Today is the day we celebrate the birth of Saint Tyler, our messiah, savior of us all from the clutches of materialism. To honor him, we burn gifts beneath the tree. We also burn the tree.
I don't tell Tyler Merry Christmas because I don't remember it's Christmas. More important things on my mind. Three hours of sleep. The house lets in the cold in the winter. Too old and fucked up to heat. Badly healed broken rib biting each time I took of breath. And, of course, them, bringing in their own sort of Christmas cheer.
Up on the rooftop, squeak squeak squeak...
I know it's Christmas when I go to work and no one is there. What are you doing? the janitor asked. It's Christmas.
On the train home, the walk home, I see the decorations on the streets. They've been there since Thanksgiving. Had Thanksgiving already passed? I think we had leftover Chinese. It was good.
She's gone when I get home, but Tyler's there. In the kitchen, in his robe, in my slippers. But they aren't my slippers, I remember. They're only things. To keep Saint Tyler's toesy-woesies from having to touch the cold floor.
I wish him a Merry Christmas. Maybe I'm being sarcastic.
Tyler asks me why it's merry. Every other holiday is happy, but Christmas, for some reason, is too good for happy. It's early to be debating semantics, but he's wearing my slippers, so I do.
They say Happy Christmas in England, I think. We're merry here, though. As in making merry. Making whoopee.
Making mayhem.
The biggest commercial holiday of the year, the day that America sucks the cock of materialism and gets a big fat emphasis on the word money shot. Christmas, and I haven't heard a peep from the Patron Saint of Destruction. Maybe he's religious.
Tyler says he'd punch Jesus in the face if given the chance. How often do you get to take a swing at the Son of God?
Happy birthday.
I didn't get him anything. I probably wasn't supposed to. What do you get the man who has nothing? More nothing, I guess.
It's no big deal. Tyler didn't get me anything, either.
But hasn't he given us all the gift of freedom from the material shit of the world, of the bonds holding us down, of all of the shit that society puts on us. Isn't that, Saint Tyler, the greatest gift of all?
The gift of not-giving.
I ask what mayhem will bring in the cheer this year, but he knows I know better to ask questions. I'll just have to wait. And tonight when I see the big tree down in the center of town on fire, and the ice sculpture angels recarved into obscene positions, and the members of the nativity wrapped in Gap and Old Navy, the Virgin Mary gazing adoringly at her new camcorder, and the Baby Jesus gripping his Palm Pilot for all to gaze upon in awe, I'll know.
Merry mayhem to all, and to all a non-commercialized night.
When I was a kid, my mom made me make a Christmas list to send off to Santa, and I'd get almost everything on it.
And Christmas is over, but I make a list in my head. I write the letter. Dear Santa. I've been a very shitty boy this year. You don't have to check twice. But my list is short.
More nothing.
