@Robertopancake: A Story About a Boy

Chapter Five

Christmas sucks around this abode. Doesn't matter which town or which state we celebrate the joyous occasion in (and believe me, we've lived just about everywhere), because on a fundamental level, it always sucks. On the upside, I've been making a big effort to spend more time with Danica since I realized that in seven short years she could be smoking weed with a group of teenage sluts and a lying sexual predator like myself. I have to admit-in light of her fleeting innocence-I did sort of enjoy watching her excitement over Santa.

My mom and Pat gave me some clothes and a new iPod, and then they gathered up a bunch of the still-wrapped gifts under the tree to rush off to another gathering, this time with Pat's sister and her family. Because of my surly teenage attitude and general unpleasantness, Pat was more than happy to let me off the hook as far as joining them, but he did give me a serious warning look as they loaded Danica and all three hundred of her new Barbies and dolls into the SUV for the forty-five minute drive to his sister Alison's.

And so now I'm alone on Christmas. Happy to be alone-don't get me wrong there-but also somewhat melancholy, since this day is supposed to be spent with family, listening to Christmas music, and eating lots of food. American custom tells us that there should be a lit-up tree with kids frolicking on the carpet beneath it, enjoying all of their new toys and gadgets while the family cat throws up strands of tinsel inside someone's shoe by the front door. For about thirty anxious seconds after the car disappears down the street, I stand in front of the window in the living room and wonder if I should've gone with them.

And then I get my wits about me again and pull my head out of my ass.

The fridge has a random assortment of leftovers, but the kitchen is disappointingly cold and dark. The counters are clean, a half-eaten pie covered in aluminum foil is on top of the stove. The sky outside is gray and mottled like a cold, metal playground slide. Basically it's just really depressing. I hadn't figured that being alone on Christmas would feel quite this alone.

I swallow hard and pick up the phone. Dial. It rings.

"Hello?"

"Dad?"

"Hey! Robbie!" he shouts from twenty-five hundred miles away. He's been drinking. My feelings of depression go up like eighty notches.

"I just wanted to say Merry Christmas." I kick a Cheerio across the tile floor with my bare foot. It rolls under the stove and disappears.

"Well, Merry Christmas right back at you. Did you get the gifts I sent?"

"Umm, no."

"Wait a sec-" He covers the receiver. I hear muffled talking as he speaks to someone on his end: "You didn't? Um. Okay, don't worry about it." And then he comes back on the line. "Sorry about that, Robster, but I asked someone to mail them for me this week, and it looks like it didn't happen."

"Oh, well, that's okay." This phone call was the worst idea of my life.

"I'm sorry, son. I got you some gear for baseball and a few other things. You're still on the baseball team, right?"

I haven't played in two years. "Sure. Yeah. I still play."

"Good. Well, I, ah, I'll get those out to you here as soon as the post office opens back up after Christmas." He pauses. "How's your mother?"

"Fine. She's okay." I really don't have anything to say to him and that bothers me. Who doesn't have things to talk to his own father about on Christmas?

"That's good, that's real good. Listen, we need to get you down here soon, huh? Haven't seen you in way too long," he says, trying to sound jolly through his slurred words. "Remember when we were a couple of bachelors on the town?"