by S. E. Hall
And… we eat.
My belly’s full, the kids cleaned up dinner, without being asked or threatened, then shagged ass, and my woman’s feeling all sweet-like… time to head home.
Or… time to ask, once again…
“Who put-”
“Beckett,” Evan does his pissy lil’ stand-up-for-my-obsessive-compulsive-woman thing. “Been over this.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Fine. You can stop blocking the door, killer,” I say to Whit, tempted to laugh—no shit, she’s using her massive buck-oh-nothing frame to block the damn door—and put Em’s coat back on the hook, since I’ve decided to stay a while longer. “Did I at least win the goddamn sweater contest?”
I better have won the goddamn sweater contest.
And the prize better be a “Get out of Whitley Christmas Early” pass.
“You sure did, big guy! And your prize is… a ten-second head start for your team in the game we’re gonna play!” Whit has the nerve to smile as she says it.
“A game? Teams? Oh, I’m in!” Gidget perks right the hell up… because she smells blood.
“Laney, please keep in mind, it’s Christmas. Can we at least try to have a nice, friendly contest, for once?” Zach asks her.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she huffs.
“He means… maybe we skip any trash-talking. You know, in honor of baby Jesus?” Bennett offers.
“And no name-calling.” That was Evan.
“Or kicking.” Emmett.
“Don’t forget biting. No biting!” Whitley.
“Or cheating.”
“Now that’s where I draw the line! I do not cheat, Sawyer Beckett!” Gidge fires back, glaring me down.
Dane wraps her up in both arms, reeling her in. “Woman, I can feel your heart pounding, through your ugly sweater, which, by the way, was also a losing sweater, and we don’t even know what the game is yet. Thinkin’ you may have a problem with competition.”
“Whatever. I don’t cheat, though.” She does. All the time. Her definition of “cheating” just differs from… every other English-speaking person on the planet. In the interest of time though—as in, time for me to go the fuck home—I keep this to myself. “We playin’ or what?”
Whitley takes that cue and runs with it, springing into high-pitched, every-body-part-in-motion explanation of our next game o’ torture. And when she’s done, buzzin’ around the room to set up, Laney asks for “clarification”— making sure she has all necessary info to plan her slaughter—so zippity-motherfuckin’-doo-dah… we get to hear the whole spiel again!
“Get a map. Close your eyes. Point. That’s where we’re going for Christmas next year,” I grunt in Em’s ear.
“Simmer down,” she snickers my age-old advice back at me. “You didn’t have to cook, but you were fed. You didn’t have to read a quote, but were told by others that you’re loved. And you can take off that sweater now if you want, so hush.”
True, good point, and… I’m not so sure. Which is why I ask. No need to stage a coup. “Whit, it okay to take off my sweater? I don’t wanna ruin Christmas, cost my team a penalty, or any other mutinous-type fouls; thought I better ask.”
“I appreciate that.” And she means it, smiling even sweeter with her reply. “But we’re still celebrating, therefore, we’re still donning our Christmas attire.”
“Oh, shit, good stuff, Whit. Look at his face!” Zach, who obviously wants to spend the holiday in a body cast, starts off the laughter that moves through the room. “We gotta all make a pact to shut his ass down cold more often, ‘cause that, that ‘someone stole my puppy and told me my dick’s broken’ look on his face is classic!”
“Whitley, are you taking notes?” I ask. “I’d like to make sure it makes it into the official transcript that I refrained from threatening to show Zach exactly what a broken dick felt like, because I for one, don’t think talk of such is very Christmas-like.”
This only makes them all laugh louder.
Unfestive fuckers.
“Okay, okay, focus, people. I believe there was a game to be played?” Ah, Gidget… love her dysfunctionally-competitive, one-track-minded ass.
“Exhibit B, baby,” Dane chuckles. “If you’d rather wrap toilet paper around each other, or whatever Whit has planned—I’m thinking Christmas, snowmen, so I’m probably close—than laugh at Beckett, You. Have. A. Problem.”
She gives him the evil-eye while speaking low and sinister to Whit. “Let’s do this. And he…” she gives her hubs a “fuck off” finger point, “is not on my team.”
“Of course he’s not, silly. It’s girls against guys. Brynny!” Whitley shrieks toward the ceiling. “Can you come down here, please? I need help.”
“Oh, good,” my Emmy sighs in relief. “Brynn can play for me.”
“No, she’s just helping with certain things. You’re playing.” Man, Whit’s sure found her voice tonight, bossin’ everybody’s ass around with authority.
And… batons.
For real—ba-fuckin’-ton type apparatuses—that… Jesus, help us… light up.
“Um-” Evan rubs his jaw, trying to hide the laugh that’ll get him in trouble. “Whatcha’ got there, Pretty Girl? Don’t remember packing those in the truck.”
“What do they look like?” She holds both arms out straight to the sides, a glowing stick in each hand.
“From where I’m sitting, they look like you’re gonna direct a plane in for landing in this living room.” Zach gives her shit for me… exactly what I would’ve said, if I wasn’t laughing my ass off.
“You needed me?” Brynny freezes in place on the last stair. “To, uh, help unload baggage when the plane comes to a complete stop?”
That’s it—no one knows what happens next—all laughing so hard we’re pissin’ ourselves.
I’m surrounded by a bunch of foul-mouthed, ill-mannered hooligans.
Every and any direction I look— crazy, crass, highly inappropriate— mine.
My family. My friends. My Crew with me through everything, good or bad.
For this blessing, often in disguise, I send up a silent, ‘thank you.’
And remain silent, letting them enjoy their laughs and jokes… at my expense, yet costing me nothing… going about my preparation, like the diligent “Leader of the Banshees” I am.
It’s a good thing I’m in the fold… They’d be lost without me.
And even though none of them would ever admit it, they love the little, extra special touches only I add, in just the right amount, to our soirees.
Oh, except Laney. Laney professes her adoration outright. Repeatedly. Somewhat aggressively. Absolutely unashamed to let everyone know that she lives for each and every episode of “Fun with Whitley.”
“Brynndolyn, can you please come help me, sweetie?”
“Um, sure? You are talking to me, right?” she asks.
“Who else would I be talking to?”
“No disrespect, but… whoever this Brynndolyn person is? I guess I assumed, being my aunt for twenty years, that you knew my name’s Brynn. That’s it, just Brynn. Not short for anything.”
“Ah, sweetpea, I’m just feelin’ all fancy and it popped out. I’m sorry.” I lean over and kiss the top of her precious head. “Ignore me. Your name’s perfect, as are you.”
“You’re pretty perfect yourself, and I was only teasin’ ya. No big deal; promise.”
“I think I may just be silly with excitement. Wait ‘til you see why! Hold these and I’ll… unveil our snow bodies!” I can hardly stand it. “You have to really guard them, Brynn, or they’ll disappear into the peanut gallery. It’s why I didn’t just set them down myself.”
With great, appreciated effort not to laugh, she takes the essential, lighted directional tools—not to be confused with mere toys—from me. “I’ll die with them in my hands, Aunt Whit. You can count on me.”
“That’s the spirit! And”—I rip the cover sheets off my masterpieces—“viola!”
&nbs
p; Unaware we had anyone’s attention, what with all their sarcastic banter and laughter, I spin around to see why Bennett just loudly exhaled.
“Shew.” Her relief’s somewhat lacking the enthralled amazement I was expecting. “Not where I thought she was headed with that. So happy to be wrong. I knew better, I did, but not gonna lie… ‘Unveil the snow bodies’ was a li’l too ominous for me. Anybody else see actual bodies, cleverly hidden in the snow, flash before their eyes when she said it? I mean, not unthinkable. You know Whit, always trying to up her game; had me worried for a sec.”
“Really?”
“No, Whitley, not even close to really,” she snorts. “I’d put my money on Mother Teresa being a stone-cold assassin before I’d place a penny on your ‘Happiest of All the Fairies in the Forest’ ass.”
“Plus, there’s no snow outside.”
“Yes, that too. Thank you, Sawyer,” Ben nips, rolling her eyes. “Had there been snow… you know what, never mind.”
“Yeah, I’d give it up too. The whole ‘no snow’ thing’s not working with ya.”
“Again, thank you, Sawyer.”
“You’re w-”
“Alrighty, who’s ready to play?” I interrupt, grabbing the essential, lighted directorial tools from Brynn and proceeding to… direct. “Men, please group yourselves in that area.” I indicate exactly where I mean with the helpful light source in my right hand. “Ladies, over there.” This time, with my left hand, making things crystal clear. Once I’ve gone over the rules, I’ll join the girls and Brynn will come around to blindfold everyone, so get your bearings while you can. She’ll also be the one to announce when a team’s won and the game’s over. Only then may you remove your blindfolds. Got it?”
“Sorry, but no. Aunt Whit, you asked me to hold your, uh, gadgets. Lost on all the rest.”
“So is everyone else, sweet girl. So is everyone else. Don’t worry, just yell ‘winner’ after my turn; doing whatever the hell it is she’s gonna make me do.” Zach has to chime in; it’s inherent—Brynn’s biggest fan.
Laney, however, must feed her inner-warrior. Or outer, as is the case with her. “If everyone will zip it, I’ll bet Whit’s gonna explain.” Also, betting—she does a lot of that too—everything worth a wager. “And quit shining that damn light in my eyes. Saber down, Darth!”
Oh, for Pete’s sake… I checked, specifically, to ensure they were optically safe… knowing I’d need to pin someone back in place with a direct beam to the eyes. I move it out of hers, but do not put it down. Instead, reeling off exactly how the game’s played, with the help of my handy-dandy pointers. “Any questions?” I ask when finished, immediately sorry I did.
Chaos ensues… too many talking at once.
Except Brynn, who gives me a sympathetic smile and pats my shoulder, before sticking two fingers in her mouth to belt out one heck of a whistle, easily gaining the goons’ attention. “This isn’t rocket science, people. In fact, seem to recall playing something eerily similar to this… when I was seven. It was called ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey.’ Now that I’ve put the impossible into perspective for ya, listen up. Whit has a bucket. Draw from it. Whatever you get are the parts that you’re in charge of placing on your team’s snowman, as close to their proper place as possible. When you’re done, run back and tag your teammate next in line, and so on, until everyone’s had their turn. Then, we’ll see which team got closest. If you still don’t understand, raise your hand, and I’ll go find the cat to play for you.”
“When’d y’all get a cat?” Sawyer hones in on the important part.
“We didn’t. Just a stray hangin’ around that we… help out. Kinda like you,” Dane groans.
While they backtrack, again, I grab the two buckets, handing one to Laney, the other to Evan. “Pull out an envelope and dump it in your hand. Those are your pieces to place. Okay, Brynny, we’ll need our blindfolds. Make sure they’re on tight.”
“Hurry up and show me what ya got.” Sawyer appoints himself Captain… as does Laney… who I’m listening to with one ear, using the other to eavesdrop on the enemy. “We’ve got that piss-poor prize of the ten-second head start, so whoever’s going first, no pussy footin’ with your hand out, feeling your way and shit. Full-speed ahead! When your face meets the wall, stop, slap the sac on the snowman and get your ass back here. You know what, I’ll go first. Show you ladies how it’s done. We’re not losing another fucking game to the women. I refuse.”
“These aren’t his sac, dumbass. They’re two eyes.” Evan actually has to clarify. “All your bitchin’ about my wife being in charge, you really think she’d make his balls a piece of the puzzle? Pull your head out. And once you get it pulled out, go back and rethink your ‘show us ladies how it’s done’ plan. We’ll be blindfolded. Ain’t showin’ us shit.”
“It pains me, truly, to interrupt such a prophetic debate, but I need you to squat down so I can blindfold you, Uncle Saw. Oh, and by the way, the paper carrot in your hand… it’s his nose.” Brynn clears up the no-doubt next issue on the docket... before it becomes an issue.
“Brynny,” Zach growls, in disapproval of the “Brynn’s still, and always will be, an innocent five-year-old angel” bubble he lives in threatening to burst.
“I’m sorry, but you know, he didn’t know until I just told him. A lot more appropriately than he would have asked.”
“Good point.”
I have got to get my own apartment.
And therapy.
The electroshock kind.
‘Cause you can’t unsee this— the whole gaggle, now blindfolded, bumping into each other, talking over one another, and holding what appears to be the aftermath of a snowman massacre in their hands.
And because there’s tape on the back of the pieces of carnage, yes, Uncle Evan’s “two eyes are made out of coal”—not to be confused with Frosty’s sac—have somehow become stuck to Uncle Saw’s forehead.
And the game hasn’t even started yet.
Cryin’ shame we already took our Christmas card photo. I mean, who wouldn’t want a snapshot of this hanging on their fridge?
All’s not lost, however. For I am videoing every stellar second… my motives in doing so as pure as the driven snow, which, we’ve established, there is none of outside.
I’m capturing “The Crew Christmas Special”—I’ll let the viewers define “special”—because I need proof. Since no one in their right mind, or my siblings and cousins, (the only ones I’d ever tell; I like to keep “our crazy” our own little secret), will ever believe this actually happened without hard evidence.
Eight, for-the-most-part-sober, willing, non-institutionalized adults… bumbling around a living room, sticking sacish-lookin’ eyes to each other’s foreheads, while dressed like colorblind rejects.
On purpose.
And again… game hasn’t even started yet.
Oh yeah… we’re making memories here, people.
“You guys ready?” I ask, trying to hold my phone still for optimal footage, amidst the shakes of my laughter. “On your mark, get set, go!”
And they’re off.
For a whole five, exhilarating, action-packed seconds… before the first of what will definitely be many catastrophes strikes.
My mother—a public figure in the community, currently sporting a sweater that showcases a reindeer’s ass pooping out Christmas-colored fuzzy balls— is obviously more familiar with the layout of furniture, so she easily hurdles the coffee table. Yep, hurdles.
Poor Uncle Saw doesn’t fare so well though… plowing right into, on top of, and through it. “Who moved the goddamn table?” he roars, over the ruckus that is everything once atop said table now smashing to the floor. “That’s cheating!”
“What broke? I definitely heard shit break. Dammit, Beckett, you’re the Captain! Way to start us off, you clumsy bastard. Brynn, What. Broke?” my dad yells.
“That’d be, um, everything, Daddy.”
“Of course it did. This. This is w
hy we can’t have nice things!”
The men lost.
Who’d have guessed?
Truth be told, we didn’t just lose… we reinvented the entire game… then fucked up that version too.
The four of us, blinded, with Sawyer as our Captain… Whitley’s had better ideas.
The space formerly known as “The Kendrick’s Living Room” shall now be dubbed… “All That Remained.”
“This is why blindfolds belong in the bedroom! Right, Shorty?” Sawyer tries for salvation, looking around at his handiwork.
“Sweetie, how about you save up all thoughts inside your head and wow me with them on the way home?” Poor, saint-of-a-woman Emmett pleads, disguised in a loving tone, with him. “And while you’re thinking, maybe work a little faster to help clean up your… uh… this mess?”
“Laney, Dane, I’m so sorry. I had no idea things would get so out of hand. I’ll be more than happy to pay for replacements of… um… you know what, just make me a list once you have the tally.” Whitley’s pale and glossy-eyed, ready to burst into tears at any moment.
“Thank you, Whit, very nice of you to offer, but completely unnecessary. It’s just stuff, most of which we probably didn’t need in the first place. And take a gander at our mascot, crawling around on his hands and knees, picking stuff up, shins bleeding through his jeans. Savor the sight, folks. Can’t put a price tag on that.”
“Damn right,” I agree with Dane, high-fiving him. “Come on, let’s fix your sad-ass tree.”
“That one I still don’t understand; even with you involved, honey. How do you not realize you’re wrestling a Christmas tree?” Emmett asks.
“Well, dear, am I allowed to talk out loud now, or should I save this in my head for later too?” Epic… Sawyer Beckett, peering up at her from his “Crouching Pussy, Unhidden Dumbass” pose to pout. “If permitted to speak, my answer is, speed was my winning strategy. Which means, I was pretty much all up in the tree all at once.”
