a christmas tale of hope
Christmas time always makes me think of happy stories and I have this feeling that times are going to get better. Maybe it is the anticipation of the start of a new year on the horizon and it comes to mind that no matter how bad we fucked up, we have a chance to start with a clean slate. Maybe it is just the spirit of giving—you know, peace on earth; good will toward men—good will toward women, too. If you’ve heard me say it once, you’ve heard me say it a million times. I’m as straight as they come. I’m all for gay rights, but I don’t fuck no man in the ass and no man fucks me in the ass.
Anyway, tonight I am thinking of the joyous season almost exactly five years ago today. It was a bright, sunny afternoon and I was driving around out in the country with my ex-wife. It was a workday, but I was burning some vacation time, like I always do this time of year. My ex was living with Dick, Jr., and me because she had just been released from confinement by the State. She didn’t have anywhere else to live, so it was either with me or in a halfway house, and she convinced us that we should put her up until she was on her feet.
She had done some time for killing some dude. She always carried this 26-caliber gun about the size of the palm of my hand, in case of emergency. She had a 22-caliber pistol, but it was too big and she traded it to some country and western singer or some blues musician for that little 26-caliber. She said the ammunition that she used in the 26-caliber was some special bullet that would break up after it penetrated bone, so it would do a lot of damage. I guess she was right, because it killed that dude deader than anybody would care to be.
The story she told me was that the guy was stalking her. The story she told the court was that he had tried to sexually assault her. The state didn’t completely believe her story, so they did a deal where she did some time, but not as much as she would have if a jury told her to do time.
I think the truth was that she and the guy were acting as buyer and seller and the commodity over which they were negotiating their transaction didn’t meet her expected quality standards. The random sampling of the material which she had removed for testing purposes failed to live up to the agreed to minimum requirements. I believe the volume or weight of the purchase was also less than what had been agreed to. She, being the harmless buyer of limited liability in the eyes of the law (or, at least, common law), felt that the product offered by the seller was not of the size and quality specified by their purchase contract. Her demand of the seller was that some of the legal tender exchanged for the merchandise be returned to her in compensation for the lack of volume and the less-than-premium grade of material. She, unfortunately, had made the mistake of giving the seller the money in advance of the sale. The seller, unfortunately, had used the proceeds to purchase said material and had used his profits for a six pack of malt liquor, to pay part of a gambling debt and to pay a white whore to perform fellatio on him. He may have also kept a portion of the material for himself, or may have given that portion to his landlord as payment of rent. In either case, the brother was unable to produce the money to his buyer to make up for the difference, so the buyer removed the small pistol and put a 26-caliber hole in his head.
I can’t vouch for this being true—like being able to testify in court—but these are the facts to the best of my knowledge.
Anyway, lets fast forward, if we may, to about a year later, and she had been released from jail and was spending the Christmas season with yours truly. As I mentioned, it was a sunny afternoon, and we were out on a journey. In a conversation with her, I mentioned that I would someday like to retire to some lakefront property and she remembered where there was a very nice secluded lake, just miles from my house. We chose to take that afternoon to go looking for it.
She told me she knew exactly where it was, so I followed her directions. Unlike the three wise men from the East who went in search of the Christ child a couple thousand or so years before, we had no star of Bethlehem to guide us. Plus that, as I mentioned a couple times, it was during the afternoon, so there were no stars visible. We had only the navigational directions of a woman who was somewhat less than wise, and, of course, a man behind the wheel who was not about to ask anyone for directions. In my defense, however, I don’t believe we actually saw a soul after we left the main road—just a few cows and horses.
We eventually gave up our search as the afternoon sun was beginning to disappear on the horizon, but I remember the last few rays of sunlight—last light on one of the shortest days of the year—struck a small cedar tree on the top of a hill. The valleys all around were fading into twilight, but the sun illuminated the lone cedar, in a field devoid of other trees. There were the small blue balls—a quarter-inch in diameter—that cedars have in the fall and it looked as if someone had decorated it for Christmas. The normally pale spheres—or seeds, or whatever those things are—shone bright and colorful in the light that would soon fade. Daylight on that late December day would disappear forever. The sunlight the next day would be different and nothing would be exactly the same. We gave up our search and went to some country diner where we had dinner. I remember she tried to bum a few dollars off of me for smokes.
You’re probably asking, what is the point.
Does every fucking story I tell have to have a fucking point?
Okay. If you absolutely have to have one, the point is that this time of year there is always something to which to look forward. Whether it is peace on earth and good will toward men or whether it is a new beginning. Whether it is a new year and a clean slate to see how far into January we can get before we get dirt all over it. Whether it is the quest for lakefront property or whether it is just a search for something for which you are looking, but you’re not sure what it is. Sometimes when you are right in the middle of your search, you look up and there is Christmas.
No matter how badly you have pissed away your life or how hopeless you think it is, there is always Christmas and there is always the New Year and there is always the chance that you may turn it around.
Not much of a chance, I’ll grant you. But always a chance.
Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.
Anyway, tonight I am thinking of the joyous season almost exactly five years ago today. It was a bright, sunny afternoon and I was driving around out in the country with my ex-wife. It was a workday, but I was burning some vacation time, like I always do this time of year. My ex was living with Dick, Jr., and me because she had just been released from confinement by the State. She didn’t have anywhere else to live, so it was either with me or in a halfway house, and she convinced us that we should put her up until she was on her feet.
She had done some time for killing some dude. She always carried this 26-caliber gun about the size of the palm of my hand, in case of emergency. She had a 22-caliber pistol, but it was too big and she traded it to some country and western singer or some blues musician for that little 26-caliber. She said the ammunition that she used in the 26-caliber was some special bullet that would break up after it penetrated bone, so it would do a lot of damage. I guess she was right, because it killed that dude deader than anybody would care to be.
The story she told me was that the guy was stalking her. The story she told the court was that he had tried to sexually assault her. The state didn’t completely believe her story, so they did a deal where she did some time, but not as much as she would have if a jury told her to do time.
I think the truth was that she and the guy were acting as buyer and seller and the commodity over which they were negotiating their transaction didn’t meet her expected quality standards. The random sampling of the material which she had removed for testing purposes failed to live up to the agreed to minimum requirements. I believe the volume or weight of the purchase was also less than what had been agreed to. She, being the harmless buyer of limited liability in the eyes of the law (or, at least, common law), felt that the product offered by the seller was not of the size and quality specified by their purchase contract. Her demand of the seller was that some of the legal tender exchanged for the merchandise be returned to her in compensation for the lack of volume and the less-than-premium grade of material. She, unfortunately, had made the mistake of giving the seller the money in advance of the sale. The seller, unfortunately, had used the proceeds to purchase said material and had used his profits for a six pack of malt liquor, to pay part of a gambling debt and to pay a white whore to perform fellatio on him. He may have also kept a portion of the material for himself, or may have given that portion to his landlord as payment of rent. In either case, the brother was unable to produce the money to his buyer to make up for the difference, so the buyer removed the small pistol and put a 26-caliber hole in his head.
I can’t vouch for this being true—like being able to testify in court—but these are the facts to the best of my knowledge.
Anyway, lets fast forward, if we may, to about a year later, and she had been released from jail and was spending the Christmas season with yours truly. As I mentioned, it was a sunny afternoon, and we were out on a journey. In a conversation with her, I mentioned that I would someday like to retire to some lakefront property and she remembered where there was a very nice secluded lake, just miles from my house. We chose to take that afternoon to go looking for it.
She told me she knew exactly where it was, so I followed her directions. Unlike the three wise men from the East who went in search of the Christ child a couple thousand or so years before, we had no star of Bethlehem to guide us. Plus that, as I mentioned a couple times, it was during the afternoon, so there were no stars visible. We had only the navigational directions of a woman who was somewhat less than wise, and, of course, a man behind the wheel who was not about to ask anyone for directions. In my defense, however, I don’t believe we actually saw a soul after we left the main road—just a few cows and horses.
We eventually gave up our search as the afternoon sun was beginning to disappear on the horizon, but I remember the last few rays of sunlight—last light on one of the shortest days of the year—struck a small cedar tree on the top of a hill. The valleys all around were fading into twilight, but the sun illuminated the lone cedar, in a field devoid of other trees. There were the small blue balls—a quarter-inch in diameter—that cedars have in the fall and it looked as if someone had decorated it for Christmas. The normally pale spheres—or seeds, or whatever those things are—shone bright and colorful in the light that would soon fade. Daylight on that late December day would disappear forever. The sunlight the next day would be different and nothing would be exactly the same. We gave up our search and went to some country diner where we had dinner. I remember she tried to bum a few dollars off of me for smokes.
You’re probably asking, what is the point.
Does every fucking story I tell have to have a fucking point?
Okay. If you absolutely have to have one, the point is that this time of year there is always something to which to look forward. Whether it is peace on earth and good will toward men or whether it is a new beginning. Whether it is a new year and a clean slate to see how far into January we can get before we get dirt all over it. Whether it is the quest for lakefront property or whether it is just a search for something for which you are looking, but you’re not sure what it is. Sometimes when you are right in the middle of your search, you look up and there is Christmas.
No matter how badly you have pissed away your life or how hopeless you think it is, there is always Christmas and there is always the New Year and there is always the chance that you may turn it around.
Not much of a chance, I’ll grant you. But always a chance.
Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.
posted by dick clinch at 10:48 AM
5 Comments:
great christmas story, you're a good story teller eheheh
Thanks for youur visit and have a nice week-end :)
Obrigada pela visita ao blog.
E beijos aqui do Brasil.
Thanks for the tip. I like your writing. The only thing I would suggest is that you widen up the main wrapper (in your CSS). It would make your posts look less overwhelmingly long. (Not that long posts are bad. The page just makes 'em look bigger.)
Did I see this on the Disney channel? Or the Lifetime channel for hormonal chicks?
HA! I don't know how real this is, or if you're just freakin' funny...eh, it doesn't matter. You're my new antihero.
Quote of the day, modified: "Does every fucking comment I tell have to have a fucking point?"
good tale and moral, homie
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