Nobody Reads This Page – "Christmas Contrast"

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

“It is all well and good for children and acid freaks to still believe in Santa Claus – but it is still a profoundly morbid day for us working professionals. It is unsettling to know that one out of every twenty people you meet on Xmas will be dead by this time next year... Some people can accept this, and some can’t. That is why God made whiskey, and also why Wild Turkey comes in $300 shaped canisters during most of the Christmas season...” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

The holidays are a time of remembrance and unity. A block of days on the calendar when joy and goodwill and bountiful blessings are foremost in our thoughts. Silver and gold ornaments adorn trees and doorsteps, with boughs of holly. Festive lights illuminate the early darkness. Sweet treats and refreshments flow freely. Yet for this writer, the best Yuletide memories have always come as my life was a chaotic mess. Something about a Christmas steeped in contrast brings out the true worth of this worldwide celebration.

 

An example of this personal phenomenon came in 1983, while I lived in New York State.

 

I had careened through the summer, bouncing from home to home without a real plan to survive. Drunkenness was my prevailing condition. I stayed numb, and loyal to the ridiculous notion that somehow, despite lacking any musical education or reliable bandmates, a kiss of success would help me rise. I lived and breathed that delusion, willingly. Anyone with a bottle or a full pack of cigarettes was my friend. When those in my orbit grew weary of this capriciousness, I ended up staying under a bridge in our city. It was dirty and cold. I had only a leather motorcycle jacket for comfort. My feet hurt from walking. I did not bathe regularly. My glasses had broken, so I couldn’t see clearly. That handicap didn’t matter too much because I was inebriated during all of my waking hours. Being nearly blind kept me comfortably in a cocoon of fantasy.

 

I managed to spend some time with my girlfriend and fiancé, who had apartments at various locations. She was older but also artistic. A painter and designer of clothing and jewelry. We meshed perfectly but dragged each other down because neither of us had a practical bent. She liked red wine, which suited my tastes. I ended up with lots of headaches and eventually, lost days that could never be recovered. As a practical matter, job interviews were comic in nature during this reckless time. I met with a manager at a local Byrne Dairy store, a convenience depot, and flubbed my way through their application process. If I had been sober, the expressions of shock and revulsion I received might have had a greater effect. But I slagged it off as meaningless.

 

I couldn’t even sign my name legibly.

 

My bride-to-be must have known that our starry-eyed relationship was doomed. She exited early on a weekend morning, taking a flight to California. This left me alone and shattered. When I confessed my abandonment, a friend in Corning was more concerned with recording tracks for a future vinyl release, than anything else. We worked at a frantic pace, booking studio time, arranging songs, and scheduling with other musicians who would join our project. The rapid-fire escapade lasted for nine days in a row. I slept in my clothes, chain-smoked Camel Filters, and bombed my brain with Jack Daniel’s. The yield was a completed 45 rpm single, and abject homelessness that followed.

 

Snow stung my face as I walked the streets. I had two pennies in a pocket of my denim trousers. My stomach groaned and growled throughout the day. I wished for a friend to buy pizza. But my welcome had been worn out, completely. No one could suffer my presence any longer, and I could not bear to gaze into a mirror. It was over. I couldn’t drink away my failure.

 

I weighed 148 pounds, less than when I had been a student in junior high school.

 

A gracious compadre from our circle offered to take me home to Ohio, as an act of pity. I think that he must have wondered if I might die on the concrete, otherwise. Because my joints were stiff and sore from the frosty temperatures, I took his offer gratefully. It made me think of Bob Dylan’s lyric about being destitute, but liberated.

 

“When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose. You’re invisible now, you’ve got no secrets to conceal...”

 

On my way out of the Empire State, I felt very much invisible, indeed.

 

Ohio was the last place I wanted to see. I had relished my escape from the Midwest. From the confines of religious convention and dogma. From the straitjacket of manual labor and punching a time clock. From responsibilities and rules. None of these things were appealing in any sense. Yet I was hungry. I wanted to sleep somewhere that did not teem with insects and rodents. So, I felt conflicted. Something, somehow, had to change. Which option was more palatable, I wondered? To crash and burn on my raucous race toward the judgment of fate, or to steer away from calamity? Away from the high wall of consequences? In the moment, I was unsure.

 

Seeing my family again, after a long period apart, answered this nagging question.

 

The artificial evergreen I remembered from childhood days had been pulled out of its cardboard sheath, and set up in a corner of the household living room. It glowed with purpose, brightening the entire space. I felt truly warm for the first time in many months. Not only in the flesh, but also in spirit.

 

My parents and siblings did not criticize, or prod me for details about what had transpired. It did not matter at that juncture. I had made it home in time to share the season, that was enough. The present I received from them on that day was greater than anything wrapped up and tied with ribbons and bows.

 

It was the gift of life.