Christmas Eve is when everything is going to be all right.
You’re going to do this, accomplish that. You’re going on a fabulous trip. You’re going to meet a wonderful girl and marry her. The girl you are going with now will be wonderful in the future. No more arguments, sex all the time. Everything’s going to change. Everything’s going to be all right.
CHRISTMAS EVE BY STEVEN MCBREARTY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 35
Christmas Eve is when everything is going to be all right. You’re going to do this, accomplish that. You’re going on a fabulous trip. You’re going to meet a wonderful girl and marry her. The girl you are going with now will be wonderful in the future. No more arguments, sex all the time. Everything’s going to change. Everything’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be great! You’ll be moving into a big new house, a house with a luxurious lawn and blooming flowers and gregarious (but respectful of your privacy) neighbors who will host lawn parties on long-shadowed, verdant summer afternoons. You’re going to get the promotion.
You won’t have to use your credit cards for anything. If you do you’ll pay them off right away. You’ll write a best seller. You’ll paint a classic picture. You’ll tell the boss off—and he’ll admit you’re right, giving you the raise and the promotion you’ve always deserved. You’ll be the office hero.
You’ll do something noble and life-changing. You’ll be known as a selfless, giving guy, a guy who would do anything for anybody. You’ll get up early and exercise. You’ll exercise at night, one of those enviable individuals you see striding purposefully along the roadway at dusk, looking loose and limber and free. You’ll be neat and orderly. You won’t lose patience and snap at family members and friends. Yes—Christmas Eve!
It’s Christmas Eve in suburban San Antonio, Texas, sometime in the latter half of the 20th century. I live in a raw new shade-less subdivision with the quixotic name Inspiration Hills. Our house has a broad, sloping front lawn with a view of the skyscrapers in downtown San Antonio ten miles away. My father is a corporate attorney, my mother a stay-at-home mom with an inventor’s mind and a wise-cracking comedian’s style. She’s Erma Bombeck with a girdle and a menthol cigarette in one hand. I am nine years old.