Hooks

“Come on! You’re not handing them to me fast enough,” Joey says. Under his breath I can faintly hear a string of muffled swear words. We are putting up the fake tree with the sparse spears of tinsel. We stick each thin branch onto the plastic trunk. It looks anorexic and patchy, like all of its hair had fallen out during chemo. We awkwardly string up lights to fill in the gaps.

Fuck, Nye” he screams. He just stepped on a ruby toned bulb I left on the floor. It shattered into pieces like a delicate bird’s egg, paper thin and vulnerable.

I unwrap the tissue paper covered in pictures of candy canes and snowmen. I pull out each ornament. Joey sits on the couch nursing his foot as I hang the Mexican tin stars up, careful not to step on the shattered bulb. The hangers are made of wrapping paper ribbon that that has become brittle and faded. My ex-husband and I bought those our first Christmas. The plastic lobster and the one eyed panda Ray and I bought during an abnormally warm winter. We hardly fought then. The goofy bride and groom smothered with yellow glitter we got right before he packed up his CD collection and cutlery set.

The years have piled up since the Mexican ornaments. My ex-husband and I sent out fifty-three holiday cards that year. We deliberated over what type of card to get, settling on something funny and traditional. We got even more cards in return, our apartment mail box stuffed with colored envelopes from well wishers. Ray and I picked up a generic box of cards from the drugstore and mailed them out a few days before Christmas. A dozen or so envelopes came addressed to us.

It is the night before Christmas. I didn’t send any cards out this year and only two came in the mail. One was from a realtor. The other from an old high school friend who writes letters from the perspective of her cats. Only my name was written on the front in cheery ink. I contemplate this as I put the last ornament on the tree: a pile of plastic grapes.

“Look Joey, the Tree of Failure. Each one tells the story of the demise of my previous relationships. Good thing we haven’t gotten any ornaments,” I say.

“You’re depressing, Nye. You can ruin just about anything,” he says as he goes upstairs to watch TV with a can of beer in his hand.

“Merry fucking Christmas to you, too!” I shout as I flip out all the lights. I stare at the brilliant bulbs as they dance and make shadows on the ceiling. In some ways it seems fitting to see all of my memories hanging from metal hooks.

In the morning, Joey acts like nothing happened. He has daytime amnesia, forgetting harsh words said during the night. He buys me coffee when his anger has eroded. He’s humming a festive holiday song.

“It snowed! I thought we’d have a brown, patchy Christmas. But look,” he sings as he points out the window. Big clumps of snow fall, making a sickly plopping sound on the sidewalk. The tree’s branches are heavy with the slushy mixture, their naked fingertips brushing the ground. He hands me a peppermint mocha and plants a kiss on my forehead, but all I can think about is what ornament I am going to buy in honor of him.
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Burden of Sentiment

I printed off the proof of our correspondence on copper tinted parchment paper. I was making a book documenting the affair Kris and I had last spring. The pages stacked up quickly, eating all of the blackened ink in my printer. Page after page of desperate emails whose poetic, grandiose words clung to one another. I photocopied all of her poems and notes and lists she wrote in her stick figure style of handwriting. I copied the covers of pamphlets and liner notes from our favorite bands that she gave me. I neatly stacked everything that could be replicated from our past and spent all night putting them in order chronologically.

I wanted to re-read them, but the burden of sentiment felt smothering. So I pushed our emaciated romance onto slips of paper. I tied them all up with shiny, holiday ribbons and sent them to her instead.

The Kindergarten Tour

Two women in their 30s are walking through the halls of elementary school. Susan is the parent volunteer hosting the tour, which is just now concluding. Pamela is a mother on the tour.

Susan: Did you have any other questions?

Pamela: I don’t think so. Thanks for taking the time to tell us about the school.

Susan: Actually, I’d like to just talk to you a second, because our girls would be going into kindergarten together.

Pamela: Sure.

Susan: My daughter was born in August and I’m so glad, if you’re looking at early admission for your daughter, that she won’t be the youngest in the class.

Pamela: Right. Mine was born in September – just two weeks after the cut-off.

Susan: I know. I’ve just been feeling, you know, like everyone thinks I’m pushing her or something.

Pamela: Yeah. I know, but kids are just ready for school at different times.

Susan: Oh, I know. I’m glad someone’s on the same page as I am.

Pamela: But your older daughter. She’s in first grade here and she really likes the program?

Susan: Oh, absolutely. And I always feel safe about her being here. Especially since, you know, I was really surprised to find out that fifty percent of the kids are in the free lunch program.

Pamela: Yeah?

Susan: I know. Isn’t that amazing? Fifty percent of the kids. And it’s so funny, because you look around and you can’t really tell which ones they are. Well, some of them stick out. Some of them, you know, I think that their parents aren’t speaking English around the house because they’re not giving them any help with their homework.

Pamela: Really.

Susan: Yeah. Fifty percent of the kids in poverty. It’s like, I hope they’re getting something to eat at home. I hope they have food to eat. And clothing. I mean, somebody should do something about that.

Pamela: Oh sure.

Susan: But you know, you just can’t tell with most of them. Aside from those few, you wouldn’t know which ones are living in poverty.

Pamela: Right. They blend right in. Just like the Jews.

Susan: Yeah -What?

Pamela: Oh, never mind. I’m so glad our girls look like they’re getting along. It’ll be so much fun for them to be friends next year.

Confined

I’m jacked on espresso shots listening to the same song over and over again. It has been making me cry for over a week now. But the repeat button has been firmly pressed down by my heavy fingers. I’m thinking about putting masking tape over it. My hand is tired of holding it down.

I’m tired. I’ve been hunching again in that depressed way. My body is advertising to the world my dissatisfaction with life since the sun has slipped behind winter’s flat, gray veil. James is getting ready to go to the zoo with his son. I think the zoo is sad enough in the summer.

“I hate Z-O-O-S,” I spell so little Ian cannot understand what I am saying. He’s hopping around naked making monkey sounds.

“You hate everything,” James says.

Last night, we had to go to the Hollidazzle parade, a feast of blinking Christmas lights affixed to floats advertising local businesses. Mascots with twisted faces waved violently at the kids. I don’t know why they kept laughing and didn’t run away. The man behind me smoked a cigar the whole time and kept taking pictures with his digital camera while his son drooled in the stroller. I played with my cell phone like I had important phone calls to make. Volunteers in plush costumes acted out fairy tales. The Pied Piper lulled little kids dressed up in rat costumes. They held onto one another’s tails that looked like strips of bacon.

“Gross! They look like they’re squeezing slabs of meat,” I said. James turned, little Ian fastened tightly in his arms.

“You get freaked out by the weirdest things. They’re cute,” he scowled. I was ruining their fun father-son adventure. Standing in my fur coat and combat boots, I looked out of place in a crowd of parents and kids clapping and shouting wildly. I wondered where all these people lining the downtown sidewalks come from. They looked mass produced, all bundled up in fleece hats and ski mittens. Mass produced people producing more people who thought the Wicked Witch of the West wasn’t scary as she waved her sickly skinny fingers and rode an adult sized tricycle.

“How do they keep their instruments from freezing to their lips,” I said to James as the U of M Alumni Marching Band marched past. I felt like a little kid pulling on daddy’s jacket for attention as he turned and rolled his eyes.

They are finally gone to see the animals locked in cages. The safari animals are surely confined to some desert dome. I wonder if monkeys like the cold or where Sparky the Seal goes when his summer splashing shows are on hiatus. The only thing I liked about the Como Zoo was the crappy carnival rides with rusty bolts and tattooed carnies. I heard that they rehabbed the place since then with shiny new machines that take tokens instead. The toothless guys have been replaced with college kids and stay-at-home moms who don’t want to stay at home anymore.

I listen to the same song that retells the story of a relationship taking its final gasp of air. It reminds me of how when you die, you can still expel air from your lungs. James won’t listen to the song, doesn’t understand why I repetitively do if it makes me cry and curl up and go to sleep at 9:00.

This weekend was the first time he has had his son in over a year, and all I can do is cry. He doesn’t understand why I hate parades and zoos and tinker toys.

Either do I.

The Billy Goat Dilemma

Two mothers are waiting in the hallway to pick their kids up at pre-school.

Karen: I wanted to talk to you about the kids’ shareformance next week. I was talking to Megan and, since our three are going to be the three Billy goats, we were thinking of trying to coordinate costumes.

Margaret: Yeah?

Karen: Well, what we were thinking is that we didn’t want it to end up that, you know, that the kids would get upset if one of the other Billy goats had a fancy costume and they didn’t, you know.

Margaret: huh. Well, I’ve already made Sissy’s costume.

Karen: Well, we were just thinking of coordinating so that it didn’t get to be a big deal. I guess we just didn’t want there to be a difference, you know, in the quality of the costume. We didn’t want any of the kids to feel bad about it.

Margaret: Oh, sure. Well, no. Nobody should feel bad about their costumes. I made one for Sissy already, but it’s pretty simple.

Karen: Like what?

Margaret: I just took one of her old sweatshirts and sewed some ears onto the hood, put a little tail on it.

Karen: Well, we were sort of thinking that, since we’re not all equally good at stuff like that, that we would just do something like make ears out of a paper bag or something.

Margaret: uhuh. That would work. It’s just that I’ve already made the costume. It’s pretty simple. It didn’t take too long to do. I found a couple horns to put on the hood. It’s fairly low key.

Karen: well. It’s just..Oh, the kids are coming out here. Maybe I can call you and we can talk about it later. It’s just that it would be nice to coordinate costumes.

Margaret: uhuh

Karen: see, we were thinking that paper bags would be easy.

Margaret: uhuh.

Karen: and that way all the kids would be wearing the same things

Margaret: uhuh.

Karen: you know how kids are

Margaret: hmm. So, what you’re saying is that you want me to throw away the work that I put into this so that my daughter can wear a paper bag on her head?

Karen: Well, the idea was that the three Billy goats would all have matching costumes.

Margaret: So you’re saying that I should send my daughter the message that she should constantly compare what she’s wearing to what the other kids are wearing, and that her goal, as a girl, is to never stick out?

Karen: I mean, it’s just that the paper bags. That’s something we could all do.

Margaret: So you’re saying that I should forget about teaching my daughter to do her best in everything she puts her hand to, that she should tone down her abilities to match the abilities of the other kids in her classes?

Karen: No. No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just worried that the other girls will be upset if there’s a huge difference in their costumes.

Margaret: Well, I don’t know what to say.

Karen: Perhaps we could --

Margaret : -- I just know that when Sissy’s in third grade, I’m NOT going to ask her to throw the spelling test to make the kid behind her feel better about herself. When she’s in high school, I’m NOT going to ask her to date a dorky guy just because all her friends are dating similar kinds of dorky guys. And when she’s in college, I’m NOT going to ask her to be half-assed about writing her research papers just because all the other kids are doing half-assed papers. I’m sorry. I am NOT going to ask my daughter to wear a paper bag over her head just because you can’t get your shit together long enough to make your own kid a goddamn decent costume. I would suggest that you either take sewing lessons or teach your daughter to spend less time worrying about what everyone else is doing.

The classroom door opens and both mothers hasten to paste smiles on their faces. Sissy! What’d you learn today?

Karen: Hi there, cutie. Oh, Julie, what happened to your dress? Did you spill juice?

Margaret: ok Sissy, say goodbye to Julie. We’ve got places to go, things to do.

Karen: Well, I’ll call you later Margaret, and we can figure out what to do about costumes.

Blackout