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Chapter 3 - Christmas, 20293/4/10 - Written By Stanley Krinklebert
"…At any rate, forgive the tangent - all I really mean to say is this:"
(giggles, glasses clinking, ironic glances exchanged, losing interest)
"Those of you who know me are aware that this Holiday never held a shred of religious significance to me. The themes that permeate that end of it all taste like spoiled eggnog served by a soccer mom forcing a smile. Meanwhile, though, I always felt like the secular ideal of a 'Merry Christmas' was an attainable and desirable one, however often it sat out of my reach and however trivial and hallmarky the idea may strike you. In short: You people have given me a far Merrier Christmas than ever I expected to experience, and Merrier still than I ever thought I deserved. So, thank you. A million times thank you."
Sensing the need to truncate his characteristically lengthy monologue, but not really knowing how, Mike, grunting, waved his glass of scotch at his sitting peers, prompting some halting and polite applause and the implied permission to sit down.
Why the speech? Well, they chanted "speech!" when he, back from the bathroom, collided with an attractive waitress burdened with a heavy tray of drinks and found himself unwitting conductor to a symphony of crashes, splashes, and exclamations of surprise. Variously stained and moistened in the wake of his opus, he'd helped the poor girl to her feet, tipped her (a tacky method of apology he'd developed once he'd amassed his accidental fortune) and cleared his throat to respond seriously to his friends' joking, braying appeal.
Now, afterward, he found himself midwife to that silence that always accompanies a joke newly gagged with the sober, starched rags of gravitas. He wasn't expecting to shift the spotlight of the gathering to himself - maybe didn't want to - nor was he expecting to credit THESE people with his Holiday Cheer. Yet, the Cheer struck him in the closet-like bathroom (an oft-uncredited atmosphere for revelation) and, exiting, nearly shaking with happiness, he HAD to tell somebody, and it was his habit to wrap Moments Of Emotional Significance in thick, heavy lies - to credit whomever present with joy that was less their doing than the bathroom walls.
The real cause of his merriment was this:
Union Hall, though viewed as base and debauched by his current upwardly mobile clique, was a significant spot for the aging Mike O'Malley. The band for whom he once played piano, Holy Ghost Tent Revival, first played here nearly two decades ago. It was a time of frightening freedom for the young man; the world blown wide open by opportunity yet shut tight by financial and temporal constraints. He was guaranteed beer almost every night, yet there were days when he didn't eat. He met a lot of people, but he felt he knew nobody. So, it certainly shocked the already weary traveler to find an oasis in New York, that City Of Strangers reputed to eat its young. Here, in Union Hall, he first learned to love the city, to love his band and its stifling tour schedule, to love - seriously, love - the people who showed up, danced, bought CDs, lavished compliments he never felt he'd earned or learned how to respond to, whatever, to love being a musician and plunging into that bright, teeming uncertainty which could just as easily lick the flesh clean off his bones as cleanse him.
It helped too, that the show was fucking fantastic.
It all seemed so far now. That certainly wasn't their last great show - immediately on its heels were a raucous barnburner at The Backyard Ale House in Scranton, PA (With their beloved And The Moneynotes) and a stomping, lively engagement at the River Street Ale House in neighboring Pittston, a venue that crackled and foamed like a mouthful of pop rocks and Campari. There were others, though, that eluded his memory. Sommerville! Burlington! Montpelier! How did those go? Not badly, he was sure - it was a great tour - but he had no conception of the specifics. This gave him cause to worry - he had a sharp memory. Was it finally succumbing to old age? He hastily dismissed the thought and thought instead of who he might call. Not Hank - he'd taken his family on one of those tourist expeditions to the moon (making him the first trombone player in space), and the signal was pretty dicey up there. Not PJ - he and Erin, after the success of his solo album, were on perpetual honeymoon in some idyllic little corner of wales (dubbed "Loch Leslie," unofficially). Not Ross - he averaged something like three shows a day with his critically-hailed ("the completely un-ironic rebirth of cool," drooled Robert Chistgau) free jazz outfit and was shown in paparazzi photos destroying his phone, exhausted, outside a club in Madrid. Not Steve: though he lived in New York, he was probably busy with Oliver Stone's new Elvis biopic - that baritone took work to imitate. Not Matt, either - he was swamped with a touring production of "Streetcar" as Stanley.
Well, shit. Maybe he kept record of them somewhere. He resolved not to lose these memories entirely. When he finally quit the party, he would tear open the still-packed boxes of his past in search of these lost shows.
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