Merry Nickmas

No time like the holidays for black comedy. I love writing this character, and figured that I would get in the holiday spirit. 

1.  

As Nick erected the three-foot, plastic Christmas tree that had been his for a generation, he felt as though he had been shot with a yuletide harpoon. In earlier times, even the rustling of the plastic branches would have brought joy just short of world peace, but as a productive member of the working class, it brought back memories, and with them life questions. Contrasted against the bright red and green lights his life seemed grey and dull. On the one hand he was lucky to have a job in an economic climate akin to a venomous snake pit, on the other, he yearned for the freedom of unemployment. As part of a government regulation, he had been given two days off for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. He had planned to use these two days to mull over his existential crisis with whiskey drenched candy canes, and the warm glow of a flat screen television.

     Just one week before he was to become one with a yuletide hangover, a lovely woman named Darlene (who had given birth to him) gave him a call. She had informed him that his grandfather was not “doing well”, and that “he might not be around for any more Christmases.” This was a parent’s way of saying that grandpa was knocking on death’s door. Nick’s grandfather was a war hero who was very clever at chess and enjoyed scotch more than water, but never enough to become a drunk. In the many years they had spent together, Nick had come to admire the man, and did not want to think of his mother’s implication.

     The implication in itself was also a chess move, only with emotions. By the simple mention of his grandfather’s potential demise, Nick had been backed into a corner, resulting in a check mate. “Alright, I’ll be down Thursday,” he said, trying with no success to hide his glumness. The bottle of Whiskey can go to the cat. Nick hung up the phone and fell onto a mattress that was supposed to contour to his body, but instead congealed in uncomfortable lumps. He marveled at the strides of modern technology until he fell into uneasy judgmental sleep.

2.

     Work the next morning was just as uncomfortable. Prior to his mother’s phone call, Nick had been able to shrug off holiday plans as he did not have any, but now that he did, he had to make conversation about them. “Any fun plans for the holiday Nick?”

     Sod off and bother someone who gives a fuck, was what Nick thought. While it would have brought about the result Nick wanted (an end to conversation), it would also have dropped hot napalm on the delicate tapestry that was remaining employed. “I’m going home to see my folks,” he replied, with what he believed to be a cheery air.

Apparently he had come off melancholy, as the response he got was “Bless your heart. Family can be difficult, but they’re the only one’s we’ve got.” The woman, stocky, and smelling like scented pine cones, wrapped Nick in a filthy hug. He found himself wishing that she would implode from the sheer force of his unease. Nick did not possess any such magic powers that would have made the action possible, and so the hug continued unabated.

A cycle of greetings, back pats, and festive wishes assaulted Nick throughout the day. Every time he turned a corner he felt like he was navigating a merry mine field, and each step ended with him blown sky high by more jubilant exclamations than he could handle. By the time five o’clock came round, he felt more a fuzzy green humbug (not named for fear of copyright infringement), living atop a mountain, pissing all over the joy of those below. Christmas had never been something that Nick actively hated until he had spent every day of December in a grey office building, actively participating in the demands of the greater good.

Watching coworkers flock around plastic trees, their hands trembling from the weight of paperwork, and heads adorned with baubles intended to bring back childhood memories just made him sad. The year before, Nick had been unemployed and crashed on the couch of his parents’ home, eggnog in hand, and reruns on the television. It occurred to him that there was nothing so noble in the world as getting good and tipsy to re-runs of Charlie Brown’s Christmas.

As he stepped out of the office double doors, a perky man in a holiday vest that might have been a war crime, jumped up just in time to have one last barbaric yawp of cheer. Nick returned the greeting, and was nearly blinded by the train-wreck of Christmas ornaments and hand-knit trees on the man’s chest. The grey drizzle outside was a welcome reminder that the world was not so cheery, despite its denizens’ best efforts. He pulled up his hood and began the long trudge home.