Christmas Game Over

(1)

 You arrive at Ravensdale late because Emer lost her phone and you both had to rummage around for it for half an hour until it was eventually found.  It's really cold and wet outside.  You accidentally upend the umbrella in the mad dash to get into the taxi.  'Imbecile,' she says.

 Ravensdale lies below the Cooley mountains on the outskirts of Dundalk.  It's a beautiful little sleepy place.  There are houses sprinkled here and there across the Cooley belly and as you approach in the darkness you can both see through your frosted taxi windows the blinking Christmas lights trickling through the hills like fizz and whizz in speckled streams.  

 Emer's folks live in one of the most flamboyant houses out here.  It's painted bright yellow outside, so very easy to see.  You've always had it in for that yellow house and all yellow houses ever since you first came out here with Emer and that fucker Paddy scoffed at you when you talked about ninjas in such a sincere way.  Ninjas weren't a good topic for this future father-in-law.

The party is in full-swing when the two of you get there.  Paddy offers you a drink. He seems in a good mood.  Well, it's Christmas.  For tea, go to (2).  For beer, go to (4)  For whiskey, go to (3)

 

 

(11)

 You stand in the doorway together waiting for the taxi, watching the rain pelt the roofs of the remaining parked cars.  There's a cold wind of whining old ghosts sneaking around in the dark, going one way, then the other, and sometimes rushing up to you with a good hard shock in the face.  Emer shivers a little. 

'Do you want to go back inside and wait?'

'No, it's ok.  Taxi shouldn't be long.  I just want to get home.'

 She seems distant.  Even with alcohol inside her.  You find yourself looking up at the sky, then at her, then at your shoes, then at the rain on the roofs, then up at the sky again and straining for a sense of the intimacy that was once there.  The feeling is like waiting in line at the dole as usual except you're even more unsure if anything good will come at the sorry end of it all.  'You know I love you no matter whatever,' you say.

Emer sighs at first, then smiles.

'I love you too, you gobshite.'

 

 

(5)

Her name is Colette.  You quickly inform her that it is one of your favourite names and subsequently feel slightly embarrassed about this admission as it may have seemed like you were chatting her up.  You say that you remember the name being used for a really lovely character in a book you read when you were younger to hopefully cover your tracks.  Colette is very angry that the government is currently in the process of closing emergency services in the local hospital.  The closure will direct all emergency services to Drogheda 30 miles away.  'It's horrendous,' she says. 'We'll be Third World again in no time.'  Colette is already half-cut.  You wonder how long she's been here, or what she was drinking before she arrived.  But she still carries herself mightily.  You wish you could carry yourself so well under that level of intoxication.  She is more interested in talking to the better-dressed persons around you, so you can either join a lecture a hairy guy is giving right now (7) or continue wandering (2)

 

 

(3)

 After a few drinks, you maybe go a bit overboard in the conversation with your father-in-law.  You have nothing to talk with him about other than his daughter, your wife, but then you remember his poetry, so you decide to ask him about his latest poem. 

 'Hey Paddy, what's your latest poem?' 

'It's about Palestine. All those helpless children.'

'What's it called?'

'Divine Divine.'

'Two divines?'

'Yes.'

'Wow.  Why two?'

'Why not two?  You don't understand.  I use the word 'divine' for rhythm.  Like for example in a song.'

You survey the feast of folks.  You now have the courage to approach someone and just start talking.  You have nothing to lose.  There are a number of people here for you to talk to.  So time to choose.  To talk to an occultist, (6)  Talk to an interesting nurse, (5)

 

 

(7)

 'There are ruins in the yard of an old chapel brought down by a storm sometime in the 1800's.  If you've been out there, I'm sure you've seen it.  Well, there used to be a man called Simons who owned a chippy in the centre of town and he used to go out there digging for relics in the ruins.  Thought he was Indiana Jones.  But this happened a few years before Raiders of the Lost Ark, so he was well ahead of Spielberg.  Ha.  You hear me?  Anyway,  you know what it was like back there in the 70's and 80's.  The place was full of curious and cryptic types.  It was a golden time for the town.  Well, he ventured out there one night to do some more digging and he got a bit carried away with himself and ended up staying very late.  At about 11 O' Clock, having found nothing under the sod, as was usual for the misguided fool, he decided it was best to finish up and get himself home.  He was stumbling out of the ruined church when he heard a sound at one of the headstones nearby.  It sounded like the whimper of an injured dog or something.  He had an Alsatian husky at home himself, so he thought he would help the poor thing if indeed that's what it was.'

 'An Alsatian husky?  How do you know that?' said one of the listeners.

 'I don't know, will you let me get on with it?  Anyway,  he cleared away the snaky ivy and long grass in front of him, and got to the headstone.  Of course, the graveyard was so old that you couldn't tell where the graves were, and the headstones were so old and weathered and covered in moss that it was hard to make out if it was even a headstone or not.   It was very quiet.  And very dark.'

'Do you want another drink, Jimmy, while you're telling the story?' a voice interrupted.

'Yeah.  Be a good man.'

'What'll it be?'

'Another one of these,' he said, holding up a near-full can of Harp.  'Anyway, as I was saying, it was very quiet.  And very dark.  Simons tried to get a closer look at the gravestone.  He shone his torch on it, but he couldn't make out anything like words.  It looked like nothing had ever been engraved on it in its lifetime, but he was sure it was a gravestone.  It was shaped as such and protruded upright from the ground in a gravestone way.  He suddenly heard another sound behind him, like a low squeal, and when he turned to shine his torch, the headstone he'd been looking at, suddenly fell over, thumping onto the turf, nearly crushing his feet.  And then..... he saw them.  They were creeping out of every  sliver of light his torch could find.  They were creeping slowly towards him.  The Grass-Fairies. They raped him and carried him to the Grave-Swallowers.  He was never seen again.  So there you go.'

 'What the fuck?'

'Mad, isn't it?'

'There's your drink, Jimmy,' came his friend with another Harp.

'Thanks.'

'I thought you said it was a Christmas story,' you say to Jimmy the storyteller.

'Well, yes,' he said.  'It all happened on a dark Christmas Eve.'

'So the chipper was swallowed up whole by the graveyard?'

'Yeah.'

'I've heard that before, but it was told much better.  The way you told it......too vague at the end.'

'Hey, don't shoot the messenger.  Find the harvester and forward your complaints there.  What more do you expect at this time of night?'

You walk away.

 The music playing is Mozart or something.  Not very Christmassy, but you are sure that if you brought it up with your father-in-law, he would tell you that it is Mozart's Reindeer Requiem or some shite.  Should you ask your mother-in-law who is standing across from you now if you can change the music (8), or just find Emer (9)

 

 

(2)

 You wander around for a while as Emer catches up with family.  You look at Paddy's library again. It's a magazine cover of bibliographic celebration.  After some time, you begin to bore of drinking what you are drinking, and head to the kitchen to ask someone for a drink.  You walk past many people talking about how commercial the Christmas season has got.  Christmas smalltalk gets more commercial every year.  In the kitchen, you look around for someone you know who you could possibly ask for a drink.  You and Emer brought bottles of brandy and wine but those were party gifts.  There is nobody in the kitchen who you know.  You'll have to engage a stranger.  'Excuse me,' you ask a furry man with a great-philosopher look about him.  'Do you know where I could find a drink?'  He kindly shows you the fridge and a tower block of bottled spirits midway through demolition on the table.  You go for the whiskey, throw one into you, and reach for a beer from the fridge.  'Thanks,' you say to the philosopher who waves you begone from the bethinking area.  Go to (3) 

 

 

(6)

 Your friend Geary would love this guy.  He dresses like a wizard,  quotes Anton LaVey, and tells you about the Youtube videos he has done about how the illuminati have been systematically poisoning our breakfast cereals to get to the kids.  You ask him if they put that stuff in Sugar Puffs, your favourite, and he says Yes.  All of them.  Holy shit, you say.  Where can I find your videos?  Youtube, he replies.  He's also done some movie reviews which you can also find on his channel. He bitches and moans about the decorations in town.  They're not red enough.  They're not green enough.  They're not Christmas enough.  You agree completely with him.  You too refuse to grow up.  But you're also confused by why an Occultist would care so much about Christmas decorations.  You are hit with another drink.  Nobody asks you this time.  You have no choice.  You just have to drink that fucking whiskey that is put in front of you.

            'I'll tell you all a local Christmas story you'll never forget. You know the old graveyard out there by the secondary schools on the Castletown Road?  Under Cuchullain's Castle.' 

 Many ghost stories begin with an old graveyard, but if the old graveyard in question happens to be one you know exists and have seen for yourself, you can forgive the cliche.  And this is exactly what you do.  Just go to (7) lazy

 

 

(10)

You are very drunk now wobbling around in the sitting room.  You brush past the Christmas tree and accidentally knock a Buddha Santa figurine off it.  It smashes to bits on the nearby hearth.  As you crouch to gather it up saying 'It's ok, it's ok', you start wondering why the fuck someone would have a Buddha Santa, and who the fuck came up with the idea to make one.  It doesn't make any sense.  Only in a fuckin' yellow house.  Your mother-in-law arrives with a dustpan and shooshes you away.  A jubilant lady catches you as you nearly fall again.  'Whoops, don't fall, my love.'  You are too drunk to thank her for her concern and head straight for the kitchen and some quietude.  Your wife, Emer, looks over for a moment, sighs and goes back to her conversation.  You have done it now.  That's it.  What else can you do? 

Go to Emer (9) or find another guest to talk to (5) or (7)

 

 

(4) 

You wander around for a while as Emer catches up with family and friends that pay only the mildest courtesy to you.  Boring.  After some time, you begin to tire of just drinking beer, and head to the kitchen to ask someone for something stronger.  You walk past many people talking about how commercial the Christmas season has got.  Christmas smalltalk gets more commercial every year.  In the kitchen, you look around for someone you know who you could possibly ask for a drink.  You and Emer brought bottles of brandy and wine but those were party gifts you couldn't exactly start diving for.  You'll have to engage a stranger.  You haven't done this in a while.  'Excuse me,' you ask a furry man with a great-philosopher look about him.  'Do you know where I could find a drink?'  He kindly hands you a bottle of whiskey and shows you the fridge.   'Thanks,' you say to the philosopher who waves you begone from the bethinking area.  Eventually you get back to Emer and her parents.  Go to (3)

 

 

(9)

You are in front of Emer again.  She doesn't want to talk to you.  You can tell.  She is delighted to be in the company of others tonight.  Maybe you should stay out of her way.  But you say, 'Hi' anyway.  You know some of the people she is talking to.  They have become closer to her since the night of the fight outside McManus's pub.  You wonder what she has told others about it.  She probably hasn't told them anything.  Hopefully not.  They had agreed between them not to say a word, but it is obvious that the word has somehow gotten out.  You hope she didn't just say that she beat the hell out of the attackers and that you were useless.  Even though that was kind of true.  You have always hated these parties, trying to adapt yourself to a gaggle of individuals, all more socially confident than yourself.  It's all too immediate for someone like you who usually deliberates on things before getting around to doing them some other time.  To meet, to greet, to kindle and rekindle.  You feel crowded with the need to get on with things.  These kinds of events are not good for one like you and your putting of things off.  It's a sad day for procrastination.  Emer mentions she might go home soon.  Should you be enthusiastic about this, (11), or would you like to talk to some other guests (6) or (5)

 

 

(8) 

'Could you play some Christmas music?'

'Christmas music.  Eh, I think that might be okay.  But I'm not sure if we have any?  Ask Paddy.'

'Oh, it's ok,' you say.  'If you don't have any, it doesn't matter.  I just thought it would be nice to add to the Christmassy spirit.'

'I know what you mean.'

You go and stand in a corner and tearfully recall the first time you heard that Jona Lewie song. 

Continue mingling, (10)

Find Emer, (9)