The Christmas Tree
It had been a snowbound weekend of relentless inebriation which, Paul considered on reflection, could be divided quite neatly into three fairly equal segments, each representative of its own intoxicated state. Liquid, which speaks for itself, he thought; gas, representing vapour or fumes (he and a friend had shared several pipes of cannabis resin for most of Friday) and solid, the paper on which someone, somewhere had astonishingly altruistically dropped a pipette’s worth of something hallucinogenic and, in exchange for the most ludicrously small amount of money (at street level it was only two pounds), set it on the first stage of its journey towards this happy conclusion. For it was tripping that the weekend was ending.
And, though it was still early, Paul was satisfied this was the right decision. It was time to go home. The evening had reconciled. There was a symmetry to it all. The New Year was only six days old and he didn’t want to burn out. He had broken all the resolutions he would’ve made anyway.
‘WHERE ARE YOU GOING, MATE?’
He had been holding his thumb out more in hope than expectation as he strolled out of the town centre and was shocked when the 2CV pulled over beside him and the driver flung open the door.
‘ETTINGTON,’ Paul shouted moving in closer, ‘ON THE BANBURY ROAD.’
An earlier altercation with the Mexican looking gorilla on the door at Darbo’s would normally, he was sure, at least have broken his stride but tonight he had felt irrepressible, untouchable; like all the best times when you feel you’re rising to the challenge, meeting it head on. He saw drugs as a test you set yourself, a way to make things more interesting. That was why it didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing. Drugs were never inappropriate. Could you face the family on Ecstasy? Go to work on acid? The more sober the task, the bigger the test.
He’d been apprehended by the most unpleasant of Stratford Upon Avon’s night club bouncers attempting to dab a finger into an open (chip packet style) wrap of amphetamine powder (hey powder, a fourth state) while holding a glass of coke in the same hand. As the near impossibility of this operation was becoming increasingly apparent he had been pleasantly surprised (for a moment at least) when someone had helpfully shone a torch just where he needed it only to look up (to express gratitude) and discover everybody’s favourite doorman leering at him, sadistically.
Even when led to the fire exit by the moustachioed one and his newly acquired ginger skinhead colleague he wasn’t really worried. And when they talked about calling the police to come down and ‘have a look at this Charlie’ he actually started laughing which should have made things worse but somehow didn’t.
The driver was shouting something above the very noisy rattle of the car
‘WHAT’S THAT?’ Paul yelled in response cupping his hand to his ear pointlessly.
‘DO YOU SMOKE?’
This guy was clearly too drunk to notice Paul’s overloading imagination. So far as Paul could tell he had spent most of the journey trying to convince him (and it wasn’t like he was arguing) that rolling your own cigarettes was a really good trick for chatting up girls, a great ice breaker, conversation starter… before veering off quite without warning into a rant about the number of late night crashes there had been recently on this particular stretch of countryside darkness.
Outside Darbo’s he had met Scheherazade, the girlfriend of a work mate, going in and told her his tale.
‘Fuckers,’ she declared and went in anyway which seemed almost an act of betrayal and a far cry from that night months ago when she had leaned all over him and breathed in his ear.
‘I’m interested,’ she had whispered ‘on every level.’
‘HEY MATE, DO YOU KNOW SCHEHERAZADE?’ he yelled. ‘GOTH, DEAD SEXY…NO? PITY, YOU’D LIKE HER.’
Now, thought Paul, as he turned up ManorRoad waving as he did to the man who had saved him a four-mile walk, what do I have to remember? He had made a mental list at some point in the journey. He stood shivering, flicking backwards through his thoughts, trying to find the right page. Mum in the kitchen...important, but not what I was thinking…Ah, there it is underlined in heavy black. The Christmas tree. He walked around to the back of the house. Sure enough, the light was on, his mother was ironing. He reckoned it must be about eleven, eleven thirty. Just act normal, he told himself, and try not to laugh. He opened the door.
‘Well, I never,’ smiled his mother looking up, ‘you’ll never believe this,’
‘What is it? Not the Lesser-Spotted Paul? That must be this year’s first sighting,’ called his father from the living room.
‘Very droll,’ mumbled Paul, head down, trying to focus on the task in hand. He had managed to reach the door on the other side of the kitchen. But his mother was curious.
‘Paul? Why are you walking on only the black tiles?’
The floor. Of course, you fool, he thought, now don’t fuck up the Christmas tree. Just concentrate.
He reached for the living room door handle. He couldn’t bear to look. His younger brother Charlie was lying on the sofa watching television, he gathered from the corner of his eye. And his father in his armchair reading the paper. Okay, nice and easy, no sharp movements, just smoothly round, that’s it, left shoulder first between door and cupboard minding not to bang against the door and send the whole tree flying. Baubles, bangles and all. Have you ever had the feeling you were being watched? Charlie has started to giggle; Paul’s father has looked up from his paper. Just one more twist to negotiate and then…spring over on to my right foot and sit at the end of the sofa not totally taken up. There. Perfect. Charlie is hysterical now.
‘What’s so funny?’ What have I done, thinks Paul.
‘If you had paid any attention to any of your religious instruction at boarding school or, indeed, taken any notice of anything that goes on around you at all generally, you would, I feel sure be aware that every year on Twelfth Night, The Feast of the Epiphany, the sixth of January,’ long pause for effect ‘your mother and I take the Christmas tree down.’
And, though it was still early, Paul was satisfied this was the right decision. It was time to go home. The evening had reconciled. There was a symmetry to it all. The New Year was only six days old and he didn’t want to burn out. He had broken all the resolutions he would’ve made anyway.
‘WHERE ARE YOU GOING, MATE?’
He had been holding his thumb out more in hope than expectation as he strolled out of the town centre and was shocked when the 2CV pulled over beside him and the driver flung open the door.
‘ETTINGTON,’ Paul shouted moving in closer, ‘ON THE BANBURY ROAD.’
An earlier altercation with the Mexican looking gorilla on the door at Darbo’s would normally, he was sure, at least have broken his stride but tonight he had felt irrepressible, untouchable; like all the best times when you feel you’re rising to the challenge, meeting it head on. He saw drugs as a test you set yourself, a way to make things more interesting. That was why it didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing. Drugs were never inappropriate. Could you face the family on Ecstasy? Go to work on acid? The more sober the task, the bigger the test.
He’d been apprehended by the most unpleasant of Stratford Upon Avon’s night club bouncers attempting to dab a finger into an open (chip packet style) wrap of amphetamine powder (hey powder, a fourth state) while holding a glass of coke in the same hand. As the near impossibility of this operation was becoming increasingly apparent he had been pleasantly surprised (for a moment at least) when someone had helpfully shone a torch just where he needed it only to look up (to express gratitude) and discover everybody’s favourite doorman leering at him, sadistically.
Even when led to the fire exit by the moustachioed one and his newly acquired ginger skinhead colleague he wasn’t really worried. And when they talked about calling the police to come down and ‘have a look at this Charlie’ he actually started laughing which should have made things worse but somehow didn’t.
The driver was shouting something above the very noisy rattle of the car
‘WHAT’S THAT?’ Paul yelled in response cupping his hand to his ear pointlessly.
‘DO YOU SMOKE?’
This guy was clearly too drunk to notice Paul’s overloading imagination. So far as Paul could tell he had spent most of the journey trying to convince him (and it wasn’t like he was arguing) that rolling your own cigarettes was a really good trick for chatting up girls, a great ice breaker, conversation starter… before veering off quite without warning into a rant about the number of late night crashes there had been recently on this particular stretch of countryside darkness.
Outside Darbo’s he had met Scheherazade, the girlfriend of a work mate, going in and told her his tale.
‘Fuckers,’ she declared and went in anyway which seemed almost an act of betrayal and a far cry from that night months ago when she had leaned all over him and breathed in his ear.
‘I’m interested,’ she had whispered ‘on every level.’
‘HEY MATE, DO YOU KNOW SCHEHERAZADE?’ he yelled. ‘GOTH, DEAD SEXY…NO? PITY, YOU’D LIKE HER.’
Now, thought Paul, as he turned up ManorRoad waving as he did to the man who had saved him a four-mile walk, what do I have to remember? He had made a mental list at some point in the journey. He stood shivering, flicking backwards through his thoughts, trying to find the right page. Mum in the kitchen...important, but not what I was thinking…Ah, there it is underlined in heavy black. The Christmas tree. He walked around to the back of the house. Sure enough, the light was on, his mother was ironing. He reckoned it must be about eleven, eleven thirty. Just act normal, he told himself, and try not to laugh. He opened the door.
‘Well, I never,’ smiled his mother looking up, ‘you’ll never believe this,’
‘What is it? Not the Lesser-Spotted Paul? That must be this year’s first sighting,’ called his father from the living room.
‘Very droll,’ mumbled Paul, head down, trying to focus on the task in hand. He had managed to reach the door on the other side of the kitchen. But his mother was curious.
‘Paul? Why are you walking on only the black tiles?’
The floor. Of course, you fool, he thought, now don’t fuck up the Christmas tree. Just concentrate.
He reached for the living room door handle. He couldn’t bear to look. His younger brother Charlie was lying on the sofa watching television, he gathered from the corner of his eye. And his father in his armchair reading the paper. Okay, nice and easy, no sharp movements, just smoothly round, that’s it, left shoulder first between door and cupboard minding not to bang against the door and send the whole tree flying. Baubles, bangles and all. Have you ever had the feeling you were being watched? Charlie has started to giggle; Paul’s father has looked up from his paper. Just one more twist to negotiate and then…spring over on to my right foot and sit at the end of the sofa not totally taken up. There. Perfect. Charlie is hysterical now.
‘What’s so funny?’ What have I done, thinks Paul.
‘If you had paid any attention to any of your religious instruction at boarding school or, indeed, taken any notice of anything that goes on around you at all generally, you would, I feel sure be aware that every year on Twelfth Night, The Feast of the Epiphany, the sixth of January,’ long pause for effect ‘your mother and I take the Christmas tree down.’
posted by candide at 1:17 pm
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