Wishing you Poverty and Chastity this Christmas

“Thank you for putting together such a great package, Class,” my teacher said.

I had taken several cans of corn and green beans from our pantry to add to the adopt-a-family donation my high school class put together. Some family, right here in our own town, was going to have a brighter Christmas. The bell rang and I was officially on Winter Break. I left through the double doors and walked the half-block home.

I walked slowly, in no hurry to make it back to the house. It had undergone a horrifying transformation in the previous month. Like a beacon to spacemen, the house was lit up on all sides. Several mechanical reindeer bobbed their heads up and down in the snow. The crabapple tree boasted about a million twinkling lights. Santa, complete with motion detector, waited at the door to greet me with an ass-shaking rendition of a song telling me he was coming to town. I stood in the driveway amazed at the work my dad had done and amazed at how much I hated it.

I gave Santa the finger and he told me I had better watch out. My mom had attached huge bells to the front door, so my attempt at a stealthy entrance was foiled. I wiped my feet on a poinsettia welcome mat and went to wipe myself with snowman toilet paper. I washed my hands with holiday spice soap and dried them with a candy-cane-striped towel.

I went to my room and shut the door, blocking out all the flashing lights. I lit some incense to kill the smell of cinnamon and cheer. I turned on my stereo to drown out Celine Dion wishing us all a merry little Christmas. I buried my nose in a book until I was forced to come out of hiding. Dinner was almost ready and I was to set the table.

Each plate was painted with an overflowing sleigh, the glasses were red and green and the serving spoons were etched with more poinsettias. I sat the table, averting my eyes from the blinding light of the tree. The needles of the fake tree were no longer visible. My mother had masterfully covered every square inch with ornaments. There were at least thirty wrapped boxes: some for me, some for my brothers, some for my parents, and a bunch for the dog.

“Blankets?” I heard my mother say, as she and my father walked in to the kitchen, “What the hell do I need blankets for?”

“Honey, that is just what they gave us, we can’t be picky.”

“And I already have everything I need for dinner! I don’t need any of those damned canned goods!”

“What are you guys yelling about?” My youngest brother asked, before I could beat him to it.

“You know that your dad doesn’t make a lot of money so we signed up for a program to try and get you kids some more presents.”

My dad brought a package out of their bedroom. The box was eerily similar to the one I had deposited corn and green beans in to that afternoon.

“Oh my god!” I said, scandalized. “Seriously? We’re the poor family?”

“We qualified for the program,” my mother said, defending herself, “I was thinking of you kids. I asked them for a Nintendo because I thought you kids would love it, but they just sent us food and stupid blankets and a twenty-five dollar gift card to Wal-Mart. We did it for you. We did it for all of you.”

I didn’t hear a word she said. I clicked the “Mute Mom” button on my brain remote.

The dog received his plate of pot roast with all the fixings and we all held hands while my dad said thank you for the blessings, yadda yadda, blah blah blah.

My other kid-brother, the infamous middle child, was right on cue.

“Hey, does anyone else think it is a little jacked up that we are doing this?” He said.

“Doing what?” My father asked.

“Well, last year there was no tree, no dancing Santa and no jingle bells. We didn’t sing carols, we sat around and talked about how everyone in the world was a materialistic Satan-worshiper.“

“The Church was wrong,” my mother said, “They have the right to change their doctrine...”

“It’s all insane,” I interrupted, “There is a freakin’ nativity scene on the piano!”

“Both of you will stop this instant!”

I continued, “And what the hell is up with the care package? You have plenty of money for all of this stupid crap,” I did my best Vanna, “But not enough presents, so you have to sign us up for the poor-adopt-a-family-program?!”

“Young lady, I bought all of this stuff at garage sales.”

She must have been referring to those garage sales where everything has a price tag, and you receive a free Macy’s or Kohl’s bag with purchase. She forgot I took out the trash from time to time.

“Whatever,” was all I said.

I kept to myself as much as I could until Christmas morning. I admit to feeling a bit chipper when we sat around drinking hot chocolate and opening presents. My brothers each got a new stereo, so I knew I was getting something big, too. My big present came in a little box.

I opened it to find a gold ring. There were three hearts on it. It was cute, not really my style, but a nice gesture. I was about to thank my parents when my mother began an explanation of the ring. She told me it was very special. She told me that one heart represented me, one represented my future husband, and one represented my commitment to remain a virgin until I married. I choked on a mini-marshmallow. I had been given a chastity ring.

“Uh, wow, Mom,” I said. “That’s really… nice.”

“You will wear it until the day you are no longer a virgin and then take it off. That is how I will know.”

Holy sweet mother of baby Jesus, I thought. My boyfriend had given me a ring too, the day before, right before I fucked him. I was seventeen and had turned in my V-card over a year earlier. My mother watched, expectantly, as I put the ring on.

A short while later, I sat outside with a new steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand. The neighborhood was completely still. Snow fell in big, silent flakes. I sat on a bench beneath the crabapple tree, fiddling with the ring and staring in to nothing. I felt like the devil parading as a nun. We pretended to be poor. I pretended to be chaste. We pretended that every holiday prior to this we hadn’t judged and mocked people who celebrated Christmas, calling them sinners and condemning them to an eternity of burning in a lake of fire.
We sent out gaudy cards, joined the Black Friday chaos, and even put a little wreath on the front of the mini-van. It was the first time I felt completely fake and completely out of touch with my family. It was my first Christmas.

Hindsight

“Hey, I am having a party and there is this guy here who won’t shut up about you,” said my friend. “When I told him that you were my friend, he begged me to call and ask you over.”

“Well, why wasn’t I invited to begin with?” I asked, teasingly, “And who is this guy talking about me?”

I pretended to lack interest, but I hadn’t had any good fun in a while. My unexceptional boyfriend was in Japan, not to return for six more months.

“He says ya’ll go waaay back,” He slurred slightly, which suggested he had been partying for a while. Then he told me the mystery guy’s name.

My heart clenched. It felt as though it were a lead weight and had dropped in to my feet. I didn’t know whether to be thrilled or furious.

“I didn’t know he was home.” I said, a little too quietly.

“Wha??”

“Nothing, never mind,” I said. “I will be there in about an hour.”

I looked presentable, but I wanted some time to compose myself. I needed some time to rehearse, out-loud, the impending conversation I was not prepared to have.

“Hey.” I said to my reflection. I practiced a look of nonchalance with a touch of sexy. I batted my eyes just right, and opted for a different pair of jeans that better hugged my award-winning ass, if there were such an award.

“How are you?” My reflection replied.

“I am good.” Practicing my best sly smile. “I didn’t know you were home.”

What would he say, though?

“I am really sorry.”

“Oh, are you? A little late for that, don’t you think?” I snapped, surprising even myself.

“I didn’t mean to leave things as we did.”

I rambled about ten more versions of the dialogue, only coming to the same conclusion: I had no idea what was going to happen. I promised myself that I would not let his smile work this time. During our friendship, I never held a grudge, but I wanted to now. I wanted to be hurt and angry.

Even as I said these things I could feel my heartstrings pull and couldn’t ignore the current of anticipation that was building inside me. It had been five months. Our last parting had left me crushed, drinking heavily for days, and crying to my friends.

I chain smoked my way to the party. I blasted motivational heavy-metal music like an athlete before a game. I was preparing for battle.

I arrived at the party and parked a block away so I could walk slowly in the crisp air. It was Christmastime in Colorado. My breath billowed around me. I walked in the gutter, crunching the glassy ice that had formed, remembering similar times on walks home from school, walks with him.

I took a massive breath before opening the door to the house. I immediately saw several of my friends, and walked through a cloud of smoke as I passed the entry. I gave a few hugs and hit a few joints before making my way to the garage. He was sitting on a folding chair, chatting with people I didn’t recognize.

He smiled big and slow. I found myself involuntarily mirroring his expression.

To break the tension, I introduced myself to the others and grabbed a Guinness out of the refrigerator. I fumbled for a moment looking for a bottle opener.

“Still drinkin’ like a man.” He said, more than asked. He rose and stood in front of me. He took the bottle from my hands. I shoved them in my pockets.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” I thought to myself. “You know how to deal with this. You know this guy better than he knows himself.”

“And he could say the same thing about you.” My conscience answered.

“Fuck off!” I told my self, but I knew I was right. He didn’t have to see my hands to know that they were shaking.

I nervously caught, avoided, and re-caught his gaze as he opened my beer, and handed it back. He had lost weight.

“You look great.” I said, before thinking it through.

He chuckled. “The Marines will do that to you. Kicking my fuckin’ ass.”

I laughed. He looked fantastic. I had seen him after he had returned from basic training, but only for a short while, and only to end in heartbreak. He looked even better now, as if he had relaxed in to his new lifestyle. It suited him.

We chatted nervously, tip-toeing around anything remotely sensitive, each of us aware of the last time we had spoken. I wondered if he was reliving it in his head as I was.

I remembered the look on his face that day five months prior. Complete indifference. In the years that I had known him, he was never cold, never distant. He was my best friend and, even though we never admitted it to anyone, he was much more than a friend when no one was looking.

I asked him to stay with me on that night. We had not seen each other since graduation and only had a few days left before we both went off on separate adventures. My parents were out of town and…

He said no. He never said no. We had a house, with a bed, without parents, for twenty-four hours. NO?

I said nothing, only sat, perplexed. He was in the drivers seat, staring out the front windshield. It was the only time that I could not read his thoughts.

“Okay.” I finally said, quietly. I leaned over to kiss him and was met by motionless lips and a blank stare.

“Did I do something to upset you?” I asked.

“We can talk about it later.” He said, without looking at me. “Bye.”

And with his “bye”, I felt a pang of panic. That “bye” was different. In the weeks that followed, I replayed the events of that day over and over hoping to discover what went wrong. He came back from basic training, his mother had hosted a party, and then I asked him for a ride home. That is all I knew.

He had shut me out. He never explained it, and he had not contacted me until…

I pulled my attention back to where he stood, looking down on me as he spoke. My heart was pounding. I was shocked to find that my beer was approaching empty.

He caught me looking at it and chuckled again.

“You killed it, Chiquita,” he said, using the nickname he had given me in seventh grade.

“I like Guinness.” I replied, absently, just looking for something to say.

“It’s okay,” He said, looking me in the eye, “I’m nervous too. Let’s mingle,” and he offered me his arm.

We walked around the party, enjoying brief conversations with clusters of people. We took a shot of tequila together in the kitchen. We eventually found ourselves outside. I took out my Marlboro Lights and lit one.

He scolded me, using my full name, and then winked as he lit his own. I had a sudden burst of courage, perhaps fueled by tequila.

“So, the big elephant in the room… “ I began.

“It was a huge mistake.” He interrupted.

“What do you mean?”

“I was acting like an idiot, for stupid idiot reasons. I was mad. My pride was bruised. Instead of telling you, I let it fester, and then proceeded to make the biggest mistake of my life.”

“What were you mad about?” I asked, trying to fight the tight swelling in my throat.

“I wrote to you when I was in Boot. You never wrote back.”

I took a deep breath and thought. I had been traveling when he was in Boot. I had received his letters all at once, when the mail finally caught up with the bus I was on. I received them only two weeks before his post-Boot Camp party, only two weeks before he had stopped talking to me. I never wrote back, because there was no time.

He was still talking as I remembered this.

“… and I know that I had no right to be upset. You were having fun, and it’s not like I’m not your boyfriend but I still missed you and you have the right to do whatever you want and… and who am I to be jealous when I don’t get all of your attention? It was a stupid thing to…”

I stopped him and explained the situation with the letters. As I did, he looked down at the ground and shook his head slowly.

“I am so sorry.” He said.

“So am I.” I agreed, sincerely.

He hugged me then, making me feel tiny in his frame. I continued to swallow the ball in my windpipe.

With our hatchets buried, we were feeling lighter and happier. We toasted to ourselves and joked about growing up. I smoked a joint, he drank a beer, we both had a shot, and around and around again.

After many hours of shenanigans, the party died. Guests found designated drivers while we sat on the back patio laughing drunkenly, enjoying each other thoroughly. My friend, the host, clumsily said goodnight and told us we could crash on the couch if we wanted to.

We looked at each other. We did not hear a bedroom door shut before I was in his lap.

We made out passionately, the way we always had. His tongue and mouth found all of their familiar spots on my lips and my neck. It was not long before we groped our way inside to christen the couch with clothing, sweat, and musky scent of fulfillment. We talked to each other, breathless. He kissed me on the end of my nose. I memorized all of the little freckles and hairs and spots.

We stayed until early morning. I woke first, needing to head to work only a few hours later. I sat with him on the couch. He held me and told me again that he was sorry.

“I will call you soon.” He promised.

I smiled and kissed him. This time, my kiss was returned. Warm and soft and complete; a kiss I had experienced thousands of times and I always wanted more.

It was snowing outside. I listened to Chicago on the way home. I forgot to light my cigarette.

Crossroads sneak up on us, giving us ill time to consider outcomes, giving us an excuse to say something about hindsight.

…

Everyone is finally asleep. It took some time to get the little one down, but my loving and devoted husband is such a great help. He is sleeping peacefully as well. I kissed him good night and said a silent “thank you” to the powers-that-be for my family. I have made a cup of tea and am taking some time to return emails.

Ding! I have an instant message. I don’t recognize the screen name…

“Hey Chiquita.”

My heart is lead. I close my eyes and remember; it was snowing. I remember the date today. It’s been almost 10 years.

”How are you? Great! I am good! Yea, me too thanks. Two kids now, you? Wow, how old? That’s great! It’s so nice to hear from you…”

I knew the pause would come.

“So, the big elephant in the room…” I start.

“Oh god, it was a huge mistake.”

Dirty Nurse

To say that I noticed the stench would be an understatement, like noticing the smell of a skunk outside. It would be better to say the stench hit me like a locomotive to the face. I immediately looked at Chris in horror. We should have turned back, but that’s hindsight talking.

I took a deep breath before I stepped through the screen door that Chris was holding open. The welcome mat was dog shit. The entire carpet was literally caked with dog shit, which I estimated to have been there since Texas was Mexico.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” I whispered to Chris.

Martha had waddled her gigantic frame into the kitchen, out of sight. I didn’t want to follow. I wanted to run like hell.

I stood in place for a moment. Like a character in a video game, jumping floating rocks across boiling lava, I accessed the best route through ancient dog shit and the many carcasses of dead cockroaches.

The roaches were alive in the kitchen. I threw up in my mouth a little when I saw the couch she wanted to give to us. It was piled with old pizza boxes, various food and candy wrappers, empty cans, and insects, both dead and alive.

“Oh, I’ll clear that off for you,” she said.

Her massive daughter came in to the room holding a soda and a hot pocket. The fake cheese was on her fingers. She licked it off when she talked.

“Need some help, mom?

“Yeah, help me get this couch cleared off so they can load it in their truck.” Martha said as she opened the back door of the house.

I watched as the two hippos chucked pile after pile of refuse out the back door. The two dogs outside barked and jumped, trying to catch the boxes and wrappers in their teeth.

Martha brushed away the insects with her hands and I noticed the stains. Stains of every color. Red, maybe blood, maybe barbeque sauce. I tried not to guess the origins of the other stains; I already wanted to vomit right there on the nasty floor.

Once the couch was cleared off, Chris went to one end and motioned me to grab the other. I looked at him wide eyed and shook my head quickly, but he mouthed the word “Go” and nodded toward the door.

I picked it up backward, so it rested on my back. I didn’t want to put my face next to it. It was already bad enough that I had to touch the filthy thing. It smelled of shit and trash and fat people. We loaded it in the bed of the truck. I threw up in the grass.

“Chris, let’s go,” I said while I rinsed my mouth out with bottled water.

“We can’t do that!” He said. “She is trying to do us a favor. You know she’ll tell my mom and all of the other nurses. It would be rude.”

“Rude?!” I said, a little too loud. Then a little quieter, “I don’t think that manners are very fucking important right now, Chris. These nasty women live in an outhouse… seriously. I am totally cool going without furniture until we can do better than this.”

“I’m going back in. The only thing left is the bed frame and headboard, and those aren’t made of cloth, so they should be okay, right?”

“Whatever,” I said, with a new cigarette in my lips. “I will come in when the mosh pit in my stomach is over.”

I took another deep breath, and looked back at the truck longingly as I walked back in to hell. Then I realized I had to pee.

I carefully walked down the hall, breathing through my mouth, fighting the urge to blow chunks when each step crunched on shit or carcass. I opened the bathroom door and lost the fight. I threw up in the sink. I didn’t even bother washing it down the drain because I didn’t want to touch the faucet. It’s not like they would notice any way. I rather preferred the scent of vomit over the reek I was already experiencing.

There were several piles of shit in the bathroom. Just like the rest of the house, the toilet had never been cleaned. There was a gaping hole in the tiled shower wall. A solid path of ants lead from it, to an old soda can that sat on the bathtub's edge. A roach fell from the top of the medicine cabinet in to the vomit puddle and I let out a squeal.

“Sorry, love. I should have warned you about the ants.” Martha hollered from the kitchen.

“No, you should have warned me that you and your morbidly obese daughter are the nastiest people on the planet.” I thought.

I decided I would hold it and nature-pee on the way home. The thought of poison ivy or a rattlesnake bite to the ass was far more appealing.

“The bed stuff is back here,” Martha said, starting to walk down an unsettlingly dark hallway. “I kept the frame and the headboard in the dog’s bathroom.”

“What?!” I almost said it out loud. I felt Chris reach backward and touch my leg, to comfort me, or keep me silent, I don’t know.

She opened a door and pulled on a string to turn on the light. The headboard was sitting there. I immediately knew that the dogs were boys. The bottom half of the headboard was so water… no… piss damaged that the wood was warped and wavy and peeling.

“I-don’t-think-it’s-gonna-work.” I said, quickly, with a big, fake smile and wide eyes.

“Why not?” Chris said through gritted teeth.

“It’s a queen size.” I said. “I absolutely must have a king size!”

“King size? What are…” I kicked him to shut him up. The idiot even said, “Ow.”

“We will just take the rails for the mattress,” Chris said while rubbing his calf. “We really appreciate everything.”

I let him carry all the rails. I could not get out fast enough. I had to wipe my feet outside when we left the house. I laughed a little, deliriously, at the irony of it. I jumped in the drivers seat and started the truck. I pulled away before Chris even shut the passenger door.

I was silent, smoking and speeding for a few blocks before I calmed down. The smell was still in my nose. I shivered with disgust.

“We can always try to Febreeze the couch.” Chris said.

I looked over at him, astounded.

“Yeah, I am sure that would work out real well.” I almost yelled. “Hey, maybe Glade makes an anti-squalor fragrance! Or maybe we can just rub it down with potpourri! Or… Or, I know! We can just soak it in gasoline and burn the motherfucker! Yeah!”

Chris didn’t respond.

When we arrived back at our apartment complex, I backed the truck up to the closest dumpster.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked.

“What the fuck does it look like?” I answered. “Get out and help me.”

We sat the couch next to the dumpster. In any normal circumstance, some random person would have snagged it. Families came by, picked up the cushions and ran away. They sat on it before they noticed the smell and then jumped up in horror. They even tried to pick it up when a rogue cockroach came out of the cushions, forcing them to drop it, breaking the legs, and releasing a few more insects.

I watched it all from my apartment where I sat on my new bug-and- shit-free sofa, laughing hysterically.