A Couple of Warm Christmas Stories

Once again, I have run out of things to talk about which explains the lack of anything posted. I have told most of the cooler Christmas stories I have known so here's a few Xmas vignettes from the long, long past, when phones were screwed to walls and there were three TV channels.

Archies's Tavern was a locally famous restaurant here in Pawtucket that was situated pretty much on the grounds of a chemical complex, namely, Teknor Apex. No matter which side you stood, N,S,E or W of Archie's, your view was of chemical silos, networks of pipelines, rail junctions with rail cars full of polyvinylchloride. Perhaps the most scenic view was of an auto body shop that looked like the mafia would torch soon. Mendon street was never known for it's curbside beauty. I'm sure zoning ruled it “Industrial.”

Archie's was famous for their “Caveman Cut” beef entrees. They served you an untrimmed slab of meat that jutted out past the edge of the plate and being a kid, I swore most adults ordered it “barely singed” with the blood still running. To me, that was “raw.” I have to give the restaurant credit for one thing though. They finally succeeded getting me to like mushrooms. Prior to that, I saw most mushrooms as growing off of anything dead and why would I want to eat that? Mushrooms were EVIL. Thanks to a Castelucci recipe, I learned that if you marinate mushrooms, they were heavenly.

It was the Xmas week of '75 or '76, I forget...I'm old, when my Dad got good and juiced one night there.

Nearly every Friday night, we'd go out to a local restaurant, then hop over to Almacs in Seekonk to the do the weekly shopping. As with most nights out, Dad would order his two Manhattan cocktails but then wait till we got home to break open the Narragansett beer. Mom would have “one” beer as she would get drunk off of the fumes and Dad might have four as they watched the Friday night line up of Mary Tyler Moore, Loveboat, Newhart or what have you.

But that particular night back in the mid 70's, Dad had about four Manhattans at Archie's. I'd seen this from time to time and it wasn't a great problem. In fact, if he were buzzed it was a hell of a lot easier to caboodle favors out of him if you pitched the idea just right towards him. It's how I finally got my BB gun once. When we left Archie's that night, a light fog had crawled in and started to freeze on any surface, including the roads. There was a thin layer of ice on everything that you know is incredibly slippery.

We got into the giant Impala my Dad drove, he fired it up and tried to drive away, but the tires just spun and spun causing a huge roar. The car would lurch forward, roll back and back and forth we went. Normally this would piss my Dad the fuck off but he was laughing his ass off this time as he gunned the engine again and again.

From the back seat, I could see my Mom, turning her head towards him and just watching in a dull amazement. Finally, the tires bit the road and we shot forward. It was all of 400 yards to get back to our house. That took nearly 20 minutes.

“RICHARD! LOOK OUT!” my Mom yelled as he slid though an intersection, right past the stop sign.

“Ahhh...it was empty!” my Dad retorts.

On York Ave, he managed to slide the car into a snow embankment near Stop & Shop. My Mom just fumed as he rocked the beat back and forth to get it free. There are times when your parents forget they even have a child in the back seat and start talking freely.

“Ever since you got promoted, you think you can do anything you want!” my Mom complained.

“What? Can't I enjoy my success once in a while? It took me ten years to go from comptroller to CEO! I'm gonna enjoy it when I can!”

“Let me drive the car home!” Mom says.

“You can't even drive a standard!” says Dad.

“THIS CAR ISN'T A STANDARD!” yells my Mom

She was right. My Dad pulled some lame excuse out of his ass.

We finally get to our street when my Dad manages to slide into the curbside of our house. BANG! The giant monster of a car nearly bounced off it when it hit. My Dad laughed.

“You HIT the curb!” my Mom yells.

“It's my OWN curb for God's Sake Maureen! (I swear to God on High, he said this)

Inside the house, my Dad was enjoying opening his Narragansett while my Mom, who sat at the same table, had smoke coming from her ears. He then starts singing the opening song from the Mary Tyler Moore show when it came on.

“You're gonna make it after all...” Dad croons to Mom.

“Shut up Richard!”

**

Christmas Eve mass was always held at St Joseph's on Walcott every year. I guess when we were old enough, we finally attended it and I swear the only reason was to blow off the Christmas Mass the next morning at 11 AM because we had presents to open, relatives to visit with. I wasn't a particularly religious kid and I wasn't always keen on even attending regular Sunday morning masses let alone one at midnight. One, it was late and I wanted to sleep. Two, it was usually f'ing freezing out at that time of night and I preferred to be warm and snug INSIDE my house. I'm still the same way, by the way.

One year, my brother, who was a full blown teen then, said he'd “meet up with us” at St Joe's mass at 12. When asked where he was going that Christmas Eve, he said to Mirza's, his best friend from that time.

“Oh..Mirza's? Say hi to them all for us.” My brother complied and said he would.

So, after getting into my itchy woolen suit my parents had bought me from Sears, we all piled into the car for the four minute drive to St Joe's. I was resigned to this as I had no say, but realized it would be short enough (vs. the High Mass that next morning that lasted as long as a Pope's funeral) and it WAS Christmas tomorrow plus a whole week off from school.

The church was packed and Mom, Dad and I settled into the pew and I kept looking around for my brother. I finally spotted him, along with Mirza, Burns, Chubsie and Dirt Bomb (aka Jimmy K) sitting about five pews behind us.

Kneel, stand, sit, kneel, half sit, do the Watusi as we Catholics do during Mass. My brother and his friends were making a small, slight, barely audible commotion amongst themselves, but not enough to draw the ire of the of congregation. It's what teen boys do when they pack rat together.

About five minutes later, I heard a strange sound, an almost gurgling sound followed by a SPLAT! A second later I hear an older women's “Oh Dear!” comment.

I turned to see my brother, who is holding his mouth, making a bee line through the pew of people, to the aisle and out the door. Jimmy K, the infamous “Dirt Bomb” started to laugh but then caught himself quick.

What was odd is that my parents didn't notice this nor see their son bolt. There was some slight murmuring near those pews but it died down once the priest started officiating again.

“Huh? I wonder what that was about?” I thought to myself.

Later once we get home, my brother is already there with Mirza and Dirt Bomb. I ask what the hell happened and Dirt Bomb says, 'Your brother puked in church!” and busts out laughing.

After a few seconds, I realized they're all piss drunk. My brother had ralphed up whatever cheap vodka they were drinking before they went to church.

Apparently that was the whole plan, as my brother was old enough to go to midnight mass with his friends, alone. They were first at Mirza's house getting gooned on cheap Popov vodka.

I don't know who had to clean up the puke at St Joe's though, probably some poor altar boy.

Merry Christmas and everyone lived happily ever after!