The Story That Should Have Been

Ciao, Tutti!

Once upon a time, Sam goldsmith put together an event to take place each Sunday where authors would come to the Flaming Fire Eternal Christmas site and read stories they had written. The first of these reading days was supposed to be on December 6th, but there was no one to read to, and so Sam went back to his schoolwork. The next Sunday the event was canceled because of Children's Day, where he was supposed to lead a "participatory writing workshop." There were six kids, so Sam went back to his schoolwork again.

But the third time, December 20th, was the best event ever.

That was because Sam had gathered some of the finest writers in all the land (ie. New York City), headlined by John Wray, and also including Emily Gould, Michael Leviton, and cartoonist John Matthias. With Sam reading the best piece of writing he has ever written alongside writers as established as John Wray, December 20th show was for sure the best ever.

To see how the story ends, please come to 525 Atlantic Ave, Brooklyn, New York, New York, at 4:30 on Sunday, December 20th. We will write the ending together!

If there had been a crowd on Sunday, December 6th, then I would have read this story, which I will probably have no occasion to read anymore. It's creative non-fiction, so if you recognize me tweaking some of the facts, don't worry; that's intentional.

Outdoors, Without TV: A Christmas-Themed Memoir

1046 Words

Well, it looks like I’m going to be spending another Christmas alone, just the way I like it. I bought myself the third season of Avatar: The Last Airbender and I’m going to watch it all the way through – all twenty-one episodes worth – and eat take-out Chinese in my pajamas. I’m going to sit cross-legged on my loveseat and shout advice to the characters mid-chew so specks of garlic and egg noodle fly onto the screen. Maybe I’ll clean it off between episodes; we’ll see. I’m not going to turn on any lights, and I’ll leave my phone unplugged.

I don’t ever remember being particularly attached to the Christmas spirit. My earliest Christmas memory is this: when I was a three-year-old Jewish boy and my speech therapist was trying to straighten out my lisp, she showed me a picture of Thanta Cluathe riding his Thled. He was smiling like the trail following a shooting star on those stickers teachers used to give you when you did a good job. I said, “Fat, old man.” My speech therapist thought I was trying to be funny.

I don’t remember ever seeing her again.

While I was growing up my family would spend a day in the 20’s of December with my best friend Isaac’s family, every year. We played a game in which we each pretended to be Wizards, master and apprentice (I was the apprentice), protecting the universe from the evil Sorcerers. We piloted the play structure in his backyard, which had a wheel, a telescope, and a slide. The game didn’t have anything to do with Christmas; we played it year round. Our families ate dinner together after closing our eyes and holding one another’s hands around the circular table, and we stayed that way until his father said in a voice that always sounded louder than it really was, “So nice to be together.” In the next room was the Christmas tree, which made my Jewish side only a little uncomfortable as I ate. When my mother and Isaac’s mother stopped talking to each other, our dinner tradition ended.

Sometimes on Christmas day, me, my father, and my little brother would watch the Lakers morning game and root for the other team, but the Lakers never lost on Christmas. Then we went to the movies, or we rented one. I don’t remember any movies I saw on Christmas day, although I’m sure It’s a Wonderful Life was on the list. My father loved it and drove the rest of us crazy pestering us to watch it with him. I bought him the DVD for Hanukah one year, on sale, and I don’t think my mother will ever forgive me.

In high school I used to spend Christmases with my girlfriend. Christmas was an ongoing event in her house, just like the TV always being on, muted so that we could hear cheesy choral Christmas songs on loop. I would go up the hill every day that week to help her decorate the tree or make cookies or shop or whatever else her family was up to that day. I simply followed and held her hand. One year I bought her an ornament, but my favorites were the cheapest ones, so I figured I didn’t know the right way to buy them. I bought her the most expensive one in the store in my price range ($10), and then realized as I scratched off the price tag she would like it no matter what. She put it in the center of the tree, at her eye level.

On the day we would make gingerbread cookies at her house, Project Runway shining unto us from the small TV in the corner, her bisexual friend Melissa and her family would come over and together we would make effigies of the people we hated and bite off their heads before my girlfriend’s mother could put them in the oven. “This is Alex, with his big icing mouth and sprinkles for his hairy chest!” Chomp! “This is Gregory, with those stupid glasses he always wears and red M&M’s for eyes because he’s possessed by the devil!” Chomp! These voodoo sacrifices filled me with holiday joy.

On Christmas day I would play crazy eights with the little cousins and pretend not to see when they cheated to make them laugh. Then I would try to steal away with my girlfriend, but they wouldn’t leave me alone, even when I switched the TV to Cartoon Network. The year after my girlfriend slept with another guy I went to Christmas anyway because I still thought it could work. I only spent time with the little cousins. I brought them a pair of squishy spike balls from my mother’s emergency gift box. I don’t remember what I bought my girlfriend.

There was one good Christmas day, though, that I’ve always remembered for the right reasons. It was the year we moved to Berkeley, when I was in eighth grade. We spent our first night in the new house on September 10th, 2001. When Bubbi called to tell us that the World Trade Center was toppling we still had to take the TV out of the box. For the rest of September we listened to Radiohead’s “Everything in its Right Place” every day, our things stacked in piles around the bare house, because it was so obvious that nothing was in its right place. When I moved to this small and stinky Park Slope apartment nearly a decade later I listened to the song when I woke up and before going to sleep.

The walkway to the new house was lined with ugly, decrepit bushes that looked like they belonged in the Fire Swamp from The Princess Bride. Mom, a gardener at heart, hated them with a passion, and on December 25, 2001, the whole family set to ripping them from the ground, roots and all. My brother, father, I bent over to grab hold of the base of the bushes, our butts arched towards the sky, and we used our whole weight to pull backward. Tiny leaves as dry as crackers fell from their buds to litter the ground like confetti at our tugging. Mom said, “Pretend it’s a George W. Bush,” to give us strength. Finally the dead plant would give in, and we staggered back from the momentum. Mom was already at the hole with a flower and a spade. We stuffed each bush into the green bin with crinkling sounds, and when there was no room my brother and I climbed in to stomp them down like we were making wine from grapes. Dad tied the dogs to the railing on the porch and shushed them if they saw a squirrel. As people walked by they wished us a merry Christmas, and patted the dirt off the knees of our sweat pants and returned the joy.

It was the best Christmas ever.

Fine

P.S. If you want to also come on Friday, December 18th, at 8:00, Flaming Fire will be performing at the installation space for the only time as a full band. It will be awesome on a stick.

P.P.S. If you want to also come on Sunday, December 27, at 4:30, graphic novelist Ariel Schrag and her sister Tania will be performing. I'm bummed I can't make it, so someone else has to go for me and tell me everything that happens in exact detail.

P.P.P.S. Time to get back to work on finals. Yay...

-Sam goldsmith