Part One of a Two Part Holiday Story

Prelude: It’s been an interesting couple of months since I last wrote something here. Maybe not so much interesting; distracting is probably more appropriate a word. But one of the more compelling stories of late took place in December, over the holiday season, and is the driving force behind this post. Apologies to the people who I’ve already reenacted this story for and read this egocentric tripe of a post.

“I’m PMS-ing really bad,” my roommate states matter of factly when I open the front door. She’s stuffing jackets and clothes into white trash bags. The roommates before her left an inordinate number of things in the one closet we have. Things that have been there for six months—things that I won’t even repeat in writing.

Enter what has to be the worst 20 hours of my life. Everything started out innocently enough earlier that day; a frozen, somewhat idyllic brunch in Brooklyn with friends. And a haircut so as to not look like the weekend degenerate I am in front of my family during the holidays, who I was flying to visit in less than 24 hours . It actually started snowing that day, the first substantive snow of the season. It should have been a charming and picturesque day. (In retrospect, it kind of was picturesque in a Black Paintings sort of way.)

I dug my own grave, though: I decided to help my self-diagnosed roommate move the abandoned property to the basement, clearing up some space and some of the air in our tiny apartment. The new roommate left for her parents’ as soon as we finished packing the former roommate’s leftovers, leaving me to pack for my own excursion to the proverbial homestead.

Plot twist number one: the third roommate came home later that night, with his visiting mom and none other than the old roommate, whose property we just evicted.

Then came the screaming. Oh, the screaming. Then came the crying, which spread from the hysterical former roommate to the current roommate’s mother, who was justifiably distressed as a result of her son suddenly being thrust in the middle of a domestic dispute from an alternate reality where private apartments function as public storage.

Without going into details, the screams and cries continued till about 2 in the morning, six hours before my flight to Texas, during which I had to pull the mattress out of my room and stick it in the building hallway as punishment for my trespasses, punishment that turned out to be some sort of abject lesson in loyalty and lifted soon after everything calmed down.

Some other stuff happened minutes after everything allegedly calmed down, which doesn’t merit typing out right now, but everyone ended up going to bed stressed and upset. Everyone but me, still packing. Meanwhile, there’s a fucking blizzard going on outside, but I was a little more preoccupied with the shit storm developing in the apartment.

An hour after the plot twist, I decide to take shower. Not having slept or eaten, maybe a cold one would jolt me. I walk into the shared area towards the bathroom when I hear sniffling. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Apparently, Distressed Visiting Mom is still distressed.

(I’ll take a moment and voice the fact that I liked having D.V.M. at the apartment; she was an incredibly nice, generous woman whose presence was unknowingly needed at the time.)

I ask Distressed Visiting Mom what was wrong at three in the morning. Apparently, in an attempt to calm herself down, she decided to pick up her Bible, a decision that is perfectly aligned with her being a very traditional Hispanic Catholic woman. While preparing for the scripture reading, she sat the holy book on our coffee table, which proceeded to snap in half, probably under the weight of god almighty himself.

It took a while, but I successfully convinced her that it was just a table, that no one was hurt and that this was in no way an omen. Four years of Catholic higher education obviously had no positive effect on my ability to sense god’s perverse sense of humor.

After taking the elusive shower and after packing everything I could into my carry-on and step outside at about four in the morning, four hours before my flight, to get a car, taxi, bus, something—staying home was not an option. I took a step outside and realized what is actually involved in a Nor’easter, in this case knee-high snow and winds blowing said snow up my nose.

But nothing was going to stop me. Come hell or high water, however frozen it may be, I was getting out of New York and far away from both the insane apartment and an angry god’s escalating power plays.

To be continued.