101 Words

I’m drunk. It’s 11 a.m. on Christmas Day.

The kids are playing with their new toys beside the tree. The small turkey is roasting. I’m in the kitchen.

Alone.

I’ve just poured my third gin. It’s as bitter and cold as me.

I glance at the missing fourth plate and see you, building Lego with the kids last year, making us all laugh. I think of the day you left.

But then I look at our children, and tip out the gin.

Resolutely, I grab my Mum mug from the cupboard, heap in coffee, and brace myself for a long day.

A child of the Depression, Ben’s favorite go-to, one-size-fits-all pronouncement for any of life’s hiccups was, “That’s the way it goes: first your money, then your clothes.”

A modest man, Ben worked hard, saved his money, married a good woman, and led a satisfying, decent, law-abiding life. Healthy and fit for the most part, his only weakness was sweets. Oh sure, there was that little matter of Type 2 Diabetes. But a little cheating couldn’t hurt, he convinced himself.

So, when his physician pronounced, in exasperation, “First your foot, then your leg…” Ben’s response? “That’s not the way it goes, Doc.”

Eyes closed, I make a wish before extinguishing the candles.

“Wow! All in one breath! Your wish may actually come true.”

“Fat chance!” I say, “I wished that I wasn’t turning forty today.”

Laughter abounds. My husband cuts the cake, handing the first piece to the aging birthday girl/woman. Where did the years go? I glance around the room at loved ones, noting the clock. Exactly two minutes until my official time of birth.

Devouring chocolate bliss. Prickles course my arm. Dizziness. Sweat dripping like melting wax. I clutch my chest then hit the ground in regret. Farewell to forty.

Her sister opened her second can of beer. It was 11:30 a.m. “I think you’re addicted to therapy.”

They were in the breakfast room of their childhood home. Their mom lay in her bedroom, in the dark, released for home hospice.

“Can’t you talk to a friend?

“It’s different.”

“Really, has it helped you? I think it’s keeping you stuck.”

“I get something from it.” She cleared the table of their salad plates, stacking them carefully, then swept them to the floor.

Her sister lit another cigarette, held the inhale as she spoke. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He wanted to do standup. Open mic comedy. Celebrity impressions leavened with humor. Johnny Cash, Bullwinkle, Frankie Valli, Stallone—a few dozen.

But there was a problem. In a word, fear. Tension while adding his name to the performers’ list. The waiting. Sometimes hours of suffering.

First time up, couldn’t handle it. Left before they called his name. A no-no. Unaware of this policy.

Another place. Name called. Ran out.

“Can I get an opinion of a celebrity impression I’m working on?” Outside Walmart. 

Outdoor diners. Twelve in one fell swoop. Food courts. Bus terminals.

Now he teams with street musicians.

The couple lay in bed, snuggled together. They were too exhausted for rigorous activity.

“Did we forget anything?” the woman asked. Nothing could be overlooked.

“No,” her partner replied, his breath scented with celebratory wine. “Tomorrow, we’ll drive out to the woods and get rid of it.”

He ran a finger, still smelling like disinfectant after cleaning up the blood, down her cheek.

She smiled, calculating the estate’s value. Soon, she’d have everything she ever wanted.

Down in the garage, her husband lay decomposing in the trunk of his battered old car.

Someday, they would get rid of that eyesore, too.