CHRISTMAS & THE DUERSONS.

      There were pretty standard Christmas traditions going on in the Duerson trailer household when Greg was very young. A decorated tree, presents, the soft sound of Elvis singing somewhere in the background. Winter is not Rhoda’s best season in terms of thriving so, in these first few years of Greg’s life it took a lot of determination and strength to have these traditions in her home rather than go, ‘fuck it.’ Because kids deserve the Christmas spirit, she reckons.        She kept it going upon adopting Jon as well. Though over the years, the tree was admittedly becoming less and less pretty. Ultimately there came a time when Rhoda, (in her deepest depression) could tell a twelve year old Greg, ‘I’m not putting a tree up this year / you can still get presents. But no tree.’ It was fine by him and, little Jon who just wanted toys.      Still, out of shame and regret she didn’t feel like having her home lit like everyone else’s: Rhoda would buy a decorative tree the size of a small vase. Prop that up on the table by the window - have the boy’s presents below it. Greg also remembers that in the midst of Rhoda lazying around, she would make unique sweets for Christmas.      Otherwise, nothing was really happening. It was like - another day, at the bottom line.

     Random…surreal, events could occur any time here. The desert is always the place for oddity. You see, Area 51 is among the sand and cacti, not the skyscrapers and subways, after all. Aliens were never one of Greg’s interests but they were not banned or sealed away from youthful imagination. Once he thought, what if aliens had high-tech wrist watches they could take-on human form with? All they had to do was roll their long lime finger through the silhouetted options before them. Coyote, Pig, Lamp, Human… with human picked, in just a flash the extraterrestrials would look indistinguishable from he, mother, Jon or even Ron.    Or maybe, when their airship crashed – toxic fumes were released. Space as well as their home-world had a different sort of ‘oxygen,’ you could say. Therefore, Greg’s rural town’s atmosphere was effected for worse by these fumes. Foreign fumes seeped up people’s nose (well, except for him and his family - and even Ron) and that’s why they did ridiculous things.     But: all these unfortunate people had to do was leave town. They would then become smarter and a lot more conscious of what they were doing. One day, Greg’s eyes won’t be so pure. He will understand that the behavior between Floyd and Della is human as human can be without ‘alien interference.’ 

    She swore. He swore but, in this slower sadder way. She threw his shirts, shoes - one falling to the ground, the other smacking against his wide forehead. Della spoke in a certain kind of language. English. But somehow a foreign form of English that went beyond a little boy’s comprehension.      On the verge of being hidden from sight or accepting being open for all to know Yes, she’s standing outside, observing this nonsense: from her own doorway, his mother’s face is strong with dead eyes and these lips bitterly curved. In what Greg thinks of as sophistication, she has her arm curved underneath the risen one which maintains her cigarette.      Her lazy eyes go down to Greg who stands right in the doorway beside her. His eyes go up to her. This gaze suddenly (almost magically) causes an expression on him similar to her own. Greg knows (or THINKS he knows) what mother’s saying. And so, he wrinkles his nose. Looks onward and hard as she does to the scene. The fantastical idea of this ruckus being indirectly caused by aliens whisks away from his brain: Floyd and Della were just being stup – 

                    Ignorant.

    Communication between the mother and son always went on this way. The exchanged glances, the shifting and re-positioning of lips. Even posture said something. Greg felt their non-verbal communication could vary a good hundred ways, ninety at minimum. Of course, his mother could talk too: she talked and in doing so gave him requests, asked him questions among other things like insignificant small talk. But to know mother couldn’t believe this? That she thought this was all stupid? She just had to look his way or hum his way.     There was never a sign she would one day use words to describe her disdain. No foreshadowing one day she was going to talk about serious things. It’s just one Friday when it all begins. In her car, she slows down at the corner where the eleven year old is on the path of journeying home. Tells him to get in, they’re going to the store.    “Make me a list.” Her order is concluded with a cigarette flicked out the window. No mind is given to Greg’s ‘hidden’ attitude as he opens his backpack. It felt wrong meddling with your school items in a car. Not only that but he hated writing while in a car.    Never does she say what to put on paper, for its Greg who ALWAYS makes her the perfect lists with everything. He knows exactly what to do, exactly how she wants it to begin. There was no mistake in picking this boy off the street but - the next following seconds feel like a lifetime. The low and soft country music playing between them isn’t enough for her satisfaction.     “It’s Tiffany’s death day.”    If there was a better way to say this – a better word to use than ‘death day’ – it’s not dwelled on. Greg’s silent, already erasing his jagged E. The lack of response has her wonder if he remembers the doe-eyed brunette. Also wonders if she just wasted her breath.    Finally the boy says, “That’s too bad,” all in one-focused breath. “It’s sad Jon didn’t get to know her.”    “I know.” As she swallows, it feels as though a lump is there. Just ready to choke her. The next claim is harder, “I miss all my friends.”   “Visit them.” A scoff comes as she blinks her eyes. The days of would-be crying are felt to be long, “Who has that money?”    The car may stop when they pull into the parking lot, but these sorts of conversations do not. These murmurs of the deceased go on – the complaints of eye-roll worthy occurrences at the Diner resurface. And ever so randomly at that. Oh: the glances she gives him live on in those off-the-wall chaotic situations where its best to stay quiet but, these talks overshadow the long gone language.     Greg never felt bothered by this. Not yet at least. Never realizing it showed a sort of…loneliness, his mother had within her. A loneliness that drove her to speak to her son so directly, as though he were an old friend. Her only reasonable friend.