I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas - Lewis Black [17]
SON OF A BITCH . . . COULD IT BE THE MEANING OF LIFE ITSELF?
Of course it never is, but looking down at that present as you almost burst in expectation, there’s that brief moment where you’re full of hope.
And more often than not it’s a massive disappointment, because you don’t even know what it is, or what it could possibly be used for.
“Now, this is really something,” you say.
“It certainly is, and it’s one of a kind,” the giver says. “It’s a Hiccup-stopper. The instructions are on the back.”
“Wow, really, it stops hiccups . . .”
“That’s what it says. I saw it on TV. You’ve got to be careful with it or you could choke to death, but it stopped that guy’s hiccups just like that. A few more inventions like this and our economy will be up and humming again.”
“It’s made in China.”
“Yeah, but it was our idea.”
The only joy that kind of gift gives comes from trying to figure out why someone invented it in the first place and why, in the second place, someone who claims actually to like you would buy it for you.
You do get jazzed, though, when you find the absolutely perfect gift for the absolutely right person. Like the time I found a duck-hunting rifle for Dick Cheney. It’s a pleasure because it almost never happens, because you are usually so fucking busy and everything is so last-minute.
“Are you sure you don’t have this in blue?”
“I’m sorry, but this was a very big seller. This is all we have left.”
“It’s perfect, except for the color. I’ve never seen that color before. And I think I know why. It’s hideous.”
“They call it Mucus. And it’s very hip.”
“No one is that hip.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t wait till the night before Christmas to do your shopping.”
The one time I truly feel happy about giving a gift is when I am writing a check to a nonprofit organization or a charity. I’ve spent most of my life begging and borrowing to get by, so when I actually started to make enough money to actually have to file a tax return—and there were years when I didn’t have to, believe me; the IRS would just call to see if I was still breathing—it was nice to be able to pass on some of my good fortune. When I finally had enough money to do this, I was thrilled to be able to give to all of those people who needed it, and those who do so much good for others, those who’ve actually devoted themselves to the welfare of humanity. It made me feel that at least I was helping somehow, instead of just taking up space. As much as people talk about how important comedy is in their lives, it’s not really comparable to what those people do who are working their asses off to make this world truly a better place. We comics basically come in to wax the floors and wash the windows after all of the really hard work is done.
So every Christmas morning when I get up, I start my true Christmas ritual.
I roll out of bed, put on the coffee, and grab my checkbook and the stack of letters appealing to me for whatever donation I can make, and sit down at the table. I go through these pleas, one at a time, and write checks. And I give to a wide variety of organizations—as wide as I can think. The checks aren’t as big as they probably should be, as I still live in fear that someone will see through me and my house of cards will crumble and I’ll be shit out of luck and money. Then I’ll have to go to a few of these groups and ask for their help. My life always seems to be moments away from being ironic.
The physical act of writing these checks and putting stamps on the envelopes and licking them shut—and remembering to include the fucking check—makes me feel wonderful, like I’m part of something, like I’m helping . I may not have a family of my own, but, goddamnit, I can help somebody else’s.
By doing this, I have left myself open to a constant stream of additional appeals from the very groups I have given to, along with crap of every size, shape,