2021-12-21, 03:05 PM - Word count:
“Christmas time, is here. . .
Happiness, and cheer. . .”
A children’s chorus accompanied with a sole piano interrupted the record player’s idle static and a satisfied K. Clamence sat back in his leather chair. With a scotch in hand Clamence watched a recording of a fireplace on his tv, nostalgic for his fireplace back home. The sounds and sights of the fireplace may have been replicated on his OLED screen but both the warmth and smell were missing. More importantly, the people were missing.
Clamence traditionally spent Christmas Eve at his parent’s cabin far outside the city limits of his boyhood club. There, in a wood lined den, he’d sit with his parents and their friends around a fire sharing brie, fig jam, ham, recent acquisitions of alcohol, and of course, stories. By the nights end, lightly inebriated, Clamence would fall asleep on a couch next to the dying embers of the fire listening to the sounds of nature.
From his apartment in London, Clamence’s ears were no longer graced to the sounds of wind whistling through the trees in isolation but instead to the steady sanding of rubber tires against salted roads. The hoots of owls replaced by whoops of excitable drunkards filled as equally with beer as they were with holiday cheer. To sleep through the foreign ambient noise, Clamence’s scotch was 3 fingers deep.
As a child, Christmas Eve was always a night that had to be overcome with patience for the sake of making it to Christmas Day. Like a dog sitting politely for a treat, Clamence made sure to mind his manners for his parents and their guests but his eyes consistently refocused on his presents with eager anticipation. As adolescence transitioned to adulthood, however, Clamence’s gaze focused to the guests and the food. The stories his parents and their friends shared delighted him. As alcohol flowed, tales once referenced with whispers were released to the mature Clamence who was astounded at what his parents and their friends had done at his age. Revelry ruled the festive night and Clamence found a real love for sharing Christmas Eve with his clan.
Alone on Christmas Eve, Clamence sat in his chair, listening to “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” and wondered what his father’s old college friend would think of the scotch he picked up that morning. It had a good spice profile and medium peat, but stood out as exceptional due to its smokiness. 2 fingers gone, Clamence considered whether he wanted to sit and finish the remaining half dram or instead top off the glass.
Pondering what to do, and missing his yearly traditions, Clamence heard the record needle zipper across the vinyl and idle static filled the room. Clamence thoughtlessly shot his remaining drink, rose, and sauntered to his record player to turn the record to Side One. “O Tannenbaum” began to play and Clamence popped the cork out of his scotch bottle, swirling the liquid in the bottle before pouring it into his glass.
Clamence’s phone rang, “Dad,” it read. Clamence was embarrassed to answer in his disorderly state, when it was still early afternoon for his father, but by now each was used to the time difference. Dad would understand.
“Dad, I’m sorry I hadn’t called yet. Merry Christmas Eve!”
“K! I’ve been busy all day anyway, it’s for the best you haven’t called. You pouring yourself anything special tonight?”
“I actually am pouring something right now, just got it from the store this morning. It’s called -“
“Well go ahead and pour it into a few more glasses! Mom and I are outside with some friends who always wanted to visit London. We thought you might be okay hosting us for a night.”
There are smiles that the bearer never forgets. Like the smile after a first kiss, after saying “I do,” or after seeing a child’s first steps. Upon hearing that his parents orchestrated a true Christmas miracle, Clamence flashed an unforgettable smile.
“I’ll be right down Dad.”
Happiness, and cheer. . .”
A children’s chorus accompanied with a sole piano interrupted the record player’s idle static and a satisfied K. Clamence sat back in his leather chair. With a scotch in hand Clamence watched a recording of a fireplace on his tv, nostalgic for his fireplace back home. The sounds and sights of the fireplace may have been replicated on his OLED screen but both the warmth and smell were missing. More importantly, the people were missing.
Clamence traditionally spent Christmas Eve at his parent’s cabin far outside the city limits of his boyhood club. There, in a wood lined den, he’d sit with his parents and their friends around a fire sharing brie, fig jam, ham, recent acquisitions of alcohol, and of course, stories. By the nights end, lightly inebriated, Clamence would fall asleep on a couch next to the dying embers of the fire listening to the sounds of nature.
From his apartment in London, Clamence’s ears were no longer graced to the sounds of wind whistling through the trees in isolation but instead to the steady sanding of rubber tires against salted roads. The hoots of owls replaced by whoops of excitable drunkards filled as equally with beer as they were with holiday cheer. To sleep through the foreign ambient noise, Clamence’s scotch was 3 fingers deep.
As a child, Christmas Eve was always a night that had to be overcome with patience for the sake of making it to Christmas Day. Like a dog sitting politely for a treat, Clamence made sure to mind his manners for his parents and their guests but his eyes consistently refocused on his presents with eager anticipation. As adolescence transitioned to adulthood, however, Clamence’s gaze focused to the guests and the food. The stories his parents and their friends shared delighted him. As alcohol flowed, tales once referenced with whispers were released to the mature Clamence who was astounded at what his parents and their friends had done at his age. Revelry ruled the festive night and Clamence found a real love for sharing Christmas Eve with his clan.
Alone on Christmas Eve, Clamence sat in his chair, listening to “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” and wondered what his father’s old college friend would think of the scotch he picked up that morning. It had a good spice profile and medium peat, but stood out as exceptional due to its smokiness. 2 fingers gone, Clamence considered whether he wanted to sit and finish the remaining half dram or instead top off the glass.
Pondering what to do, and missing his yearly traditions, Clamence heard the record needle zipper across the vinyl and idle static filled the room. Clamence thoughtlessly shot his remaining drink, rose, and sauntered to his record player to turn the record to Side One. “O Tannenbaum” began to play and Clamence popped the cork out of his scotch bottle, swirling the liquid in the bottle before pouring it into his glass.
Clamence’s phone rang, “Dad,” it read. Clamence was embarrassed to answer in his disorderly state, when it was still early afternoon for his father, but by now each was used to the time difference. Dad would understand.
“Dad, I’m sorry I hadn’t called yet. Merry Christmas Eve!”
“K! I’ve been busy all day anyway, it’s for the best you haven’t called. You pouring yourself anything special tonight?”
“I actually am pouring something right now, just got it from the store this morning. It’s called -“
“Well go ahead and pour it into a few more glasses! Mom and I are outside with some friends who always wanted to visit London. We thought you might be okay hosting us for a night.”
There are smiles that the bearer never forgets. Like the smile after a first kiss, after saying “I do,” or after seeing a child’s first steps. Upon hearing that his parents orchestrated a true Christmas miracle, Clamence flashed an unforgettable smile.
“I’ll be right down Dad.”
