the Las Vegas strip.
Whoops, here comes a tow truck. Now I'm really curious what's happening
out front there. There he goes around the side. Oh, this is too
perfect. The yellow lights from the top of the tow truck are now adding
their colorful splashes to my tree, making it look like it's got little
golden ornaments spinning and twirling around. I'd take a picture if I
had a camera, but these descriptions will have to do.
C'mon, Buckey. Where are you when I need you. Look, I've got three
shiny new quarters, two shiny new dimes, and a somewhat worn 1982 nickel
sittin' right here waiting for you.
I shouldn't have had this gin. Although it's helping to numb the pain
of my out-of-shape writing hand, it's making me very hungry. Also, it
didn't help to see that pizza delivery car drive up the street a couple
hours ago. I'm still thinking about that. Yes, yes, it was a Honda Civic. Don't get me started on that
again. I'm feeling lonely enough as it is.
I'd watch TV to pass some of this time, but now I'm afraid to turn the
thing on after seeing that report in the Post (yes, I still read it,
even though I don't work there anymore) about the Japanese cartoon show
that gave 700 Japanese kids seizures because of it's "manic animation".
Just when you thought that the story couldn't get any funnier, you find
out the name of the show: Pocket Monsters. Is that the most hilarious
thing you ever heard? They played the theme song on a radio show that
was reporting the incident, and while I'm not great at it, I can
understand a little Japanese, and I think I picked out the words to the
song. It goes:
Pocket Monsters, Pocket Monsters,
Bound about with ease.
Pocket Monsters, Pocket Monsters,
Fun to pull and squeeze.
Pocket Monsters, Pocket Monsters,
Friendly, cool, and dreamy.
Is that a Pocket Monster,
Or are you just glad to see me?
What scares me the most is that last week, watching the Redskins game, I
had a similar episode, where I went into violent spasms, and my body
convulsed and contorted itself all the way over to the refrigerator to
get a beer. This seemed to happen every twenty minutes or so.
The ambulance just left, with it's siren on and lights spinning around
wildly. The sound startled me and woke up the cats. Their spell of
consciousness didn't last too long, though, since they've grown to that
special age that all cats reach where their lives become one long nap,
interrupted only occasionally to eat or expel food. Or step on my head
at 3:30 in the morning.
That reminds me, I'm using my new coffee
maker
every day now, finally having gotten it to turn on at the right time. I
set it to go off very early every morning so it will help coax me out of
bed so I can start sending out resumes or doing some other constructive,
career-promoting work. Unfortunately, a coffee maker is even easier to
ignore than an alarm clock with a snooze button, so by the time I
actually get out of bed, the coffee is ice cold and undrinkable. I
haven't had a cup of coffee in weeks.
Well, there go the police cars. Damn, there were seven of
them. That's a little scary. The worst part is, now that they're gone,
my Christmas tree has no more lights. Still has the golden ornaments
from the tow truck, though. I better finish this column up soon before
the tree goes totally dark and I get really depressed.
It's been an amazing, exciting year here at PWC, so before I
go, I want to thank you all for sticking with me, putting up with me,
telling your friends about me, and passing the columns around to people
you know. I know this one wasn't very funny, but it fit my mood, and
until I start getting paid for this, I'm still writing the column for my
own enjoyment more than anyone else's. So this is my Christmas present
to myself. And I don't even have to write a "Thank You" note!
My pencil is worn down to the nub, which is a pretty neat trick when you
consider that it's a mechanical. I'm out of gin. My hand is killing
me. The tree is getting darker. My eyelids are getting heavy. I
should go.
Damn. There goes the tow truck. And tilted up on two wheels, trailing
right behind it, is a Honda Civic with a pizza delivery sign on its
roof. Her car must have finally given up. What a bummer.
Well, happy holidays, everyone.
This apartment sure is quiet.
Pinback's Web Central
This page and the contents therein (except where otherwise attributed) are
copyright
(c) 1997, 1998, by Ben
Parrish.
That was in case any of you devious types were thinking of stealing all my cool stuff. So there.
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