Have a
very merry Christmas. I only wish I was. It’s so dark down
here. I’ve lost lots of weight. Hard to sleep when the rats
keep running across your face. Laurel won’t unlock the
basement door until I finish this Christmas letter. And there
isn’t much room under the jamb to slip food through. Thank god
Saltines are thin! But why do they have to put so much salt on
them? I’m so thirsty, so thirsty.
“How much longer till
you’re done??!! How much longer??!! Write faster!! Why do you
think I married you! So I wouldn’t have to write Christmas
letters myself!” By now I hardly notice Laurel’s screams
anymore. I’m fully immersed in trying to dislodge this
writer’s block. It isn’t because there’s nothing to say,
there’s too much,
too many happenings in 2000 to choose from. Where to begin?
Must start somewhere. The gloom is closing in again in my
hellhole beneath the stairs. Sun must have set. Soon the rats
will return…
Wedding. Yes, here’s
just the thing to get the letter rolling. My dear daughter,
Celeste, married a wonderful guy, Patrick. And the best thing,
almost? His last name is “Vos.” So now she’s
Celeste Vos, tres cool, as in
“Coming down the runway in a beautiful Dolche evening gown,
European supermodel Celeste
Vos.” As was befitting her soon-to-be
enhanced nominative status, Celeste’s wedding was at a chic
Beverly Hills restaurant, Il Cielo (which, I
believe, means “the expensive place” in Italian; at least
that’s what it says in my father-of-the-bride lexicon).
However, whatever the wedding
cost—Price Waterhouse is still working up the final figures—it
was worth every penny. For one thing, how many weddings have
you been to where the Beverly Hills police were called out not
once, but twice?
No, it wasn’t for what you’re thinking of. Shame on you! It
was because the snotty, selfish people living in the
apartments behind the restaurant thought that it was more
important that they be able to get some sleep so they could go
to work Monday morning (as if anyone in Beverly Hills goes to
work), than that the Vos wedding’s DJ should be able to yell
every 30 seconds through his microphone to the sound guy,
“PUMP IT UP!” Which he did.
So the festivities didn’t last
quite as long as planned. But that simply served to hasten the
priceless moment when all the waiters (oops, I meant to
say, serving professionals) at Il Cielo gathered to
promenade Celeste and Patrick down the
sidewalk and across the
street to the hotel where they spent their honeymoon night.
Ah, the candles, the crisp white linen, the traditional
Italian wedding songs, the honking horns as passing motorists
“toasted” the newlyweds. And then there was the father of the
bride, screaming as they passed arm in arm through the doors
of the hotel, “Hey, Patrick, what are you doing? You’re not
going to sleep in the same bed with my
daughter, are you?!”
Then I came to my senses: my
little girl was someone else’s now. And for the rest of her
life, he, not me, was going to be responsible to support her
in the style she feels that she should become accustomed to.
YES! “Take her, Patrick—the elevator is behind those columns.”
Well, there’s more to say about
the wedding, but if I don’t move on to a mention of Laurel, it
means another night on the cold concrete, and the usual
crumbled-up vegetarian dog biscuit for breakfast. Must finish
this letter.
White girls can jump.
At least, a few inches, which was plenty enough to break
Laurel’s left foot. Oh, I hear you saying, “how did she do
it?” Glad you asked. I’m happy to tell you, just as I was happy to
tell the meter reader, gas
station attendants, telephone
solicitors, grocery check-out clerks, and anyone else who
feigned even the slightest interest in my tale.
But Laurel has threatened to
throw away the key to the basement if I go into too much
detail. So let’s just leave it in the form of a Health Alert,
which may or may not pertain to anything that happened to
anyone in the Hines household: “Caution: if you are talking on
the phone to someone, and that person says things that disturb
you, and you keep your feelings bottled up until you hang up
the phone, then do not (repeat, do not) jump up in the
air after setting the receiver down and yell
“Aaaaahhhhhgggggg!!!” (or a sound to that effect). You may, in
all likelihood, come down on your foot wrong and break it.”
Of course, this didn’t
necessarily happen to Laurel. I just wanted to pass along that
health tip so it won’t happen to you. What is indisputable,
however, is that Laurel had to suffer through several months
of crutches, special supportive footwear, podiatrist visits,
and—last but not least—people asking, “How did you break your
foot?” After a while she began saying, “While I was returning
to base camp after climbing Everest,” while I would bite my
tongue.
Domestic violence.
What else could I do? Laurel has really gotten into domestic
violence. And I’m not just talking about what happens when I’m
late writing the Christmas letter. She has become quite the
authority in this field, and I’m not saying that because I’m
afraid of what will happen if I don’t. Laurel has had several
articles published in a social work publication in which she
bemoans the lack of knowledge therapists have about this
under-recognized societal problem. I too have been educated,
and can recite my mantra like the good boy that I am:
“Domestic violence is not caused by a man’s
anger. It is caused by a man’s need for dominance and control
over his spouse or partner, and a male sense of
entitlement.”
(Did I get that right, Laurel?
Did I? Can you let me out of the basement now?)
Laurel also has remained active
with the Family Violence Institute, of which she is
vice-president.
Vegetarians and
pornography. My own contribution to uplifting society’s
moral climate came in the form of an “In My Opinion” piece
that was published in the Oregonian, and which,
I’m proud to say, netted me $100. Proudly titled,
“Vegetarians, honk your horns,” I was able to discover a
heretofore unrecognized link between eating meat and
frequenting adult book stores. Since the article’s publication
I have been watching my mailbox for correspondence from a
Nobel prize committee, but I suppose letters from Sweden could
easily get lost. I also am nervously awaiting the results of
this year’s Oregonian Christmas
letter contest, the winner of which you will never learn from
me if it isn’t, to put it frankly, me.
Oh, yes. I also completed a 440
page manuscript on the spiritual teachings of Plotinus called
Return to the One.
But who cares? All I can think
about right now is returning to the part of our house that has
heat and light. Thank heavens the bottom of the page is
showing up on my (battery-powered) word processor. One more
Christmas letter completed for the little woman (Bad boy!
Bad, bad, bad!), I mean, co-equal domestic partner, with whom
I share so much love and good times, rejoicing in our
egalitarian, non-sexist marital relationship which, none the
less, somehow demands that only one of us writes this damn
joyous letter of good cheer to our friends and
relatives.
Happy Holidays. And, most
importantly, Go Beavers! (God is not on Notre Dame’s
side, I just know it). Oh, I
almost forgot to proudly point out that, thanks to a
nomination from our meter reader, the not-so-gentle family
dog, Tasha, has made it onto Portland General Electric’s
“cross-dog list.” Such an
honor!
