Here We Are

Christmas Eve.

After work today, I went to a local Mexican place with three of my co-workers and two local contractors: guys who've been in the game for years.

They told me about the time they hired a hooker in Tijuana and how one of them got her from behind while the other got worked on below.

"I didn't want no fucking specks of you know what on me," he confided.

I explained to him why Budweiser was a woman's beer and how there's nothing wrong with that.

He told the waiter not to bring him any more pink straws and he called him Tattoo. He was a short Mexican guy, and Billy and I felt sorry for him so we went out of our way to be polite.

*

The Boss called, stoned.

"Have you seen my work phone? I think I might have left it in the truck."

I paused.

"Sorry. I'm a little confused. How can you be calling me if it isn't from your phone."

He paused.

"Shhiiiiiitttt," he said, laughing, and then hung up.

*

Spiced rum. Cats. The family asleep.

*

Jess's work sent her a box containing a precooked turkey and ham, as well as some good cheddar.

I had never seen a precooked turkey, and figured it was smoked and we'd have to heat it up.

So, I drew out my boxcutter and sliced the box open tonight, getting ready for the heating instructions so I would know how early to wake up the next morning.

I pulled out a turkey loaf smaller than Bubbs, our cat. Holy shit. So, a precooked turkey isn't a turkey at all, but a loaf of turkey. Like deli meat. I should have figured.

I called Jess downstairs and broke the news to her gently.

"I just hope I can find good bread on Christmas," I told her.

She looked at the turkey roll, like it was a grub.

*

The Dufflebag and I spent three hours last night working on the wort.

Not wart. Wort. Pronounced wert.

That's the stuff you put in a carboy, with yeast, in the hopes of someday bringing forth beer, beautiful beer.

Socks filled with caramel barley. Hop pellets. Irish moss and hydrometers. Ask Dufflebag about it. He'll tell you.

I'm so new to the process that I didn't know if I was supposed to put the cap on the fermentation lock.

I was.

*

Before leaving, we noticed some twenty odd people in the driveway.

We live in a small town.

They were wearing elf hats.

I opened the door and there they stood. A few kids, a few teens, some older folks. Carollers.

They began to sing to us. Dufflebag hid, and blushed.

The dog, Slappy, ran to the door. The cats looked.

As they continued to sing, I gestured to the Dufflebag. "We've got to get out of here."

He ran and got his coat, and we fled.

In the rear view mirror I could see the carollers. They were chasing us, and dancing in the cold streets.

*

I needed to buy a present for my Dad.

First, I had to feed the Dufflebag.

It was nine o'clock.

We went to Wendy's, and waited. So long that the guy in front of us gave up, and the some other guys, and finally us, and we all walked over to Burger King, where we waited as well, although the line moved, and we ate awful vomitous food.

"See!" the Dufflebag pointed out, "Fast food can be good."

"Oh yeah," I said, trying not to betray my disgust. Good stuff! Vomitous, ugly, insipid food. Food for children. Food for cretins. Food for Dougie!!!

*

Oh hell. It's Christmas. Here we are.

*

. . .