12. It's Giving...Agenda
“What do you want for Christmas?”
To this day, I will hear it and shudder. How do you respond? Am I being secretly interviewed for Miss America? In which case, I’d gladly say April 27th. Oh…and world peace.
As the holidays draw closer, my regulars often ask me this question. How do you respond? No, I’m genuinely asking. I want to know. Even in LA, the best gift someone could get me was a job in the writer’s room. Nowadays, my responses have since changed: A better president? My student loans to be paid off? A better credit score?
My godmother asked me that question once. I requested two albums, “Spice World” and Sheryl Crow’s “Globe Sessions” CD. She asked her DJ-for-a-son, who burned me—not one, but two Spice Girls albums and Sheryl Crow’s self-titled album. I still have them—a jewel case with its cover designed in Microsoft Word Clip Art. Even as a kid, I felt weird about answering this question, as it was discouraged by my mother. “You should be grateful enough to have a roof over your head.” She warned.
At a gay bar in December, gifts were fun little surprises from your regulars. The moments where they appreciate your hard work, on hard days, on holidays, and your guest’s worst day. I never expected one at Home. We hardly get a holiday party. This confused me. So why was Gypsy handing out envelopes to the staff?
“What’s inside?” I asked. “A report card?”
“No, that’s in a couple months.” Gypsy replied with a cheeky grin.
“We get these once a year.” Greg explained. “He always gifts us $100 as a special thank-you. He’ll put his contact info in the card if you need help with your taxes.”
Sure enough, the man’s name was on a crisp business card.
“Be sure to tell him thank you. Gifting $100 to everyone on staff doesn’t come cheap!”
That’s when I heard it. My mother’s voice. “You know Titi went through a lot of trouble to get you those zipper pants.” She scolded. “You better say thank you. And wear them when we see her on Saturday. She needs to know you’re grateful.”
When we saw our generous benefactor next, he was showered with free shots, a new pair of socks, and an autographed photo of his favorite singer, Winona Judd.
Gifts are a means of celebration. France gifted the US the Statue of Liberty to commemorate the country’s centennial. Gifts can also be a means to right a wrong. Did you forget your anniversary? Nothing says sorry quite like tickets to St. Tropez. Gifts are also peace offerings, like when I received another envelope from a guest.
We called him Seppe, short for his full name, Giuseppe Truffatore. His drink of choice is often soda water with a splash of cranberry, and always in a pint glass so it looks like he is drinking. Like our generous benefactor, this one got cards for everyone.
A gold card with a green holographic tree. Season’s Greetings” was scrawled over the top. Inside was a quick set of chicken scratches for a signature on the card and a scratcher. We’ve been given these before; they’re fun little gifts, especially Lotería, where I learn Spanish words while trying to win money. This one promised a paid vacation with his time-share company.
“It’s nothing.” Seppe reasoned. “Just a simple ‘thank you.’”
I took out the scratcher while closing our checks in our Counting room. The gold shimmer caught Hudson’s and Greg’s eye.
“You got one, too?” Greg asked. “Did you win?”
The scratcher boasted a 1:52 chance of winning a free two-night stay wherever I wanted. Visions of Barcelona danced in my head. I grabbed one of the quarters and removed the silver filament from the sticker.
I stared in disbelief. I won? I won! I usually never win these scratchers. The most I’ve ever won was a free scratcher. I guess even Fortune needed me to learn more Spanish words besides Bota and Nopales if I ever flee the country.
“Yeah, I did.” Greg said.
“We all did.” Hudson corrected. “Didn’t you see all the neglected cards in the other room?”
Along one of the desks was a small stack of similar golden tickets. Each one congratulating the lucky recipient.
“It’s all some pyramid scheme.” Hudson continued. “He’s not just a lazy bottom; he’s also a tit-for-tat piece of shit.”
“Go ahead and open it.” They invited.
I heard them click the “Record” button as I tore the wrapping paper apart. Knowing I was being recorded, I looked up and flashed an expression of glee. Deep down, I felt uncomfortable.
It was a large box. Deep down, I knew what it was; still, I hoped to be proven wrong. My three siblings sat in front of me. Brother, sister, and non-binary sibling, each held their iPhones in the air, ready to record my moment. My sister had my mother on Facetime.
Growing up poor, there is always a stab of guilt when you open up a gift from your family. Years of being reminded of how much work and money they scraped by to make such a gift possible. “You should be lucky we even thought of you.” My parents scolded if we even expressed one iota of disappointment.
There’s a unique brand of shame that comes up when you grow up poor. This is too much money. I can’t accept this. Menacing thoughts flood your brain even now since the benefactor is my own mother!
While circumstances may have changed, I still felt guilty that my mother spent so much to prove her love. Still, I held it to the camera while hearing my mom squeal with glee. Not wanting to kill my mother’s joy, I matched her energy.
“I know how much you like video games.”
Fun fact: before working at Home, I used to write for video games. The way I would write off every purchase as “research.”
“Thank you so much, Mom!”
“Don’t just thank me. You helped a little bit.”
The smile stayed on my face because I forced it to remain there. Weeks have passed since I last heard from You. You listened to me bitch about the funeral job fair. You promised to make plans to visit so we can talk. On nights when I’m off, I sit by the phone, afraid that if I go out, I will exacerbate my situation. When we weren’t talking on the phone or sending the occasional selfies as a “proof of life,” You was quiet. Is this what you have been up to while You was away?
“After we’re done with our drinks. We’ll drive you home.”
“Nah, thanks, I can walk.” I declined. “I need to work off that brisket hash.”
“Well, when will we get your old console from you?” My sibling asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You plan on giving us your old one, right? Since you got the new one for Christmas?” They continued.
“No.”
“So why did Mom even get you a fucking new one?” My sibling asked. My brother and sister grew suddenly quiet while my non-binary sibling continued to rant.
Unfortunately, another sad drawback about gifts in my family. They always come with strings attached, hidden agendas to placate or soften me up to a particular decision like this one. Another reason why my mom did this is to motivate me to come back home for Christmas and forgive my father. Something I wanted to avoid bringing up to avoid the argument altogether. Of all the days you gotta bring this up, you chose today?
“Cuz she didn’t know what else to get me, and You probably offered to help.” I reasoned.
“I think keeping both consoles is really selfish of you.”
I kept quiet. No use in arguing with my sibling when they are in this space. They are picking a fight.
It’s called retail therapy, Deb. It was a treat to myself after submitting to three writer’s residencies one year. 180 pages and two letters of recommendation. I earned this. There was no buyer’s remorse when it arrived. My console symbolized hard work. Call me a hoarder, but I would not give away hard work that easily. But to be called selfish for it?
The Playstation stayed in the box for two weeks. I felt guilty opening it. My sibling’s words kept echoing. Selfish. Perhaps this golden ticket phishing scam is the reward for such behavior. A reminder that I am no better than some con artist who spends three hours at the bar pretending to drink a Rose Kennedy so he can weasel his way into some elder gays pocketbook?
The next day, Seppe approached the bar, hoping to get a refill of his faux-Rose-Kennedy.
“Sure, two sixty-nine.” I said to Seppe.
“For soda water and cran? Nah, fill it up.”
I put my hands behind my back.
“You’re serious?” He asked, raising his voice.
I nodded.
“What about that good ole’ holiday spirit? I gave you all scratchers for Christ’s sake.” His voice grew louder.
“You mean that silly attempt to scam us?”
My side of the bar fell silent. He tried to go to other bartenders, other servers. Each gave him the same answer. He escalated it to management. It fell on deaf ears, especially since they also received scratchers.
“This place is not what it used to be.” Seppe protested. “You’re all ungrateful greedy little thieves and you all should be ashamed of yourself.”
Seppe stormed out of the bar. Selfish, Greedy, I’ll just add those to my resume so people know before interviewing me for my next life.
That evening, I sat in the counting office next to Benny.
“You’re less chatty today.” Benny mentioned. “What’s going on?”
I mentioned what Seppe said to me before leaving the bar. “There’s always a story in that head of yours, isn’t there?” He asked.
“Well, am I selfish and greedy?” I asked him.
Benny rolled his eyes. “If you were either of those things, you wouldn’t last here. Seppe has a history of doing shady things. Today, it’s the scammy scratchers; tomorrow, he’s scamming senior gays into becoming their primary beneficiary. Offer him a free shot; he’ll take it, but ask him to pay for something and he’ll pretend to search his pockets.”
I would later ask my therapist that question that Monday. “A lot can happen when we make compromises.” She explained. “I think you are overanalyzing your actions to reach a bigger conclusion than just questioning your moral code.”
After two drinks one Wednesday night, I called You. Of course, You listened while doing housework. You don’t seem to have much of a choice since You can’t reach through six-hundred miles of phone lines to console me. But must you always busy yourself with something?
Maybe your inner dialogue is worse than mine?
“What do you want for Christmas?” You asked.
This time, it’s more than just asking me what’s on my wish list. It is no longer a question of understanding if I’m on the Nice or Naughty list. No, this time, it’s about wishing away a moral dilemma. Something only therapy and acts of penance can redeem.
What I want for Christmas is to be Cersei Lannister. I want the world to see. I want them to throw rotted vegetables at me and call me a deviant whore. I want punishment. Instead, I get silence. Frankly, I’d rather have coal. At least I can turn that shit into diamonds and maybe make my other Christmas wishes come true, like paying off my student loans and a better credit score?
Greedy. Selfish. Deep down, I can feel another breaking the surface tension to my wandering thoughts. Anger. Why am I letting the perceptions of others get to me?
What do I want for Christmas? A mirror so I can look at my reflection and remind myself that I am none of these adjectives. Why am I letting them get to me? I am not the reason why Dominic got fired. I am not the only one to blame in the affair. Was it selfish? Sure, but am I deserving of love? Yes. So why aren’t you here to give it to me? Is it too far of a jump from your moral high ground?
As I’m hyping myself up, I realize I very close to sounding like Debbie Jellinski in the movie, Addams Family Values. Then I start laughing in my apartment, like some manic in a padded cell.
The following week, I see Seppe sitting next to two senior gays. He is talking to the two. He pays for a fake-rose-kennedy as he leans in.
“You prolly won’t see me around much longer.” He explained. “Those guys offered me a job. They need someone who can take care of them.”
I congratulated him as I handed him fifty cents in change. “Nah, keep it.”
Rupaul said it best, unless they payin’ yo bills, pay them bitches no mind. Sure, my regulars keep my rent paid and on time, but he’s no regular. He’s some slug leaving his little snail trails across the bar, his slimy ways on anyone he can touch. So, why not add a little salt on the floors so he doesn’t cross me again?