Don't Say It.

"It kinda looks like—"

"Don't say it." 

Kenny nods solemnly, recrossing his long legs in the rusted lawn chair. The skinny blue and white plastic spindles weaving the chair seat have long since loosened and torn. His ass hangs out of half of it, but it doesn't bother him any. I watch him try to change the subject in his brain, can physically see the wheels turning, his lips twisting from one side to the other. 

It doesn't work, though, so he readjusts in his chair and tries again, "I'm just saying—"

"Don't say it."

"It looks like a friggin' Christmas tree!" He shouts, hands flopping in the air dramatically.

I sigh and crack open my beer. We sit quietly in our old shitty yet somehow still comfortable lawn chairs and stare at the tall green spruce, shimmering as if it were decorated with the ghost of baubles, tinsel and lights of Christmas past. He's right. It does look like a Christmas tree.

Doreen, a few RV's down, had some fancy app on her phone where she could just take a picture of the damn thing, and it told her everything we needed to know about the giant green tree that showed up out of nowhere a couple of days ago.

As if a fully grown, sixty-foot Christmas tree appearing fully rooted in the center of our little town wasn't bizarre enough, the fact that we're about ten clicks outside'a Roswell, a desert-laden arid landscape, only added to the mystery.

The even stranger thing was, about four or five nights ago, I was out, maybe had a few too many beers, wandered a little too far into the desert, and I coulda sworn I saw this same tree. Just sitting there, in the middle of nowhere, all by itself. It glistened in the moonlight, and I slapped my face to get a grip, but it was still there when I pried my eyes back open. Somewhere between the booze and the call of the moon, I passed out right there on the hard-packed dirt, and when I woke up, there was no tree.

Of course there wasn't; that would be crazy. 

But when I stumbled back to my silver Twinkie airstream the next morning and heard the commotion of my neighbors, all gathered around outside their RVs and trailers at the center of our little town, it was impossible to miss that same giant green monstrosity beaming up from behind the crowd. As if it had just up and twinkle-toed its way over here and then planted firm.

According to Doreen and her fancy app, said green monstrosity is a Norway Spruce, the same kind they use at Rockefeller in New York at Christmastime. And it just so happens to glimmer when the light catches it as if it's decorated in rows and rows of lights.

Annoyed I won't partake in further discussion—as if it weren't the only thing we've all talked about since the damn tree's mysterious arrival—Kenny huffs and climbs out of his lawn chair, joining Doreen, her husband Danny, and a handful of other locals and their heated conversation.

There's a lot of pointing and handwaving. I sit back in my chair and attempt not to give in to the temptation and join them.

After a few lazy hours and a long nap in the sun, I haul up out of my lawn chair and make my way inside. 

I never needed or wanted more than I got; my place is comfortably sparse, and the stream's tiny size has never bothered me. It's the quiet of living alone I've always craved.

The can opener in my grip is halfway twisted into a can of beans when the door rattles, Doreen knocking and shouting my name.

"Open up, Joe!"

Grumbling, I pull my lit smoke from between my lips and growl, "It's open."

The rattling door whips open, Doreen huffing as she enters. She stares down at the can in my hands, brows furrowed. "Tell me you're not eating that for dinner."

I growl back, straining the beans in the sink before dumping the can into a pot on the hotplate.

"Joe, why don't you come out and join us after eating that very enticing can of beans? We've got a whole spread; everyone's brought somethin'. Not that what you've got there doesn't look like the best damn meal you've ever had. Looks very appetizing. Filling, too."

"You're not very funny. And I ain't in the mood," I say quietly.

"Never are," she rolls her eyes, gripping the Formica countertop, her claw-like hot pink fingernails clicking furiously. "Joe, it's Thanksgiving. And there's a god-forsaken Christmas tree out there! A goddamn miracle! You shouldn't be alone here, stinkin' up the place with cigarettes and beans. Come over."

Steam begins to rise up out of the pot. I stir it. Doreen watches me. I watch the steam.

She groans, "Just think about it. No one should be alone on the holidays. Even your ornery ass."

The screen slams shut behind her. Of course, she doesn't shut the door. I turn the heat on the hotplate off, then move to close the door when the sounds of laughter drift in through the screen. I watch my neighbors laugh and talk with their hands and hug and touch. A part of me shifts uncomfortably at all that affection. Another part watches with envy.

I close the door quietly, light up another cigarette, and grab a spoon, not bothering to transfer my dinner to a bowl. Faint sounds of holiday music and chatter filter through the aluminum walls of my airstream. The air inside feels thick and stifling.

By the time I crack another beer, it's full dark. A new, glimmering light streams in through the window above my sink. It shimmers and dances, and I want so badly to ignore it, but the laughter's grown louder, and suddenly, the silence of my home, ordinarily comforting, feels oppressive.

Tentatively, I get up and glance out the window. 

The damn tree is lit. It's fucking lit, with white and green and red twinkling Christmas lights, seemingly unfolding out through the branches. I'm certain it's not plugged in, and there are no wires or string lights. We've checked. It's been doing this since its equally mysterious arrival.

Doreen and her husband Danny smile, his arm draped over her shoulders as they look up in wonder. Kenny wobbles from too many beers, a shit-eating grin on his face, our other neighbors all cuddling and chatting around the tree, relaxing beneath the glow.

I feel envious.

I grumble, grab another beer from the fridge, and reluctantly step outside. I'm grateful no one makes a big deal of it when I give in and join them.

Swallowing my annoyance, I listen to theories of aliens and government conspiracies regarding the Christmas tree's sudden, strange appearance. Why either party would go out of their way to plant a fully grown glittering tree for a bunch of us bumpkins in the middle of the desert is beyond me. I've got no better ideas, but I doubt it's aliens or the government. More likely, we've all somehow accidentally ingested ayahuasca or some other mind-altering substance.

Kenny drags our lawn chairs over in front of the tree, propped up like a warm fire, and I join him and sit, kicking out my long legs, our asses falling through the broken spindles. 

I can't help the slight grin tugging at my lips at how happy this stupid tree makes my neighbors. Maybe I don't mind spending time with these idiots so much. Maybe they aren't half bad.