The Worst Christmas Ever

Good or bad, Christmas is always a memorable time of year. Some I’d just as soon forget. 

Others, because of my profession, I remember having to work. (Which, on the surface, probably sounds like a bad deal, but- confidentially- it got me out of a lot of family stuff. You didn't hear that from me, though). And while everybody likes to paint stories about their favorite December 25^th’s, today I've decided to go to the dark side and dredge up the tale of my worst Christmas ever. It was not one of the happier moments of my life. But I paid for it.

It was Christmas 1979 and I’d recently landed a job at Spokane Sports Specialties. (This was between radio gigs and, for a time after catching on at both KCKO and KGA and to make ends meet, ended up working at all three places). Spokane Sports Specialties sold hockey and figure skating equipment from a tiny 10 foot by 20 foot annex inside a larger all-purpose sporting good shop, DP Sports. I split the day covering the hockey store with Dennis Bossingham, while everyone else on staff worked at DP. Both stores shared a common break room, the same coffee pot and we were all one big happy family. And both stores closed at 2 pm that Christmas Eve.

 

After the last customer left, those of us on duty were joined by those who’d had the day off, and at 2:15 all 12 store employees convened in the office/warehouse in back of the store for our staff Christmas party. As the festivities commenced Christmas music played, munchies and soda were in abundance, as well as a generous selection of booze. It made for a real good vibe: a lively party followed by a day and a half off from work. Snowing heavily outside, it also promised to be a very white Christmas.

 

At work I was probably closest to Fuzzy Buckberger, who was DP’s main salesman. Everyone called him “Fuzzy” because of the dome of frizzy blondish hair on his head and worm-like mustache meandering across his upper lip. "Fuzzy" was also better than his given name, Clarence.  On first meeting you might think, "Ewww! Creepy sales guy"; and you’d be right. To know Fuzzy was to know a disingenuous huckster, shameless schmoozer and renowned skirt-chaser. He was also fun, quick-witted and charming and you couldn’t help but like him. Everybody liked Fuzzy.

 

I did, too, and as the Christmas party kicked into full gear Fuzzy found me and asked if I wanted something to drink besides Coke. “Like what?” I asked as he pulled a bottle of Smirnoff’s vodka from underneath a countertop. “This stuff is so good mixed with Coke. It’ll give you a nice Christmas glow. Try it. You'll like it.” I’d had plenty of rum and Coke in college, but never Coke with vodka; and certainly not straight vodka, either. But heck, it was a party and I trusted him, so I let him fill my coffee cup. I wish I hadn't.


The first swallow went down hard and with a nasty bite. It tasted bitter, like swallowing barely sweetened drain cleaner. Yuck. I instantly chased it with a handfull of Doritos. Even though the Coke helped soften the assault on my mouth a little, I decided on the spot I didn't like vodka. But I didn't want Fuzzy to know that. He was older and I looked up to him, and I didn't want him to think I was a wuss. So I stifled the urge to gag, quickly downed what was left in my mug and pretended it was nectar.

 

However, when I wasn't paying attention, Fuzzy gave me a refill. And, like a dope, I drank it. Then he hit me again. And I drank that, too. He never asked, just kept refilling and always with a smile. And the more I drank the less offensive it tasted. And the more I drank, the less I cared. Eventually I stopped eating and just kept drinking and, though I got a little headachy, by the end of the party I was definitely in the spirit; or it was in me- at about 110 proof. Regardless, I was feeling the warm glow of the season.

 

Around 5:30, everyone wished everyone else a “Merry Christmas" and hit the snow clogged roads to go home to their families. The weather outside was still frightful and now it was dark, too. But the lights on the stores and houses were certainly delightful. However traffic was barely crawling, lurching and slogging along. Yet even going less than 20 miles an hour, I just missed running into a Jeep’s rear end when I stopped, but my car didn’t, and slipped at the light at Francis and Division. Wow, that was fun, I thought stupidly. I was drunk and sliding. Weeeeeee!


But despite the road conditions, and a pressing need to get off them before I really smashed up my car or got busted for DUI, I decided to take a few extra minutes to stop at McDonald’s and invite Mickey D’s over for Christmas. The buzz from an afternoon of Smirnoff’s and Coke and some Doritos had worn off and I was just really hungry and wanting something more substantial to fill the empty hole in my tummy. Besides, I wasn’t in any big hurry; while everybody else was hustling off to family-filled homes for the holiday, I was headed to an empty apartment. Fifteen minutes later I was off the Spokane streets for the night, and all in one piece

 

The apartment manager had strung up blinking lights on some of the rooftops, which gave the East Magnesium Road complex a cheesy, but festive appearance. My place, though, faced a side street away from the main road, so he hadn’t bothered with our building. I didn’t have a Christmas tree, either, just a couple of cards I’d received in the mail, and taped to the refrigerator door with care. And, in keeping with the season,  just like Ebenezer Scrooge, once inside my dark, bare apartment, I closed the door on the miserable weather and settled in for a supper of gruel- or in this case a Big Mac and fries. Then I hunkered down to watch some TV and tried to forget I was alone on Christmas.

 

But it remained a peaceful Christmas Eve for less than an hour. Shortly past 7:00, the first urgent signals alerted my brain of an impending internal disruption. My head began to pound, the room spin, and dinner to come back up. Then, just like Old Faithful- and just when I thought it was all over- I’d have to make another beeline to the vomitorium, or bathroom, for another episode of “Projectile Puking”. These sudden eruptions went on, almost like clockwork, for the next seven hours. Foul and multi-colored, the rolling waves of hurl, once disgorged, allowed for brief respites of relief. But only until the growing, churning blob of nausea returned and spewed yesterday’s breakfast. Or Sunday’s lunch. Who knew? Though it was like everything I’d ever eaten was coming back on me, after a while it all looked about the same.

I did recognize dinner though and here’s a news flash- while Big Mac’s aren’t all that appealing going in, they’re even less so coming out either. When mine came back up it looked like chunks of grayish mashed up Alpo. And these days, whenever I’m tempted to purchase another one, that image is always with me. Bleah!  But it wasn’t the Big Mac that did me in. I'd allowed myself to become intoxicated beyond what I could bare. The vodka acted almost as a poison and made me violently ill. And my body, not used to the stuff, was just doing its job-- intensely purging every remaining disgusting remnant, right down to the last drop.

 

The process was a living hell, though, and went on seemingly forever. I couldn’t sleep because I had to get back up every half hour and puke. It wasn't until around 2:00 Christmas morning when the vomiting finally subsided. But I was dehydrated and my head was pounding like a hammer on anvil. Dizzy and droopy, I was just praying to die!  Instead, I fell into a restless semi-doze which lasted until around 6, when I became conscious of my gigantic Christmas morning hangover. Hallelujah! It was the gift that kept on giving. Almost all day. And the only “Carol of the Bells” I heard were the ones clanging inside my head.

 

I forced myself up and made some coffee. Moving gingerly, there was still some residual confusion and wobbliness to contend with, but the pukey illness I’d spent most of the night with had finally gone. Oh what joy! Looking out the window, the snow had stopped, too. It’d left behind a beautiful world covered in white. But I didn’t care. It sucked. I sucked. Christmas sucked. Bah humbug!  It was only my 24th Christmas but it taught me the lesson of a lifetime- that I can't handle vodka. And since that day, not another drop of that evil liquid has passed my lips. Never will, either. Education, no matter how it's acquired, is always a good thing and on that subject, I was forever educated.

 

But I think everyone should have at least one rotten Christmas, if only to appreciate all the others. And for me, that Christmas is the crummeist one ever–drunk, alone, miserable and hung over. Doesn't get much better than that, does it?  

Ah, good times...