The Orb
We put up a fine Christmas tree this year. It took us an entire pre-game show and most of the first quarter just to rescue this ancient giant from the basement and set it over there right by the fireplace, flooding more than half of the room with dull green plastic pine needles. Mother combed through the cobwebs and spider eggs, replacing them with tinsel and glass ornaments. Dusk occurred like right after lunch so we turned off all the lamps and did a drum roll with our mouths until I cried, “‘And now,’ cried Max, ‘let the wild rumpus start!’” just before plugging in the tree’s power cord, illuminating it with white LEDs. We gasped. There was something eerie about the lighting. Strange unexpected shadows appeared, making it look like there were other trees in the room, now blanketed in a ghostly haze from the soft white glow of the lights. My stare, erratic at first, finally settled on a shiny red glass orb hanging from the tree. I edged closer, thought about “red matter” from that last Star Trek flick, then saw something on the orb that wasn’t my reflection: a lipstick kiss, nearly camouflaged. I thought that was kind of an odd thing to discover. Father saw it too. He looked at Mother. He dug into his breast pocket, fished out a cigarette, walked into the kitchen. There was a tick-tick-tick, and then gas. Fwoosh. He puffed. He blew slowly. What is the meaning of that? He asked, and my mom squinted. Are you thinking about Johnny Depp as you kiss the Christmas ornament? He asked, pronouncing it the way Mother pronounces it*. “Sometimes I feel like I have lost my wife to a copy of Chocolat on Blu-Ray,” he said, ashing his cigarette into the sink. “Sometimes I wonder why the only things you ever want for Christmas are AA batteries.” I turned on the TV, caught the halftime show. I turned up the volume and wished I had a giant glass of eggnog or some drugs or something.
* Mother unintentionally “pornofies” the names of actors sometimes. For example, Johnny Depp is Johnny Deep, and Hugh Grant is Huge Grant.
