This is a work of semi-autobiography and therefore should be considered fiction. Names and events have been altered. "Seven Years Bad Luck" is an ongoing series. This is part eleven.

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Christmas Eve Shopping

For some reason in my household, the men always go shopping for Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve. My brother picked up this habit from my dad. My stepfather, Harold, doesn’t have this problem, probably because he’s not related. Instead, he gets shitty gifts gifted to him. The next hammer someone thinks it would be funny to give him, he says, he’ll beat the giver with it. I would have thought about taking him up on that implied challenge, if the light in his eyes when he said that wasn’t just a touch too zealous.

Shopping for my parents in the past has always felt like a futile exercise. What reasonable thing can you get someone who can just buy something as soon as they want it?

Having said that though, the gift for my father has already been given. I called and paid for a repairman the week before to fix the kitchen sink. My dad had been washing dishes in the laundry room sink, where the faucet was busted and the water pressure was so lousy, the water came out at a sorry dribble.

“Rats have chewed through this,” the repair guy muttered when he went under the sink. “They must’ve chewed through these wires at the same time, giving them a shock. Don’t know why they would do that. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Yeah, rats all over the place,” my dad ran with it. He could talk someone’s ear off if he could persuade them to listen in the first place. And he was really eager for it, with the repairman. He hadn’t talked to many new people for months, possibly years now. “I saw one peeking out from under my bed once…”

My dad told the repairman about the time one morning when he swung his legs over the edge of his bed, looked down, and saw a little rodent snout twitching between his legs. And then about how he proceeded to kill it. I sat in my chair in the next room, drawing pad in my lap, as I heard about this for the first time. The repair guy glanced delightedly between us. At the end of the story, with my pencil resting in my hand, I muttered, “I can’t believe you killed a rat with your foot.” The repair guy laughed like he was gonna die from it.

Dad loved his Christmas present.

“This is so much easier, thank you, sweetie.” He thanked me several times for this, a soft and pleased smile on his face each time. It was disheartening that the best Christmas present I could give him was basic maintenance that should have been fixed months ago. I told him “You’re welcome,” halfheartedly.

The afternoon is already half over before my brother and dad make it out the door. I think I procrastinate too much, but then I look at my family members and realize it could always be worse…

I also realize it could be better. Compared to her siblings, my sister is very punctual. It’s funny how she despises our mother, but inherited some of her best traits from her. I’m closer to my father and brother when it comes to poor time-management, but still fall in between the extremes within my family.

I pass through the front living room idly, glancing at our great plastic tree. It’s still missing decorations. Maybe I’ve overestimated the uniqueness of my disregard for home decor. Later tonight, my dad will string on the lights before he puts the presents he bought for us under the tree. He always does everything; we’re complacent children because of that.

The house is dirtier than it’s been in previous years, more things broken. I think about the amount of money and work it would take to clean it all up again; it makes me feel sad, apathetic, and powerless. I feel somehow that it’s beyond my ability to fix, and so ultimately not my problem. I go back to my books; presents under the bed, bought but unwrapped.