Once upon a time, there was a man -- more like a boy still, really, for he was only eighteen or so at last count (he could never remember his exact age, not having any recollection of the day in question on which he was born, nor ever having celebrated his birthday with a party because he was an orphan who lived in an orphanage, due largely to the fact that his parents died in a tragic accident when he was three-and-three-quarters, although it wasn't so much an accident, come to think of it, but that's a different story entirely.)
Jared looked around -- a habit of his he perpetually performed without so much as a second thought as if checking behind corners and under beds for spies and listening devices was an everday occurence for Jared (which it was, for Jared was Schitzophrenic and had been off his medication for quite some time, as he couldn't afford to visit the doctor and the personality which did these mundane healthcare-related tasks wasn't coming around much these days to keep him on task) -- before scratching his butt.
Every year, Andrew attempted to fabricate a reasonable excuse for not attending Christmas dinner with the Littles because it always went the same way and he absolutely hated it: First, with bonbon eating and tequila drinking, followed closely by a supper of dry ham and what might have once been yams, but now more accurately resembled a dish of charcoal briquettes, followed (after a good thirty minutes of belt-loosening at the dining room table) by more tequila, off-key (in both directions, sharp and flat simultantiously) Christmas carols, and Robert Little, the patriarch of the family, removing his clothing until he was stark naked and trying to climb atop the brightly decorated Christmas tree singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" with a characteristic drunken slur that was quite his own.
No comments:
Post a Comment