I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas - Lewis Black [7]
Getting out of town at Thanksgiving makes Christmastime a hell of a lot easier for me.
So here I am in Central America, far from the maddening crowds. I lean back in my chair. I close my eyes and embrace the serenity. Yes, you heard me right—there is serenity. And tranquillity. And above all else, peace. Commodities I have so little of in my life. It takes me a while to get used to it, as at first it’s a bit unsettling and unnerving, but I finally let myself go as the voices inside my skull drift into the sweet silence that envelops me.
And then, as the novelist Thomas Pynchon so aptly wrote, “A screaming comes across the sky.” It pierces through the fragile sense of well-being that was nestling into me and rends the very fabric of existence with its insistent wail.
What is that ungodly and inhuman cacophony?
It’s a child. A child whose lungs are bursting through its mouth in a cry of high-pitched demand and need not heard before in the history of the human species. And, no, it is not my inner child, which on occasion has been heard to wail in my soul like a banshee.
A KID! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!
We are in the middle of paradise. I’m just about to do something I have almost forgotten how to do—relax— when out of the blue there appears this lovely, precious bundle of joy with a name like Tucker or Skip or Pip. Why is he screaming? What more can he need in life? Is the perfection that surrounds him not enough? Of course it isn’t. What does he know of perfection? He’s three years old, for fuck’s sake. He has needs that perfection can’t fulfill. This kid has deep-seated needs. He needs to know with absolute certainty that he has an effect on those around him. This is just one of the hundreds of tests that Pip must run daily so he can mature into the kind of human being who will enjoy and appreciate this heaven on earth.
WHEN HE IS FUCKING OLD ENOUGH TO ENJOY IT!
Well, apparently, that’s not going to happen in the next five minutes. So for God’s sake, would one of his parents get him a milkshake, a fluffy towel, a sleeping pill, whatever—anything to shut him the fuck up, he’s killing my sense of bliss. And I rarely if ever feel bliss, or what I think bliss is.
Then I look around. Jesus Christ, this joint is crawling with kids. You’ve got to be kidding me. This has got to be some grand cosmic joke. Someone has got to be laughing about this somewhere in the Universe, and that someone doesn’t seem to give a shit about me.
It took me my entire life to be able to afford to come to a place like this and also not feel guilty about doing so. At long last, I’ve found someplace where I could rest my weary bones before returning to the madness. I am extraordinarily blessed to be here. And I know it.
But does that three-year-old actually need to take time off? And if so, from what, pray tell? Potty training? Was Pip seeking solitude, a haven from the insanity of life in playgroup back in the U.S.? Was his anguish at home so deep that, frothing at the mouth, he threw a fit so violent that the kitty ended up dead in the toilet, its fur ripped from its body? Did his parents at that point turn to each other and sigh: “I don’t think that the counseling is really doing the job for our little darling. It doesn’t seem to be spot-on. Forget the experts, I think what Pip really needs is a tropical vacation.”
And unfortunately, it’s not just Pip. There are kids of every size, shape, and description crawling all over the place. With nannies akimbo. And what is that in the little bundle? Is it . . . ? OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE! INFANTS! They’ve even brought infants. To what end? For what purpose? WHY? By gracing you with that precious gift, wasn