Denouements in the Dark

“We made it, bud. We freaking made it.”  

Ken’s text was but a hint of consolation, as looked up from the screen to see a 4 p.m. sunset staring back at me. But he was right, the longest day of the year was almost over and the days would only get brighter. Excruciatingly slow, but steadfastly sure. 

It was harder in the high latitude lines of the Pacific Northwest. Rain never bothered me years ago back in the mid-teens, but the darkness...the darkness. It has a way of hanging over you in a way that is more than the mere absence of light. It was like a body blow to your soul, if that makes sense.  

And at this point, I didn’t care if it made sense. Grunge lyrics don’t make sense, so why should my poorly articulated misgivings on the darkest night of the year?  

Ken is a Seattle native, and his birthday is December 21st. These days, as 2016 comes to a merciful close, it is the only time we chat. Such is life when you get older. Kids, PTA meetings, corporate careers—they all get in the way of a nice beer pong tournament. And that was just on his side.  

I personally had a failing marriage to tend to, and the vodka and box wine wasn’t going to drink itself. Plus, Christmas was around the corner, and my wife Ally and I hadn’t even started shopping yet. She was a busy woman, working two bartending jobs and all. I worked from home, but I was usually too smashed to get in my car to head to the shopping center for us. It all revolved around what time she got home.  

Today, however, I was good. I wasn’t going to win any “Husband of the Year” awards, but I managed to convey some semblance of coherency. Ally got home early from work, and she was free from her second job that night. I stuck to vodka and cough drops, and I even had lunch to temper the effects of my imbibing.  

It was a regular Christmas miracle.  

The only other thing that stood in the way of us providing Christmas cheer was money. See, we didn’t have much of it, and our priorities lay in our vices. I worshipped at the altar of Dionysus, and she was not a happy camper if she didn’t have at least an ounce of British Columbia’s finest weed to get her through the week.  

Small wonder that Hallmark never got around to making our Christmas movie.  

Like always, we make our due preparations to the 1995 Lexus wagon before we embarked to Santa’s retail village. The Gospel According to Target called for a 32-ounce tumbler of white wine for me and at least two bowls’ worth of sticky green for Ally. She drove on these ill-advised runs to empty what little was left of our bank accounts. I served as the grumpy navigator.  

It was about a quarter after 5 in the evening, but it felt like 3 a.m. already. 

Against all odds, we were getting along. It’s funny when your expectations are tempered; the desired end result caters to the lowest common denominator. In this case, “let’s not have WWIII break out, get our gifts, and get home in one piece. In peace.” Teamwork was making the dream work.  

We decided against pushing our luck and having dinner at the Northgate Red Robin. We had leftovers at home, and we had a night full of wrapping presents ahead of us. How did we end up having so much to wrap when we were so broke? Credit to Ally—she always found a way to make it work. All I had to do was stay away from too much hard alcohol and use my YouTube DJ skills to keep the spirit of the holiday alive.  

Sometimes that involved traditional carols of the season; other times I got off on Van Halen tangents. Gifts are wrapped, senses are numbed—no one complains in our household. Even better is that we have three days to spare. All is well.  

Then Ally’s phone rings. Here we go.  

I should have known things were going just a little bit too well. Her mom Dianne is on the other line, and this time of year—so close to the holiday—it is never a mere social call. It is as if the evening sensed our relative good fortune (pun intended), and said “hold my beer.”  

I try to read her facial expression, but I don’t have to be a mentalist to glean what is happening. Her mom is about eight sheets to the wind and is talking loud enough for Santa’s elves to hear her.  

“So, uh. So. Hold on.”  

In the name of all that is holy, Dianne is hard to listen to in this state. And I’m talking about both of us; me being drunk doesn’t make her any more tolerable.  

“So...every Christmas gathering we are doing has a theme.”  

Joy and rapture.  

“And the gifts need to be board game-related for Grammee’s. Your father and I are doing a patriotic red, white, and blue thing, and you’re to bring something that we can donate to the troops.” 

My stomach sinks, as I can see where this is going. We are going to need more gifts. Sweet mother of God. I take deep breaths, and listen in silence, like a criminal at his sentencing. This time, the judge is a middle-aged drunk woman who is probably getting the details mixed up.  

“Finally, at your Grandpa’s, it is a Mardi Gras theme. We all have to wear something gold, purple, or green. And the gifts need to follow suit.”  

Ally goes along with it, as she is scared of confrontation, and even in her adulthood she will never tell her mother no. Regardless of how asinine the request is. I simply get to smile pretty for the wrecking ball. And drink more, because this phone call means that we have more shopping to do. That would be rude even if we had money. But for me and Ally, with our financial situation? This was just getting cruel.  

While the sun had set hours ago, things continued to get darker and darker. I told myself to be numb, and just help Ally when and where I could. For all of our relationship problems, we had to stick together during this ordeal.  

During times like this, I think of that Robert Frost poem, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” I’m feeling every line of that stanza, nearly one hundred years after its writing. I want to cry, slowly close the laptop, and walk away forever. 

Stupid Christmas. I too had miles to go before I got home, and I didn’t even know where home was at this point. My hometown had forsaken me, and I was an unwelcome pilgrim in the Northwest. Tolerated, but never enjoyed.  

*** 

Years later, I sit in my Texas bungalow and take a long look outside my window. I see icy trees and a silver sky, with hints of bluish gray all around. Gloom is absent from the scene, as it all makes for quite the pretty winter landscape. It’s Solstice time again, and even though I haven't verbally talked to Ken in years, I send him happy birthday wishes without fail. All the way to his new place in Palm Desert, California.

“Happy birthday, bud. We made it!” 

I put my phone down and freshen up my peppermint tea. Down South, we are spoiled with 5:30 p.m. sunsets—almost a whole 90 minutes more than the Seattle area. I would love to tell you that Ally and I grew out of our misspent salad days and are happily married on a ranch near Plano, but we split up. My demons got the best of me, and it would take years to sober up.  

As far as I know, she still slings beer to Seattle’s finest. We still message each other from time to time, usually more around the holidays as old inside jokes tend to pop up in the banks of our ever-fading memories.  

I close the curtains, and fire up my new guitar amp that I bought myself for Christmas. I strap on my Les Paul and chords to an old Aerosmith song fall out of my hands. Before I know it, it has morphed into something of my own. Daylight may have faded, but the future is bright.  

My phone buzzes, and it’s Ken.  

“Thanks man, and yes—we freakin’ made it.”