HOLIDAY
Though Jewish, Dorothy Parker had a soft spot for Christmas and its capitalist charm. “I see New York at holiday time, always in the late afternoon, under a Maxfield Parrish sky, with the crowds even more quick and nervous but even more good-natured, the dark groups splashed with the white of Christmas packages, the lighted, holly-strung shops urging them in to buy more and more.” In this issue our writers delve into the wonders, horrors, and complications of celebrating the holidays.
Santa Freud Friend
Word Count 2009
I became friends with the wildly talented writer, David Rakoff, at college in the 1980’s. At the time, he wasn’t famous, of course. All that came later. He was always funny but his humour was derived from being alienated by all the things that most of us take for granted–country of origin (Canada), sexuality (gay) and the blustery charm of his adopted country (America). He delighted in being the center of attention, but an afternoon with David was never relaxing. His fertile imagination was always in overdrive, looking for the pithy comment, the world weary bon mot that would make his audience guffaw in delight. I loved him and there was a period in my life when we literally spoke every afternoon on the phone, but I often saw the melancholy behind his facade.
Porno Party
Word Count 1122
My first Christmas in LA was a total mindfuck. For starters, while never a fan of snow or ice, I was nevertheless unnerved by Christmas decorations and twinkly lights adorning palm trees in our west side neighborhood. I was homesick for cold weather and bundling up on starlit nights but what I got was an anorexic Santa at the Century City mall sweating in a red flannel onesie as moms wearing shorts and flip flops lined up to get their kids’ picture taken with Santa. I’d brought my young son there for the same reason but the environs filled me with bilious anger. We’d been living in Los Angeles only a few months and I was adjusting poorly. I hated the freeways and traffic and had yet to make friends. I’d only agreed to this move from the east coast because my husband was a screenwriter.
E.T., Phone Home
Word Count 608
I was in England, working on a script for a documentary about the Turkana tribe, when the director suggested we visit a friend of his mother up in Henley-on-Thames. The mother was some sort of lady-in-waiting, personal assistant, or just all-around caretaker for the wealthy ancient Lady— who was the last surviving member of her family and lived in a Gothic pile on the River Thames. I thought the afternoon visit was pleasant enough until the director suggested to his friend’s mother that the three of us spend Christmas together in that mansion, with me cooking dinner. I didn’t relish the idea. My holiday cheer was at a low ebb having been apart from my husband for months and unable to book a flight out until the day after Boxing Day.
Dinner Will Be Televised
Word Count 448
It is 1977. I am a student at UC Berkeley. My father and mother are separated. A friend of my mother’s from nursing school invites my mother and me to their house for Thanksgiving. They live in Westlake, a sleepy suburb south of San Francisco. We will join my mother’s friend, her husband and two of their adult children.
My mother and I park in front of the house and walk up the steps to their home. There are strangers already on the stoop ringing the doorbell. One of the people looks vaguely familiar. It turns out to be a reporter from a local television station. They want to air a segment that evening about a quintessential family Thanksgiving.
The Jew Who Loves Christmas
Word Count 1333
It happens every year. Sometime in the feverish runup to Christmas, when I find myself on the floor amid rolls of cheap drugstore wrapping paper, gifts strewn at my knees, I feel a profound sense of misalignment. I’m an actress who has suddenly forgotten all her lines or worse, found herself in the wrong play. It is 1967. I am a nine-year-old standing in the dark hallway of our house, looking out the window at the brightly lit houses throwing colored shadows on snowdrifts.
One of two Jewish families in our Virginia subdivision, we were chosen each year to judge the annual Christmas tree light competition.
At The No-Fault New Year’s Eve Party
Word Count 222
After two beers on an empty stomach, I strategically placed a popcorn bowl beside me and passed out on my friend Miles’s bedroom floor.
I was 17 and awoke to someone unbuttoning my dress. My first thought: They think I’m beautiful.
From the sound of their voices, I guessed it was Tom Fenderson and another guy.
I kept my eyes closed. I didn’t want to get in trouble for being a hussy or get them in trouble. Girls didn’t get boys in trouble.
“Roll her over!” one directed.
Holiday from the Husband
Word Count 820
Kiss your husband goodbye and look sad.
Immediately throw a tab of detergent willy nilly onto the floor of the dishwasher.
Don’t wait until it is fully loaded, a few dishes will do, a dirty pot as well.
Turn it on and wait for the hum.
Clean the stovetop and know that it will stay pristine, since you won’t use it, the oven either.
Increase the heat to a cozy, tropical temperature.
Decline a lunch invitation because being alone in the house is better.