I was drunk on Christmas day. It was beautiful, really, appropriate to the world as I fantasize it with the eyes of stupor and disregard. I had woken from the haze of my Christmas Eve sobriety to the sound of the telephone ringing incessantly through my small studio, cluttered with the remains of gift wrappings, a dying poinsettia and a crass, Wal-Mart proud entertainment center stealing precious space from my world of small solitude. Holding fast to my comforter, I listened to the answering machine record holiday greetings from the family at the other end of the line. “Let them believe that I’m not alone this year,” I thought to myself as I crept into my morning ritual of molasses-thick coffee and V-8 splash. Back in Ohio, the family gathered around the telephone, chirping good tidings through the wire without me, just as I had done with them in previous years. I fell in love instantly with the idea that I have suddenly become one of them, the ones I never knew to any real depth whatsoever. I, however, still carry a certain weight, this being my first Christmas away, therefore requiring the morning wake up call, as opposed to the obligatory mid-afternoon “remembering your relatives” call. I would call them back in an hour or so with my seasonal greetings, and stories of long walks through a surprisingly desolate New York on this America-stopping holiday. I must admit, I grinned as the answering machine cut the voices off without warning, causing the ringing to return thirty seconds later. I can imagine their contempt biting off their cheer, and the heaving sigh, and rolling eyes as they dialed again.
Some would say that I’ve become a bitter soul. Others would say that I’m another martyr. Many have said that I am cruel. Most will say that I am sad. I, however, know that I am nothing more than a hopeless romantic, creating my own sense of what I want to experience, then following it up with the forms of those experiences. I create a script of what I find beautiful, and direct those in my life around it. These are my traditions. i have been working out the plans for this day for twenty three years, and here they are. This is my Christmas alone. I want to be drunk.
I open my cupboard to expose three bottles of red wine; one Italian, one French, and the final Australian. I smile and move five steps to the atrocious entertainment center. I peruse the CD selection until I come across the appropriate Leonard Cohen to appease the loneliness I have cultivated for this day, this time. Today, the literary beauty watches from her own eyes. Today, the narration shifts, not out of desperation, but acknowledgement. The stake is burning upon St. Joan as Anais is seducing Henry from her own voice. Simone has slapped Jean-Paul upside his weakened face while Paul is pining away in Chicago, and Nick is finally teasing Daisy as she has dreamed. All the while, the blue light still burns across the lake, and Brett is looking on with an actual longing. I am sitting in this windowsill now, and there is not even a dusting of snow on this merry holiday.
The time has come to begin drinking, as I reach for the telephone with one hand, and the cupboard with the other. I grasp the bottle of Italian for remembrance, and place it on the counter. I turn to my other hand and dial the number i know so well, waiting for the voice on the other line. Quickly, the voice is heard and the exchange of pleasantries begin. I fumble for the wine key, laughing at the obligatory jokes, preparing to perform my personal wine service. With the first story, I rip through the foil and plunge into the cork. i dig deeper, twisting both with the exchange and the metal implement of my chosen vice. this is gorgeous here. this is romance. this is all perfect and precise. I twist further and engage the leverage. Just as I hit the crowning stroke of my story, I pop the cork with a laugh, and the image has reached its climax. I listen in success to the reaction of my words with the telephone resting between my ear and shoulder as I pull out my chalice of choice for this glorious day.
The blood of Christ gurgles as it is poured on this Christmas morning, and I laugh with the disembodied voices and the image I am creating for no one but myself. In one moment, I an both young and deceptive, as well as old, wise and worn. With my images completed, I selfishly make my excuses for solitude and bid my goodbyes.
Pausing, I take my opportunity to relish this personal moment of deep-red, aliented bliss. The seduction pulls itself sluggishly from my chalice and engulfs my senses. I touch my lips lightly upon the entrance and invite myself into this wonderland with atease; a tip just to my lips, nothing more. the world around my body disappears, and nothing exists but the wetness upon my eager lips, and the explosion of life travelling from the tip of my tongue, quickly taking my entire mouth captive with the promise of a full sip. Dizzy with anticipation and swollen desire, I return to my windowsill, cupping my chosen vice just below my face, allowing its fragrance to circle my senses again, while the flavor still dances upon my tongue. I will wait before my first swallow, acknowledging that the first taste is the most beautiful. The first swallow is just a passage to the next, leading to a greedy intoxication. Savor the first, then combat for the next stage; this is my manuever for romance.
I light a cigarette and crack open the window. The voices of bundled carolers singing to the decorated tree in the park below drift in with the frigid December air. I draw my knees tighter into my chest, join their songs, and take my first full drink. the wine rushes in, taking control once again, just as the authority of the first tease had begun to dissipate. I fight at first, yet soon succumb to the unending stream of warmth trailing down my throat. The warmth spreads, filling my entire body, and I am taken. I am now the satisfied hostage, filling and refilling my chalice with the loyalty of a saint.
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