“The studio called Mr. Aston. You’re expected to show up on January fourth and pilot filming commences in New Zealand on the fourteenth for six weeks. Do you want me to book a flight for you on the third?”
“Well, that’s good news, eh? We’re finally getting somewhere with this shitty career.” I sigh and take a seat on the couch as I picture leaving Denver for two months. I’m not ready to leave, to be honest. I’m not ready to let Rook go. I’ve enjoyed her too much and I’ve missed her even more this past month. I’ve barely seen her at all. Not since the last taping of Shrike Bikes. “Did we hear back from The Biker Channel on a Season Two?”
“Yes, sir. They said second week in March.”
“During the trials?”
“Yes, sir. I think they specifically scheduled it that way for ratings.”
“Of course they did. OK, well I’ll call you back and let you know about the flight.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Aston. If you need anything, I’m on call as usual.”
“Yes, thank you, Pam.” I press end and drop the phone on the cushion. Well, this is it. Life is changing. The only question is, what will I do with it?
I’m not sure yet. All I know is that I’m the only one of my inner circle that is spending this day alone.
Well, that’s not quite true, I’ve seen a ton of people today. But all of them are home or on their way home. I’m the only one who has nowhere to go.
Well, that’s not true either. My mother has a party every Christmas Eve and I’m always on the guest list.
But I’m not in the mood for a party and I’m not in the mood to go home. I’m avoiding home. But my reprieve is up. I have nowhere else to go. And maybe if I didn’t have that pet coming over I might be tempted to sit Christmas out up here. There’s no distractions. No one would look for me here. I’d definitely be left alone.
But after all these years of successfully spending Christmas by myself, I suddenly have some apprehension about it. And this apartment is not a good place to sit and get drunk. At least my Denver condo is in the middle of the city. I could go join other pathetic loners at whatever place is open. And there is always one place open nearby, no matter where I am in the world. There’s always some bar owner who relates to us loners and agrees to house the rejected for a night of drowning away one’s loneliness.
But the pet is coming over and if I’m being perfectly honest, I’m looking forward to her. She’s not bad as far as pets go. She’s got a nice body and she’s trained well enough. So I grab my phone and my computer, and go back outside into the newly chilled air, climb into my Bronco, and head south.
The snow starts as soon as I hit I-70 and the drive into Denver is slick with ice as the wet roads freeze over. I get off the freeway and make my way down Broadway to my building. It’s nine PM and I’m just getting into the turn lane when my phone buzzes.
“Now what the f**k?” I get stuck at the light so I grab my phone and find my mother’s face staring back at me. I reluctantly press answer. “Hi Mom.”
“Ford?”
“You called me, Mom. You know it’s Ford. I’m the only son you have.”
“It’s just an expression, Ford. Can you go to the store and pick up some shallots? I thought I bought them yesterday, but they’re not here.”
“Shallots? Where the hell am I gonna find shallots at nine o’clock on Christmas Eve?”
“Eli’s Market is open. I called him and he’s waiting for you now, shallots in hand. He’s that nice Jewish man—”
“I know who Eli is. He’s lived next door to us for twenty years.” I huff out a breath and then my turn-light goes green. “Fine, I’ll swing by Eli’s and bring you some shallots.”
I hang up, annoyed. It’s a ploy, I know it. To get me to go to church. But it’s not gonna work. I flip a bitch and make my way over to Park Hill where my mom’s house is. Eli’s Market is a couple blocks down from us, off Colfax. Twenty minutes later I pull up to it and true to her word, Eli is standing there in the blowing snow, bag of shallots in hand. I pull up to him and roll my window down like this is a drive-up vegetable stand. “Thanks Mr. Maus,” I say as I grab the bag, simultaneously hand him a twenty, and tell him to keep the change as I roll the window back up. I have forty minutes to get back home for my pet date.
Our street is lined with old trees that tower above the houses. Not all the houses are huge like ours. Spencer’s, for example, is just a modest four bedroom bungalow.
Modest is not the word I’d use to describe our house. Pretentious, that’s more like it. A huge American foursquare—which is almost a contradictory statement, since foursquares are supposed to be humble. It has symmetrical windows on the first, second, and third floors, and I suspect this is why my mother wanted it. We both like orderly designs. The porch is deep and massive, spanning the entire front of the house. It has a wide, welcoming opening, and thick columns on either side of the steps that lead to the front door. It’s got seven bedrooms, six bathrooms, a carriage house where I lived for my senior year in high school, and an elaborate basement set up for dinner parties so the first floor can be used for chatting.
It’s walled in with brick on all sides with a massive wrought iron gate that is open at the moment. There are parking attendants waving me off-property for parking, but I pull in anyway. I roll the window down and he immediately goes into his spiel about no parking in the driveway. “I live here. I’m pulling up, get out of my way.”