The holidays are upon us and whether you celebrate or not, you have to deal with it here in America. I suppose you can find a quite village away from the cities and be selective about what you watch on television, but you’re only hurting the U.S. economy.
My first Christmas as an adult, after living away from home for four months, experiencing military training, and surviving an eating disorder, I came home for the holidays. I missed my family but what I really wanted to do was see my friends.
I expected this to be a triumphant return. The chubby class-clown forged into an adult. The nerd in oxford Converse sneakers now sporting Italian leather wing tips.
My friend Charles Lee, mentioned a couple of times in previous Picayunes, hosted a Christmas Eve-Eve party, and pretty much the entire gang was packed into his basement. Air hockey, unlimited drinks, and Becky’s spinach dip. Great fun.
I got there early, drank gin and tonic continuously, and swapped stories with my friends. At some point, in the middle of conversation with Marc, I realized I was going to pass out. I had no reason to know that because I hadn’t really experienced it before. But I knew.
My ears were ringing. The sounds of the party faded away, and I could only focus on what was directly in my line of vision. I think I said, “I’m going to pass out,” but I have no way to fact check that one. It’s just how I remember it.
When I came to, I was partially under the air hockey table with a dozen of my friends crowded around me. They had never seen anyone faint, so some thought I dropped dead on the spot. By the good graces of the Lord, I hadn’t shit myself when I hit the floor.
It was something, I was told, to see me hit. “A two-hundred pound sack of potatoes,” one guest quipped. “Like a tuna hitting the deck,” said another. “Did you just die?” someone asked.
That summer, I’d seen two adult men drop dead. Both were at softball games, both of cardiac arrest. In each case, it was obvious something serious was wrong. The lips turn blue, there’s a moment of panic in the face, and then they hit. Had I been awake to see me on the floor, I could have explained the difference.
Charles and Marc led me upstairs and beckoned me to rest away from the excitement of the party. No one thought to call an ambulance, or my parents, as we were all underage and drinking hard.
I lay there in Charles’s darkened room listening to the party continuing full force. I wasn’t tired, and I didn’t feel drunk, so I lay there listening.
I’m getting ahead of myself, but I’d like to think that’s a version of the afterlife we have available. When we die, it’s like we’re in another room listening to our loved ones getting on with things. We have a chance to reflect on how much fun was the party, and hope we didn’t muddle things up too much when we left.
I mean, it’s got to be better than George Carlin’s idea that our souls go to a garage in Buffalo.
But in that moment, I was embarrassed and confused. I had no idea what happened. I had come to the party hoping to, maybe—just maybe—impress one or two of the ladies. What I’d have done if I had impressed one of them is an even bigger mystery—such was my romantic prowess.
A few of the guests came up to check on me. One, whom I’d had a crush on since third grade, was kind, and lovely, as always. We chatted a few minutes. Like adults. That was probably the highlight of the evening.
I don’t remember exactly what happened after that, but I think I returned to the party, banned from drinking “for my own good,” and subject to jokes about falling over dead.
If we’re going to fall over dead, let us be surrounded by friends with high spirits and great hope, so that we go out with a smile on our face. And hopefully don’t shit when we hit the floor.
I’m sick with Covid
On Monday evening, as I walked Ollie, we were treated to a shooting star. It streaked across the night sky and fizzled out just above the tree line. It was the third coolest meteor I’ve seen.
Shortly after we returned home, I felt sick, and quickly realized it was serious, and probably Covid.
It’s my first time, but I had all my boosters so I’m pretty lucky. Still, the headache on Tuesday was the most discomfort I’ve ever felt. It was worse than the time my jaw dislocated while an oral surgeon split my impacted wisdom teeth with a hammer and chisel; I had to beg the guy to finish because I wanted to be done, and I held my jaw in place while he worked. On the drive home, my stitches gave way, and I had to return to his office covered in blood.
For the most part, you don’t know when you’ll get hit by Covid, just like you don’t know when you’ll see a shooting star. So get your booster shots.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
It’s been a busy few months for me with sending out queries for Ashley Undone, revising Cubicle Farm, and pushing a couple of other projects along.
A couple of weeks ago, Little Old Lady comedy published this short humor piece by me, which you may enjoy if your family’s blood sport is bringing a dish to pass:
I Still Deserve A Slice Of Pie Despite “Only” Bringing A Veggie Tray To Thanksgiving Dinner
Maybe You’d Like
I’ve joined a group promo with mystery authors so take a look and see if any of the covers pique your curiosity.
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/qeS9Dwx
Recommended Reading
I’ve gone down multiple rabbit holes with books of late, reading The Dawn of Everything, Chatter, 60 Stories by Barthelme, and Jerks by Lippman.
I’ll just say that it’s too many books at the same time. But they’re all marvelous in their own way. I guess another cool afterlife would be having time to read all the books, but that’s kind of a lot to ask.
Next Picayune
I’ll be back in January with news about the new novel, options for buying my books directly, and a whole new approach to my writing.
Meanwhile, enjoy the Holidays. Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune.
All the best,
Mickey
P.S. I first heard about that version of the afterlife from someone on Twitter.