Manhattan Offender

Christmas Memory Project VI

"It was fucking humiliating is what it was.  You fucking opened it and looked at this beautiful fucking coat and you just didn't give a fuck.  In front of our fucking friends."
"I ... this is why you're crying?  I, well, I mean ... I looked at it and, you know ... I already have a blue coat.  I guess I don't understand the practicality of another one."
"It's fucking beautiful.  It's fucking Paul Smith you asshole."

Christmas Memory Project V

The six of us mostly sat or layed down on the pillows strew across the floor, enjoying the music and candlelight and Christmas lights as the gifted ketamine and ecstacy sent us on our own merry ways. My boyfriend's best friend from his home town, the one whom I could deal with never seeing ever and especially not on Christmas, turned to me with amazement, "Are we speaking telepathically?"  As he had interrupted my following of a light pattern against a wall, and despite efforts to remain polite or even civil, my disdain was evident as I replied, "No, and I really wish we weren't speaking at all."

Christmas Memory Project IV

Even though it was the present for which I had asked, it seemed to have a different message once it was in my hands.  Instead of saying, "you're independent," the envelope of cash seemed to say, "we don't know you well enough to pick a gift for you any more".

Christmas Memory Project III

The meal had been delicious, and we all eagerly awaited dessert.  Grandma's cream pies had always been the highlight of a holiday dinner.  Granted, she had abandoned the more arduous meringue and whipped cream toppings for the simplicity of Cool Whip

™ a while back, but it didn't take away from the perfect melding of richness with sweet always found inside. 

From the first bite of the chocolate cream pie, we noticed something was not right.  While the flavor was off, we couldn't place this overpowering sharp taste that had replaced the velvety chocolate taste.  Still, we ate every bite out of politeness and said nothing.  Her suspicions were instantly in play when no seconds were requested.  Grabbing a slice for herself, she spit it out at the first bite. 

Her Appalachian twang asked an unknowing crowd, "What the hell is wrong with this pie?"  Going to her dry goods cabinet, she noted that the cocoa powder was not up in front; in the place where something recently used would and should be was cinnamon.  While we shared a quick laugh, you could see in Grandma's face a loss of confidence and the fear of an aging mind.

Christmas Memory Project II

It was the first Christmas in the "suburban" house with the huge woods out back.  The assortment of presents that year all received lots of attention, except one.  In its plastic yellow case, the neglected one confused me, but I could tell from the attention he was giving it that the Erector Set was specifically from Dad.  Requiring planning and patience, needing screws and nuts and tools to fasten it's disparate parts, and resulting in a skeletal structure, The Erector Set was unlike its main competition for my attention.  The Legos snapped right together with little thought to form bright colorful follies.  Dad's frustration was evident though, so I took time to play with him and the little metal beams and pulleys, even though my heart wasn't in it.  In time he realized my disinterest and left me to my own devices, realizing that in getting a gift with which we could bond, he only pointed out the differences between us.

Christmas Memory Project I

The year I decided I didn't believe in Santa anymore, my dad had one of his coworkers come to our house on Tremont Road dressed as Santa where I spilled on everything I wanted. The Big Jim Sports Camper was one of those things. Come Xmas morning it was under the tree, unwrapped and laid out as as seen in the picture. I was six years old and totally believed in Santa Claus for the very last time.