I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas - Lewis Black [41]
I promise you, I am really not a total prick. What I am is at a complete loss when it comes to knowing what a little girl might like for Christmas or her birthday. Talk about pressure. I don’t have a clue what I want for my birthday, let alone my friend’s daughter. They live in a completely different world from what I was brought up in, and what I now live in.
When I was a boy, girls played with dolls and Kenner Easy-Bake Ovens. You could really bake with them. You can still buy them, believe it or not. I don’t know how the genius toy designers came up with this idea, as it is a lethal gift for kids. Shouldn’t they be against the law? Not only because of the electricity that soars through it and the heating coil, but for dietary reasons. Toys shouldn’t make kids fat. She’s TEN YEARS OLD, what do you buy a ten-year-old girl? I haven’t a fucking clue.
I know that I could ask her parents to buy her a gift. But I know they’ve already gotten her everything. Besides, she is a very sweet girl. She’s not like Gus and Leo. She doesn’t hold a grudge. That I know of.
When I get to Neil’s, the room is abuzz with adults.
Machiko greets me: “Merry Christmas, Lewis, would you like a glass of Spanish Rioja?”
“Yes, I will have a glass of that delightful Rioja. Oh, this is excellent. Merry Christmas,” I reply.
Another glass of wine, added to the glasses I had at Willie’s, and it’s apparent that the alcohol has begun to slowly take hold of me. Everything is taking on a slight glow.
I hug my very close friend Mark Linn-Baker, an exceptional actor. Like Neil, I met him at drama school. He has brought his daughter. Oh shit—another child I haven’t bought a gift for.
“You are a stingy prick, Lewis,” he says.
“I didn’t know she’d be here,” I say.
“Well, here she is.”
“What was I supposed to get her?”
“A book would have been nice.”
“A book? She’s read Harry Potter.”
“There are other books.”
“Nancy Drew?”
“You’re an idiot.”
Yes, I am. I’ve known that for a long time. I never said I wasn’t. Especially when it comes to females of all sizes, ages, and book preferences. Maybe I should have thought ahead and brought business cards that say: “Sorry, this is not my holiday.” They’d ask me what was in those bags I brought. I’d explain that I have gifts for their parents. “Nothing for us?” they’d whine forlornly. And then I’d have to admit that even though they’re great kids, I like their parents more. And no, I don’t have to worry about them reading this. I have no intention of buying this book for them, either.
I’d tell them I gave a gift in their names to kids who have nothing and are starving to death. I’d tell them this, probably while my mouth was full of food.
Say, that isn’t a bad idea, though. Next year.
Mark seems to be doing better than the last time I saw him. His wife is not with him. Their marriage, sadly, has been in the process of disintegrating. At times I have witnessed this at these Christmas dinners. I can’t imagine it. I certainly had my own hell to deal with, but this is way different. They have shared the birth and the life of their child together. It’s reason enough for me not to get married and have children. As if I needed another reason.
Unlike at Willie and Jenny’s, the dinner here is more for friends than family. Each year, outside of Mark and me, there is a revolving guest list. All sorts of couples and singles have been in attendance over the years. They are designers, artists, restaurateurs, and businesspeople. Every few years another close friend of mine, Steve, the owner of the West Bank Cafe, and his wife, Janet, show up. They don’t have children; instead they have a restaurant. (I think children may be easier. A husband and wife running a business together must be a tough road, but they do it with grace, style, and killer senses of humor. They need to have all three. Otherwise, they’d have tried to kill each other and I would have had to say something