IT'S THE MOST BUSIEST TIME OF THE YEAR

Doo-doo-doo-DOO-doo/ Doo-doo-doo-DOO-doo.

Why do I have Alvin and the Chipmunks squeaking throughout my head?

Ah, forget it. Just substitute "It's the most wonderful time of the year," for the grammatically-incorrect title and you'll get my tack. Upon further recollection, there may have once been a cartoon in which Alvin and Simon and Theodore sang that song in their beautifully-squeaking chipmunk falsettos. ALVIN!!!

[Side-note: Alvin was the rockstar-cool chipmunk and Simon was the brainy one...was Theodore kind of like a brother-chipmunk that A. and S. would grudgingly say--if asked; ONLY if asked--"Yeah, yeah, this is my brother Theodore." T. didn't seem like he "had it all goin' on." Anyway, I digress.]

The busiest time of the year could refer to shopping and baking and cooking and flying to meet loved ones and driving to meet friends and gorging on turkey and braving long lines...but, no. I'm far-too myopic to write about that. Instead, I go day-to-day.

DID YOU KNOW? Did you know that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving has vaulted to the top of the "Busiest Bar Nights" list? It's true. I heard it from a friend who heard it from a friend's girlfriend who heard it from her second-cousin's uncle. So! It MUST be true!

What follows is a sob-story:

Break out the Kleenex:

What follows is a sob-story:

Break out the Kleenex:

What follows is a--

Crap story....

***

The taxicab pulled in front of the dark house on Reginald Street and stopped with a squeal of brakes. "We're here, bud," said the cabbie to his fare.

The man, tall and angular and shoulder-slumped, stepped out of the cab and walked around the back of it to give the driver a folded twenty. "Keep the change," he said.

The driver grinned, all swarthy facial hair and gigantic teeth. "Thanks, man!" he said. "Hey, listen! Have a great Thanksgiving, man!"

The man, tall and angular and shoulder-slumped, nodded. "You betcha." He shifted his briefcase into his left hand and flashed the peace-sign to the cabbie with his right. "Happy Thanksgiving to you, too."

The cabbie drove off, and soon the yellow can merged with the night and was gone.

Brian Shammy looked up at the silent house and a shuddered sigh escaped him. He trudged up the eleven steps--he'd once counted--and unlocked the door and went inside.

By habit, he flicked on the 48-inch plasma television immediately upon entering. From blackness grew a commercial advocating changing the oil in one's automobile every three months or three-thousand miles, thus counteracting the accumulation of engine oil sludge. He barely heard the commercial and the movements on the screen barely registered in his mind.

"Loo-cee! I'm home!" he shouted to the empty soulless house. His echo bounced around and was gone.

Shammy flicked the lightswitch. His tract-lighting sprang to life and attempted to eat the gloomy Darkness of the house. It mildly succeeded. He took off his thousand-dollar horsehair overcoat and threw it--slip-shod--onto the black leather sofa. He removed his Italian silk suit jacket and let it dangle from his fingers before he dropped it to the floor. He removed his tie, his button-up shirt and cast them over his head, where they landed, tangled, in the foyer. He slumped onto the couch, in his undershirt and his silk pants and fine leather shoes, and he buried his head in his hands.

"Lucy. I'm home," he muttered. And he sat up straight and flicked the TV volume to nothing and he looked at his hands and he thought.

***

Where is it? he wondered. Where has it gone? The frivolity, the reckless laughter, the silly games friends play with one another?

"Where the fuck is it?" he asked the empty room.

***

Brian Shammy, in his twenties, was a vibrant shadow to Brian Shammy, in his forties. As the wealth had accumulated, it seemed that the Joy of Life had corresspondingly diminished. Good times and fun women had faded as responsibility and Schedule had grown stronger. Friends had faded like sepia-toned photographs and 20-page reports had taken their places.

He leaned back, against the luxorious smoothness of the sofa and closed his eyes. A small smile touched his lips and his breathing became more rythmic and deeper. He had fallen asleep.

***

"Beeeeee-Essssssss! What's up, dude?!" His friend Brody swam to his face. "All the hot chee-kas are here, tonight, man!"

The younger Brian grinned and took in the place. It was packed. "People-as-Sardeenz" the sign had read. And Brian saw this to be true. Young men and women grappled and groped and fought for the bar and stood staring at stars. In their own minds, of course. There were no stars in McFadden's that night. There were only the weakly-illuminated planetary systems on the ceiling--but those didn't count.

"Whatcha drinkin', man?" Brody swept his arm at the bar. "I can get to the bar lickety-split. I'm good, that way." He tried to snap his fingers and failed and laughed.

"Vodka-tonic," said Brian.

"Right back, sir." And Brody was gone. He disappeared like a ghost.

Brian took in the early-80s landscape: Flesh as far as the eyes could see. He smiled and sat down. And stared ahead.

His friend Brody sat across the table from him, pointing at a glass of clear liquid. "Your drink, dude."

"How? That--that quick?"

Brody grinned and his teeth were a taximan's. "B.S. You're in Our World, now. If I wanted to, I could turn turkey into lunchmeat."

Brian goggled. The idea had never crossed his mind.

"So, tell me, Brian," said Brody, "and I can see into Future, so don't lie. Tell me, Brian, are you going to forget all of us?" Again, he swept his arm, this time in the direction of the dance floor and then, quite improbably (was he double-jointed?) right back over his head and towards the twenty-something Shammy.

Brian goggled.

"Because, you should know," continued Brody, as his face started to melt, "money ain't everything, man, and you should really get a pet."

***

Brian Shammy jerked awake, then. He'd pulled into a fetal position as he'd slept-dreamed. Now, he uncrossed his curled body and sat straight on the couch.

"Loo-cee?! I'm home!" he grinned to the empty walls and thus decided to buy a chinchilla the very next da--well--the day after Thanksgiving.

***

Problem solved, he lurched to the freezer and poured himself four fingers of Absolut Citron with a twist of an orange slice. (To protect against scurvy.)