I'd always been fascinated with pirate movies as a kid. Particularly those that involved walking the plank. It was the ritual of it all. There was no need to go such lengths to kill someone unless you were kind of excited about it. I mean, why not just throw the guy overboard? Why blindfold him? Why make him walk so slowly? Because it was a delightfully fun experience for the torturers, that's why. Except for every once in a while when it backfired. Like when Jabba the Hut tried to do it to Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi and Luke bounced his way to safety. That was the best part about the plank—if you were smart enough, there was usually a way to escape from it.

But there was no escaping this one. It was only about twenty feet from the school's front doors to the awaiting bus, but in my girls' boots it felt like the longest plank walk in history. Slowly I trudged forward, shackled at the ankles in pretty white trim and French cuffs. There was no Jedi mind trick that could get me out of this one. I was walking into certain death.

The smell hit me as soon as I got to the top of the steps. A school bus's smell in the winter is unmistakable. Heat, gas, condensation, vinyl and sweat all mixing together to form a generally foul stench. They say smell is the sense most closely linked to memory, and they're not kidding. To this day, whenever I ride public transportation in the winter, I'm reminded of that school-bus smell and it sends me into a panic. It has become my fight-or-flight trigger. Vietnam vets have napalm and burnt human hair. I have diesel fumes and soggy sack lunches.

As I walked down the aisle, the first person to notice my boots was Katie Sorrentino. I'm pretty sure it was because she was wearing the exact same pair. She looked at me like I had antennas sprouting out of my head.

"What are you doing?"

She was kind of a snot, Katie Sorrentino.

"Getting on the bus," I shot back. Not the right move.

"Hey everybody!" she called out. "Jake Doyle is wearing the same boots as me!" And that was the end of that. I was stuck in the middle of the aisle with every eye on the Esprits and every finger pointed at my face. Recurring nightmares of Freddy Kruger and the '84 Cubs' collapse quickly took a back seat to this moment. I had a new bad dream to haunt me now.

"Sweet boots, Doyle!"

"Where's your dress?"

"You idiot!"

"How 'bout a Rainbow Brite for Christmas, Jake?"

Little Nate Pellettieri was laughing so hard, he fell right out of his seat. I had to step over him as I made my way to the back of the bus. I caught Delund's eye. He was not pleased.

"Hey, I forgot all about those. You really are a little girl, Boyle. Did your girlfriend, Ciarocci, buy those for you?"

"Shut up."

"He's in love with Miss Ciarocci! He was just crying! I saw him!"

Delund stood up in front of me, blocking the aisle. I tried my best to get by him.

"Where do you think you're gong? You're not sitting back here with those boots."

"Lemme get by."

"What are you gonna do? Hit me with your purse? Go sit in the front with the girls. I'm in charge now."

"Jake Doyle! Find a seat!" Huge-Blow called out from the front of the bus. It was useless trying to get past Delund. I turned around and made my way back toward the front. There was only one seat open and of course, it was right beside Conor Stump. I had no other choice but to sit down next to him.

"Those boots are cool."

"Shut up, Stump."

It only takes about fifty minutes to get from Batavia to Chicago, but those were the longest fifty minutes of my life. I sat there staring out the window, wondering how we'd ever pull this heist off now that Dan Delund was calling the shots. None of my friends came to my aid either. I guess I couldn't blame them. It's tough to stick up for a guy in girls' boots, especially one who'd been called out for being in love with his own teacher.

I passed the time trying to think about happier Christmases. There was the fish tank I'd gotten a few years ago—that was a good Christmas. Sure, all the fish died because I never fed them, but at least I got the present I'd asked for. Then there was the Christmas when I got my Walter Payton football uniform and spent all of Christmas morning freezing my butt off in the backyard, dodging dog poo as my dad sent me out on elaborate passing patterns. That was a pretty good Christmas too. They'd all been pretty good Christmases, actually. So why did this one have to suck so hard?

The bus rattled down I-90 and toward the outskirts of the city. Conor Stump was singing happily to himself. He'd been doing so the entire trip.

"When you're heading into first and you feel a juicy burst, diarrhea. Diarrhea."

Ah yes, the old diarrhea song, a real fan favorite. I looked over at him. He was bobbing to his own music, carefree as a canary, footloose and fancy free. How could a guy like Conor Stump be so goddamn happy? All he did all day long was get dumped on. What was his problem?

"When you're sliding into third and you... uh, when you're sliding into third and you feel, uh..." He'd skipped second base altogether and was now having a little trouble with what happened on third.

"You feel a juicy turd," I forced myself to say.

His face lit up. "Oh yeah! When you're sliding into third and you feel a juicy turd, diarrhea! Diarrhea!"

Was this how it was going to be from now on? Me and Conor Stump together forever, singing poo songs? The bus turned a corner onto Michigan Avenue. It was bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic. We were in familiar territory now. It had taken some phonebook reconnaissance and a little help from the Gruseckis' encyclopedias, but we had pinpointed this area as the place to enact Operation Nintendo. Water Tower Place was just a few blocks away. I looked back toward Zilinski and locked eyes with him. It was now or never.

Zilinski ran up beside me, careful not to be seen out of his seat by Huge-Blow. "What's the deal?"

"Delund stole my Trapper Keeper. He says he's the one who's gonna buy it now."

"Does he even know how to get to the toy store? Does he know we're almost there?"

I looked back at Delund. He was just sitting there counting the money.

"I don't know. Just go ahead with the plan. I'll talk to him. Wait for my signal."

"Got it, Jake. Good luck."

"You too."

Zilinski hustled up to the front of the bus. Our plan was to implement a fake-puke distraction that would give me enough time to hop off the back of the bus undetected. Zilinski was a hell of a fake puker. He had this thing where he'd hide a cup of Mott's applesauce in his sleeve and hold his hand to his mouth and squeeze it out. It was brilliant. Ferris Bueller had nothing on Zilinski. He was definitely the man for the job.

But now that Delund had all the money, our whole plan was in jeopardy. I waited a few seconds for the right moment and then I ran back toward him.

"This is the spot, Dan."

"The spot for what?"

"The spot for the plan. Steve's about to puke."

Up at the front of the bus Zilinski was putting it into action.

"Mrs. Hugo..."

"What are you doing out of your seat, Steve? Get back to your seat this instant."

"I don't feel good..."

But Delund just sat there. He had his feet propped up and his hand was resting comfortably on my Trapper Keeper.

"I told you before, Boyle, your plan's stupid. Don't worry. I'll hold onto the money."

"But—"

"I said, I'll hold onto the money."

What was he doing? This was ridiculous. Frantically, I heard myself squeak, "Are you chickening out?"

"What did you say?" He rose from his seat. Half the bus was watching now. "Your plan's stupid. I'm not doing it. Now get outta here." He pulled back and socked me in the arm. "Go back and make out with Stump. You girls deserve each other."

I looked around. All eyes were on me. For the second time that day I felt like crying. I started to make my way back to my seat when I made eye contact with Conor. He was smiling slightly, like he was in on his own private joke. His nose was running a little bit still, but it didn't seem to bother him. Nothing seemed to bother him. Not his rainbow mittens, not his purple sweatpants, not his cowlick or lack of friends. He was perfectly content sitting there by himself.

"Don't worry about him, Jake," he said with his mitten half in his mouth. "Delund's not worth it."

And that's when it hit me. Conor Stump was the only kid at HC Wilson who had it all figured out. His dumb face and runny nose were suddenly speaking volumes to me. Conor Stump wasn't a dork. He wasn't a loser or a wimp. He was a rebel. He did whatever he wanted and he didn't give a crud about the consequences. He wasn't scared of Dan Delund. He wasn't scared of anybody. So why should I be? Nintendo or not, Delund had been king of the mountain for too long. I needed to do something about it.

I turned around and walked right back up to him. "Hey! Dipstick!" I shouted.

The bus went silent.

"What did you call me?"

"You heard me. You're all talk, no walk, Delund."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Without even thinking, I slammed my girls' boot directly into his chest, pinning him to the seat. In my best Indiana Jones voice, I laid it on him. "It means, give me the Trapper Keeper, you heavy-metal hair on an elephant's butt."

Shock. Complete shock. Jaws were dropping all around me.

"Now."

Delund just sat there dumbfounded.

Conor Stump looked on, quietly nodding his head with conviction.

Up at the front of the bus, Steve must have sensed the change in mood, because the bus quickly came to a halt.

"Uggghhh! I'm gonna puke, Mrs. Hugo..."

"Open the door. Driver! Open the door!"

I jammed my foot down harder, the sole of my boot practically tattooing ESPRIT on Delund's neck. "Give it to me!"

Cautiously he reached for the Trapper Keeper and, without a word, handed it over. Even the girls in the front row were watching us now. Out on the sidewalk, Steve was letting the Mott's fly, "puking" his guts out as Huge-Blow watched over him. It was now or never.

"Let's do this."

The Gruseckis leapt out of their seats and forged a path toward the emergency exit. Olsen and Mahoney mashed their coats on the alarm buzzer. Ryan pulled the handle, Tommy turned the latch, and before I knew it, I was jumping out the back door onto the cold streets of Chicago.

My feet landed square on the pavement. It took me a second to collect my bearings, but when I did I took off like a shot. Zilinski hopped back onto the bus, and within moments it pulled out into traffic again. As I sprinted down the sidewalk, the bus rounded the corner right alongside me, lurching forward in traffic. We were neck and neck heading down the Magnificent Mile. Kids pressed their faces to windows and doors, silently cheering me on. I was doing it!

"Go get 'em, Jake," whispered Stump.

"Look at him run," gasped Olsen.

"Those boots sure are gay," lisped Farmer.

Never one to weigh the consequences, Mahoney stuck his head out the window and screamed at the top of his lungs. "Goonies never say die, Doyle!"

From the front seat, Zilinski faked another puke and I rushed past the bus for good, disappearing into the crowd. There was no turning back now.

I could barely keep my feet on the ground as I pushed through the doors at Water Tower Place. I'd never been so jacked up before in my life. I was on my own, completely alone for the first time in the adult world. Under any other circumstances I probably would have been a nervous wreck. Just last year I'd gotten separated from my parents at the Kane County Fair for a few minutes and I almost peed myself. But this was different. I had a reason to be here. There were kids depending on me. I was not about to let them down.

But once inside the mall, paranoia started to set in. Being out in the real world during school hours was a very peculiar feeling, one that you only ever caught a glimpse of when you stayed home sick or had to go to a funeral or something. It was almost like you were seeing behind the curtain. As I walked through the mall, it felt like every grownup in the building was staring at me, as if they all knew I was ditching school. I envisioned Chicago's finest cuffing me at any moment and dragging me away to juvie. But I pressed forward. I made my way to the escalator stairs and followed the scratch-and-sniff sticker smells up to the toy section of Marshall Field's.

At the top of the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my old friend, Nintendo. He looked different now without a crowd of kids around him, almost lonely. I scurried across the floor, still clutching my Trapper Keeper, and stood before the display, where a familiar voice greeted me.

I knew you'd come.

I missed you, Nintendo.

I know you did, Jake. I know you did. How 'bout a quick game of Double Dragon for old times' sake?

I don't think I have time.

You had time to put on Katie Sorrentino's boots, I see.

Very funny.

Just keeping you on your toes. Now, go do what you've got to do. You were born for this moment, Jake. Remember that.

Thanks, Nintendo.

Go make me proud.

I took off down the aisle, and he called after me, his voice almost quivering with delight. Nintendo is your friend-o, Jake! Nintendo is your friend-o!

Three minutes later, I was standing in line at the checkout counter, teetering under the weight of an NES, five game cartridges and thirty yards of orange extension cord. Choosing games had been the trickiest part. We still weren't sure what the fallout with Kleen's games might be. Even if we were able to salvage his collection, we were pretty sure that meant we'd have to let him play, which defeated the whole purpose of buying our own system in the first place. So it was imperative that we purchased the right balance of games, not just ones we hadn't played before. It had to be the perfect mix of classics and recent releases. I'd settled on the following: 1. Double Dragon. We still hadn't beaten the guy with the machine gun at the end and I was determined to finish the job.

2. RBI Baseball. It never got boring.

3. Excitebike. You always need a good racing game.

4. Mega Man 2. We'd heard great things about this one.

5. Captain Skyhawk. My wild card. Sometimes you've just got to go with the picture on the front of the box. And this one looked really cool.

Every grownup in line was staring me down, nervously chattering to each other about the kid in the back of the line by himself. I just smiled and did my best to act natural.

"They got some real good deals here, huh," I said to the guy in front of me, who was looking me over through an armful of board games.

"How old are you?"

"Nine. How old are you?"

"Cute, kid. Where are your parents?"

"They're waiting in the car, couldn't find a parking spot. You know how it is. You got Enchanted Forest, huh? Great game. Lots of magic."

"Your parents just let you pick out your own presents?"

"Yeah, you know, it's a lot easier that way. They say everyone should do it like that."

"Next in line, please." The girl behind the counter was waving the guy in front of me forward. I hadn't really noticed her before. She was probably about eighteen, thin, cute, big eyes, pretty smile... Uh oh. Hold on a second here, she was super hot. Good Lord, she was amazing. This was going to be a problem...

Even as a nine-year-old, I knew I did not function well in high-stress situations when a cute girl was involved. Girls had been taking my milk money for years. They would prove to be my downfall throughout adolescence, culminating in a pathetic 1080 SAT score in high school, when I had to take the test sitting next to Megan Paparo. You try to concentrate on geometry multiple-choice questions with her legs in the way. I had to retake the thing twice just to get into college.

I watched the guy in front of me pay for his board games and then it was my turn to approach the cash register. I had to stand on my tiptoes and let the extension cords and games fall from the top of the Nintendo box onto the counter. It was the only way I could reach. A few games slid off onto the floor. Not a good start.

"Sorry."

"That's okay. Let me help you with that."

The girl leaned over and touched my arm. Oh man...

"Are you here by yourself?"

Act cool. Say something smart.

"Uh... Nintendo's fun..."

You retard.

"What?"

"I mean, yeah. I'm here alone. I drove in with some friends."

Nice one, Jake. Keep it together, buddy.

"I see. I like your hat. What's your name?"

Is it hot in here? Am I sweating? I'm sweating, aren't I?

"Uh, thanks. It's Jake."

"I'm Terri. Nice to meet you. How old are you?"

"Nine."

"What's that, fourth grade?"

"Third."

"Man, I remember when I was in third grade. My parents would've never let me go shopping alone."

"Yeah, they're pretty cool."

"Do you live around here?"

This was seriously heating up.

"No."

"Do you live in Batavia?"

"How do you know that?"

"It's written on your hat."

I'd been wearing my obnoxious red and yellow Batavia Bulldogs hat all winter.

"Oh, yeah. Batavia. It's next to Aurora in Kane—"

I caught myself. Wait a second... Was she about to bust me? Was this all a ploy to get me to say where I was from?

She batted her pretty eyes. "Batavia's in Kane County. I know. There's a ban on Nintendo there."

Damn you, hot woman!

"I can't sell this to you unless your parents are with you. I'll lose my job. You're the second kid from Kane County this week who's tried to buy a Nintendo himself."

"But, but... I've got all the money. Look."

"I can't do it. I'm sorry. It's store policy. All the stores here agreed to it."

"Can't you just do it just this once? I won't tell anybody."

"I'll lose my job, Jake. I'm really sorry. I can sell you the extension cord, though."

Great, maybe I'll hang myself with it.

"How about some nice GI Joes or He-Men?"

"Forget it."

I gathered up my money and stormed off. I couldn't even look at the Nintendo display on the way out. I was too ashamed.

Getting a cab on Michigan Avenue as a nine-year-old proved to be a little harder than I thought. Eventually a saxophone-playing Santa on the corner took pity on me and flagged one down. I hopped into the back seat, still clutching my Trapper Keeper.

"Where to, chief?"

"Art Institute."

The cabbie looked me over from the rearview, a little concerned.

"So what gives?"

"I got money, don't worry."

"No, I mean why the long face? What gives?"

Great. Seven hundred cab drivers in the Loop alone, and I have to get the one who speaks English. I looked up to the rearview and caught his reflection. He was an older guy but spry. White hair and stubble, the kind of cab driver who could probably get you to O'Hare from downtown in twenty minutes. A real pro.

"You're not running away, are you? Where are your parents? Come on, kid, you can tell me. What's wrong?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Come on. Everybody talks in my cab. Them's the rules. Are you on Christmas vacation?"

"Yeah, almost."

"Then you should be happy. Go on, tell me what the problem is."

I looked out the window at all the happy shoppers passing by, all the lights and joyful decorations. Okay, fine... "I'm not going to get what I want for Christmas," I said. "Nobody is."

"Yeah, that's a tough one. No two ways about it." He rubbed his stubble thoughtfully. "You know, one year when I was a kid, I wanted a horse. Can you believe that? We lived eight blocks from Comiskey and I wanted a horse. All November, all December that's all I talked about. He'd sleep behind the garage, I'd feed him carrots, I'd give people rides in Grant Park, you know, stuff like that. My grandparents, my parents, they all ask me, 'Chester, what do you want for Christmas this year?' A horse, I says, over and over, a horse. That's it, nothing else. Everybody tells me, 'Chester, we can't get a horse and that's final.' I don't listen to 'em and I spend all Christmas waiting for the horse, worrying about the horse, figuring out how to get the stinking horse. And then you know what happened Christmas morning?"

"You got the horse?"

"Nope. I don't even remember what I got that Christmas, but it sure wasn't a horse. A few years later I realized something, though. I'd wasted a whole Christmas. I let a perfectly good Christmas pass me by, worrying about something that didn't really even matter anyway."

A BMW pulled out in front of us, cutting us off. The cabbie just swerved around him without losing speed. The guy was good.

"You see that? Come January, I'd have called that yuppie every name in the book. But right now, well, it's Christmas. You only got so many of 'em and you gotta make 'em count. You know what I mean? Like with you. I betcha you haven't even told somebody Merry Christmas yet this year, have you?"

"I don't know."

The cabbie pulled off onto a side street. I could tell we were approaching the Art Institute. Those big lion statues sat out front, wearing huge Christmas wreaths around their necks.

"Who are you meeting here? Your parents?"

"My class. We're on a field trip and I kind of left. I'll probably get held back now. How much do I owe you?"

The cabbie chuckled. "Hold on there. You cut out on a field trip?"

"Yeah."

"You got some cojones on you kid. Is it a big class?"

"Pretty big."

"Tell you what. This is the back entrance to the place. Tell the guard at the door over there that you got lost. He'll let you in, just hop right back in with your class, you'll be fine."

"You think?"

"Easy peasy. No problem."

"Thanks. How much is it?"

"Ah, don't worry about it. You gotta do me a favor though, chief."

I opened the door and started to slide out. "What's that?"

"Have a Merry Christmas."


video games
historical fiction
Christmas
slice of life
pop culture
child protagonist

Christmas Eve had finally come. I sat on the couch facing our giant, branch-impaired tree, dressed in my Sunday best, listening to the sounds of my father cursing up a storm as he rewired the upstairs bathroom. A few days before the Christmas extended-family invasion, John Doyle went through a brief but alarming period of enlightenment in which he became privy to the reality that two-thirds of the house was still under construction. It was a trying time for all of us.

"GOD BLESS IT! Where's the caulk gun?"

I was doing my best to stay out of his way. I'd done a good job of avoiding trouble in general over the past couple of days, the field trip included. The cabbie had been right. I was able to sneak right back in with my class at the Art Institute. Huge-Blow was oblivious to the whole thing. I gave everyone their money back and apologized about everything, but no one seemed to complain. My moment with Delund at the back of the bus had given me a new reputation. My girls' boots were no longer an issue. All in all, it hadn't been too bad an afternoon. Huge-Blow even forgot about making me stay after school. Even so, two days later, I still couldn't get over the hump. All I could think about was Nintendo.

I'd never considered myself a praying man, but this close to zero hour I was all out of options. As I sat there on the couch, lost in thought, I figured, why not give prayer a shot? I'd seen it work in It's a Wonderful Life. It seemed like George Bailey and I were on an even playing field as far as dilemmas go, so maybe it could do the trick for me too. I centered myself, took a deep breath, focused on the Baby Jesus ornament at the center of the tree and offered up a doozy...

Dear God. It's me, Jake Stephan Doyle. How's it going? You'll probably hear more from me in an hour or so at Holy Trinity Church. I'm an altar boy there. Not that I'm bringing that up to score points or anything. You probably already know I'm an altar boy, because you know everything, because you're God. I'm just bringing it up because, well, you know, because I care. I really care about you, God, and your son, Jesus, even though you guys are like the same person. And I care about Mary and Joseph and all the saints too. I guess what I'm trying to say is, Happy Birthday, Jesus. I hope you get all the presents you want. I'm sorry if someone tries to double up on a birthday present and a Christmas present at the same time. Actually, do you even get Christmas presents, Jesus? Or are they all birthday presents? That sucks if they're all birthday presents. Sorry I said sucks. Sorry about that. I know it's not a swear, but I shouldn't have said it anyway. Shit. Oh, man. Now I said shit. Now I said shit twice. God—sorry. Sorry about that. Now I'm really blowing it, aren't I? I'll say a bunch of Hail Marys right after this, I promise.

New paragraph. I know this is a new paragraph because if I was writing this prayer down in my school workbook, then this is when a new idea would start. Mrs. Huge-Bl—I mean, Mrs. Hugo, she would make me indent here. So that's what I'm doing in my mind: indenting. I'm getting very good at it. I'm working very hard in school, just so you know. Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say, God/Jesus, is this: I really want a Nintendo for Christmas. Is there anything you can do to help me? Do you have a line to Santa Claus? I'm not really sure I believe in him anymore, but if you can call him up and let him know my situation, I'm confident he'll get me one. If there's anything you can do, I know you'll do it, because you're a loving God. Father Joe says that all the time. So if you could, please give me some kind of sign that you'll figure this out, some kind of signal that can give me hope. I don't want to sound like Princess Leia or anything, but you're my only hope, God. Please, will you help me?

With my eyes still closed, I let the question linger there for a second. I felt a slight breeze on my face, then suddenly... WHOOSH! I opened my eyes just in time to see the Christmas tree come crashing down on top of me.

"Jake! Did the tree just fall over again?"

"Yeah, Mom."

I crawled out from under the branches, covered in sap and broken ornaments. Some sign from God.

My mom hustled in from the kitchen. "Oh, honey, did it fall on you?"

"Kind of." Luckily the coffee table had broken much of the fall.

This wasn't the first time the tree had fallen over. Thanks to our ancient stand and my father's cutting techniques, it happened about once a year, usually when we were out of the house. We'd come home to find Elwood drinking out of the stand amid broken ornaments and pine needles.

"Did the tree just fall over again?" my dad called out from upstairs.

"Yes, John."

"God bless it!"

He flew down the stairs, covered in drywall. "How many times do I have to say it, Patty? We need a new tree stand!"

"Do you see that trunk? It's cut at an angle. How do you think a tree can stand up straight when it's at an angle?"

"The bottom of the trunk doesn't even touch the ground, it's balanced on the—oh, forget it. What time is it?"

"We have to be at the church in thirty-five minutes."

"Thirty-five minutes! I haven't even showered yet."

"I showered, Mommy." Lizzy was standing on the stairs enjoying the mess.

"Yes, Lizzy, good girl."

"I haven't even finished putting up the socket covers yet, Patty. How long have they been exposed like that in the bathroom?"

"Since you tried to redo them last Christmas Eve. Just forget them, John, and go shower. You need to get ready."

But the old man was already sniffing out another project. He lifted the tree back up and set it in the corner against the unfinished staircase railing. You could see the Bob Vila wheels turning. "Jake. Go get the shop-vac from the garage. And the band saw. The one with the teeth. Have your sister help you. I wanna recut this banister before we go to Mass. Move it."

Christmas Eve Mass at Holy Trinity Church was always packed. Folks found religion overnight, as my mom was fond of saying. I guess you could liken all the extra people in church to a bunch of fair-weather fans showing up for a playoff run at a sporting event. But the Doyles were no fair-weather churchgoers, no sir. We were there every week, no matter how bad the team was. When it came to Catholicism, my mother was a diehard. She never left the game early to beat the traffic. She never dozed off when things got boring. She always kept score. She always believed. Even as a kid, I respected her for that. That blind faith was probably what also made her such a great Cubs fan. It was her ability, like so many other diehards, to see through that constant fog of disappointment. Doom and gloom were all too familiar at Holy Trinity and the Friendly Confines, but it was the promise of "next year" that kept it all going. Hope without logic, that's what defined each theology. Catholics and Cub fans; in my opinion, they're pretty much the same thing.

My dad, on the other hand, was a realist. He'd given up on both teams years ago. Sure, he still went to Mass with us every Sunday, but it was out of habit at this point. Much the same way he still watched the Cubs in the summer. He certainly didn't enjoy watching them, but what else was he supposed to do? Watch the Sox? He'd been a Cubs fan his whole life, a Cubs fan who lived on the South Side, no less. He couldn't switch now, just because they still sucked, just like he couldn't just become a Baptist just because it was a pain in the ass to find a parking spot at Holy Trinity on Christmas Eve. He was stuck.

"Look at this. Look at this. Church doesn't start for another forty minutes!"

The Chrysler minivan darted into the already packed lot, weaving around old ladies and children like they were orange cones. Five o'clock Christmas Eve Mass had gotten so popular with the "twice-a-years," as my dad called them, that we now had to show up almost an hour early just to get a seat.

"Easter and Christmas. Easter and Christmas. Jiminy Cricket. What do they do the rest of the year? Huh? They should make 'em pass a test to be able to come tonight. Look at that idiot. That truck's straddling two easy-out spots. COME ON!"

My dad was a big fan of "easy outs," parking spots with direct and immediate access to the exit. He'd almost always back up into the spot so he'd be able to pull out quicker during the home stretch. Leaving Mass in a hurry was a very important part of the process for him. Secretly, I think he loved the thrill of it all. Getting in, securing seats, leaving quickly—these were the only aspects of church he actually had control over. The man had a system.

"Alright, Patty, I'm dropping you at the door. Kids, seat belts off, I want a quick hop out. Go save a row while I park. Let's see a little hustle for once."

He zipped up to the church's front entrance, revving the gas as he waved us out the sliding door.

"Go, go, go."

Securing a whole row was always very important for the Doyles. We had over a dozen family members on their way, and they were almost always late. As an altar boy, I had to head back to the sacristy to get ready for the big show, so my mom and sister took charge initially. My sister wasn't above shedding a few fake tears just to get positioning near the front. But once my dad got back from parking the car, reserving the row was strictly his job. The old man guarded the aisle like a junkyard dog, carefully scanning the entrance for possible threats and emitting grunts of hostility to those who got too close to his turf.

"Excuse me, sir." A family of five approached, attempting to scoot by.

"Seat's taken, Mac," my dad growled.

"Which ones?"

"The row."

"The whole row? You gotta be kidding me."

"Afraid not. Haven't seen you around here before. Just move to Batavia?"

"We've lived here fifteen years."

"And how many times you been to church? Huh? Three? Move along."

Just because my dad hated going to church didn't mean he had any sympathy for the twice-a-years. And why should he? He had to spend every Sunday morning stuck in a pew while they slept in or watched football or did whatever it was twice-a-years did on Sundays. Now here they were on Christmas Eve, prancing around, acting like they owned the place. My dad was not about to sit by and let that happen. Even the regular churchgoers all knew to steer clear of John Doyle on Christmas and Easter. He was a force to be reckoned with.

Luckily, I didn't have to be a part of the seat-saving scene. I had a job to do. I had fires to light with the Grusecki twins. Lighting the massive advent candles at the front of the altar was a dream come true to a nine-year-old pyromaniac such as myself. It was the main reason I'd signed up for the altar boy job in the first place. I'd been fascinated by the candles and their giant lighting stick since kindergarten. As such, it was always a power struggle between the Gruseckis and me to determine who would have the privilege of lighting them. We usually resorted to feats of strength to decide a victor.

"One two three four, I declare a thumb war."

Tommy and I went at it, our thumbs twiddling at breakneck speeds.

"You're bending your hand."

"So."

"So, you can't do that," Tommy whined as he shimmied for position.

"I can do whatever I want. It's war."

"No, you can't, that's illegal!"

"You're illegal."

"Ooooh. Good one."

We danced back and forth around the sacristy. Tommy's porker of a thumb always proved difficult to pin. You couldn't just jam it down with brute force; it was too chubby. So my go-to move was the old rope-a-dope. I'd dangle my thumb under his, and then shoot it out counterclockwise just as he pressed his down, resulting in a reverse pin. I took thumb wrestling very seriously.

"Pinned! Pinned! That's a pin!"

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Boys. Boys! That's enough." Father Joe pulled us apart. "For crying in a bucket, get ready for Mass. Tommy, bring down the crucifix. Ryan, set up the chalice and the purificator. Jake, go grab the lighter thing."

Hell yes! The lighter thing! Every single piece of tableware and preparatory utensil in the Catholic Church had a specific holy Catholic name for it except the lighter thing. The lighter thing was just "the lighter thing." I loved it. It was more or less just a large metal stick with an adjustable candlewick inside of it, but it required lighting matches, the big kind that could ignite off any surface, including my retainer, which always proved quite interesting. Under no other circumstances, at home or at school, was I allowed to operate such dangerous pyrotechnics, so this was a very big deal. I scurried to the side of the sacristy to fire it up.

As I did, I got my first good look at the Doyle family, now all scrunched together in my dad's row. I could see them pretty well from the sacristy side doorway. Every year they traveled to Batavia from the four corners of Chicagoland to celebrate Christmas Eve Mass and have dinner back at our house. It was a night filled with holiday cheer and repressed Irish/Polish hostility.

There was Uncle Hillard, the cop—he was sitting at the end of the row with his gun and badge holstered on his belt and as many as three different pocket knives secured on his person. You could never be "too armed," according to him. Next to Uncle Hillard was my aunt Anne and their three kids, who were always suffering from some kind of real or imagined sickness or ailment. The youngest, Maggie, was currently in a neck brace with an eye patch over her glasses. She was missing some teeth too, which gave her the unfortunate appearance of a five-year-old pirate. Her older brother, Kevin, was poking her eye patch with a pencil. The middle sibling, Heather, was crying, for God knows what reason. Maybe Kevin had stolen her pencil. I did not look forward to sitting with the three of them at the Kid Table later.

Then there was my other uncle, Dr. Dan, the chiropractor. He had his beeper on, as always, just in case, you know, there was a life-or-death sore back emergency that required his immediate assistance. His two bratty kids, Cole and Donnie, munched on red and green Hershey's Kisses, which they shared with no one. Although they were never scientifically proven to be autistic, they both had an unfortunate likeness to Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. "Definitely" was definitely their favorite word. They yell-whispered in chocolate-mouthed monotones back and forth to each other.

"Definitely thirsty right now."

"Yeah. Definitely need to get a drink."

They were seated between their dad and his second wife, who I once heard my grandma call a trollop, a term I thought meant "smells like cinnamon," due to her heavy perfume use. It wasn't until years later when I called a substitute teacher the same thing that I learned the hard way what it really meant. Not a good day for me.

My aunt Connie and Uncle Jack sat next to my parents. They had the oldest kids in the family, Jenny and Jeff. Jenny was sixteen, basically an adult in my eyes, and the coolest person I knew. She performed death-defying feats daily, like telling her parents to "shut up" or "take a chill pill." She'd been to actual live rock concerts and knew that Sting's real name was Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner. She dressed in new-wave attire and used about a pound of Aqua Net on her hair. My dad had warned me several times to be careful around her with the lighter thing. Then there was Jeff. He was fourteen. Although Jeff and I didn't really get along, mostly because he was always putting me in a sleeper hold, I admired him a great deal. He could fart on cue, and after one or two Pepsi's could actually burp the alphabet. He was my role model growing up.

Sitting next to my sister were my grandparents. My grandma Doyle was decked out in one of her famous Christmas sweaters. The original, unintentional hipster, Betty Lou Doyle's wardrobe would later launch thousands of ugly-sweater parties throughout the Midwest. Yuppies and frat boys the world over owe her a great deal of gratitude, I think. Grandpa Doyle sat next to her. He was dressed to the nines, as always, in a suit and tie, quietly judging the congregation. He caught me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a wink. I winked back. I loved Grandpa Doyle.

I lit the match off the counter top and watched it blaze forth before me as I held the wick up to the flame. At the front of the church, a tone-deaf collection of eighty-year-old men, also known as the Holy Trinity choir, began to belt out "O Holy Night." That was our cue. It was time to get this show on the road. I grabbed my stick-o-fire and lined up behind Tommy. Ryan slid in next to me and Father Joe filed in behind us.

"Let's play ball," he whispered.

As we processed down the aisle, I watched with glee as the flame on my lighter thing grew bigger and bigger. I was careful to shield it from Zilinski, who was standing toward the back row with his family. He'd been known to try to gleek it out on more than one occasion.

You could feel the energy in the building. Christmas Eve Mass was unlike any other Mass. People were dressed up, kids were engaged, even the music was better. It wasn't "Jingle Bells" or "Rudolph" or anything, but at least you knew the songs. Anticipation hung in the air. Every kid bubbled with excitement. Depending on what time your parents let you get up in the morning, Christmas presents were only twelve or so hours away. All you had to do now was sit through an hour-long Mass. It was an almost impossible task, but this close to the big day, you did not want to give Santa, God or anyone else in charge any reason to dock you for bad behavior. Throughout the church, tongues were held in check, coughs were covered, shoes were tied, and hair was left unpulled. Every kid was at their best.

The Gruseckis and I bowed before the altar and took to the stage. This was my big moment. Every eye in church would be on me as I lit the four Advent candles. They were front and center, surrounded by a huge Christmas wreath. It was almost like lighting the Olympic torch. I had to be steady, I had to be strong, I had to give 100% concentration on what I was— Holy cow, Ciarocci was sitting in the front row!

Was I dreaming? Nope. There she was, not ten feet away from me, wearing some kind of hippie Christmas skirt thing. Did she have...? She did indeed. She had garland in her hair. She looked beautiful, like an angel, a sweet, smiling, hippie art-teacher angel. And she was smiling right at me. At me! Immediately I began to sweat. My hands shook beneath the weight of the lighter thing. I steadied myself and gave her a smile back.

What was she doing here? I'd never seen her once before in church. I'd never even seen her outside of school, period. Running into a teacher in real life was always a shock to the system, but running into a teacher you're madly in love with on Christmas Eve? That was almost too much to handle. She just kept smiling at me. Apparently the whole "I hate you" thing had blown over. I lit the first candle and managed to give her a little head nod. She gave me a tiny wave. We were communicating now.

My hands were trembling. I lit the second candle and let my gaze wander to the tips of her pretty fingernails... And that's when I saw him. His arm draped over the back of the pew behind her. He was wearing a gray suit and a dopey Christmas tie. His hair had been gelled and his glasses were now without their ever-present duct tape. It was Mr. Murphy, HC Wilson's fifth grade teacher. He was whispering in her ear. Her hand rested comfortably on his bony knee. Son of a bitch.

Seriously? Mr. Murphy? This was a real thing? Mr. Murphy could barely shoot a basketball. I'd seen him. He sometimes subbed for Mr. Vlahos, our gym teacher. The man was a dweeb. He was from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. He was a Packers fan. How could this be happening?

The congregation seemed to be in agreement with me, because I began to notice a slight murmur coming from the front rows. What did she see in him? He wasn't artistic. He wasn't cool. He was Mr. Murphy. If he gave you a pat on the back, you got "Murphy germs." Didn't she know this?

The murmur grew. It felt like the whole church was on my side now. They had to be. Surely they were seeing what I was seeing. Mr. Murphy with Miss Ciarocci? It was an injustice too big to ignore. This was infuriating. I couldn't take it. My eyes began to blur. My face was getting hotter and hotter. Even more chatter rose from the congregation, growing louder and louder. You see? You see? That's the spirit! Mr. Murphy and Miss Ciarocci? Impossible! Words were beginning to form from within the crowd. They were all with me now, all in agreement. Murphy had to go! Heat was spewing out of them. Anger. Rage. Panic, even. I could see it in their faces. I heard myself cough, once, twice, then— "FIRE!" It was Lizzy, yelling through the crowd. "FIRE! JAKE!"

Holy God! The wreath was on fire! The wreath was on fire! Jesus Christ, I'd lit the wreath! The crowd was yelling at me! You idiot, Doyle, you're about to burn the whole place down! Smoke began to billow out of the wax-covered pine needles. I had missed the third candle entirely and lit the holy Advent wreath! Flames were leaping from branch to branch. A Catholic inferno was raging before me. The entire poinsettia-dressed altar was in danger of going up in smoke. Had I not been in such a state of shock I might have enjoyed the view. But instead, as I was told later, I just started screaming like a little girl.

"Jake! Look out!" The Gruseckis were running toward me with pitchers of holy water. Father Joe was already batting down the flames with his chasuble.

My arms and legs began to flail about wildly. Oh my God! My robe was on fire! The bottom of my altar boy robe had caught fire! Quickly my mind flipped through the hundreds of public service commercials and Cub Scout warnings I'd been subjected to over the years. What was the thing you were supposed to do when you lit yourself on fire? Tell a friend? No. Tell a grown up? No. Just say no? No, that wasn't it. Come on, doofus, think. It was a three-parter, a rhyme or something... It was coming to me now. The first word was a command. That's it, a command.

STOP.

I froze right there on the altar. Stop. That was the first part. What came next? I just stood there like an idiot as people rushed around me. Come on, Doyle, pull yourself together.

DROP.

I dove on the ground, knocking over the manger and a few microphone stands, my face planted on the cold marble. Oh God, what was the third part? What was the third part? It didn't rhyme with stop or drop, it was, it was...

ROLL.

Aha! Of course! ROLL. Immediately, I tucked into a barrel roll, the kind I'd perfected on the grassy hill at the back of my grandparents' house, and I rolled. I rolled and rolled and rolled. Through the manger, down the steps of the altar, past the baptismal font, down the aisle—I just kept going. Nobody ever actually explained to us exactly what we were supposed to accomplish by rolling, or when, if ever, we were allowed to stop, so I just kept rolling. The crowd called out my name. Arms and hands reached out to slow me down, but I just barreled right though them—rolling and rolling and rolling, snot and drool and groans emerging from my body. I made it all the way clear to the back of the church before an usher kindly put his foot out and brought me to a halt.

"You can stop rolling now, kid. The fire's out."

I looked up, out of breath. The room was swirling. I could smell smoke. All eyes were on me.

"You alright?"

I nodded.

And then I puked all over him.

On the bright side, in the history of the Catholic Church I was probably the first guy to both puke and light himself on fire in a two-minute span. That's two thousand years of history, so there's something to be said for that. But in actuality I felt about as low as I'd ever felt in my life. It took half an hour or so for the fire department to come and give us the all-clear to finish Mass. The Advent wreath was totally charred, most of the manger animals were broken, and I reeked of burnt vomit. Merry Christmas, Jake Doyle.

The rest of the Mass was a blur. I just wanted to go home, but my dad wouldn't let me. I had a job to finish, he told me, and I had to tough it out. I wasn't burned or hurt, the fire on my robe had been hardly more than a little spark. I was okay. So I carried on as best I could with the ceremony. I tried not to look at Ciarocci. I washed Father Joe's hands when they needed washing, I cleared the altar when it needed clearing, and much to the congregation's relief, I let the Gruseckis handle the candles for the rest of the service.

As I sat on my altar boy chair while Mass was winding down, I took stock of my situation. So far this Christmas season I had single-handedly destroyed two mangers, burned a wreath, forced my friends to sell all their best baseball cards, prayed to God and gotten hit by a tree, lost my retainer and my sister, lied to my parents, skipped out on a field trip, cried in public and puked in church. There was no WAY I was getting a Nintendo for Christmas now. Neither my luck nor my behavior warranted one. Heck, I'd be lucky if I even made it to Christmas morning at this point. All I wanted to do was to go home and go to bed.

Mass ended without any further incident. Father Joe told me I could keep my robe if I wanted to, since it wasn't much use to anyone else anymore. I decided to throw it away. The Gruseckis tried to cheer me up and told me I could come over to their house anytime and burn their encyclopedias, but I wasn't laughing.

I trudged through the parking lot as everyone filed out of the church. Walking out of Christmas Eve Mass into the cold night air had always been one of my favorite moments of the Christmas buildup. It meant I was home free, that there was nothing else standing in the way between me and presents except a restless night's sleep. There was something about that night air that always calmed me down and made me feel at peace. But now, that feeling had been replaced with disgrace and embarrassment. I could tell everyone was staring at me as I headed through the crowd, even my own family. It was a walk of shame.

"Way to go, Smokey." Uncle Hillard slapped me on the back, laughing hysterically. "Remember, only you can prevent church fires."

Hilarious, Uncle Hillard. You know what you can prevent? Being a jackass.

"See ya at home, fireball." He jogged off to his car.

I just kept walking. Miraculously, my dad was still waiting for me, patiently revving the motor in his easy-out spot. I was just about to open the sliding door when a hand touched my shoulder.

"Jake?"

I turned around. It was Miss Ciarocci.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Uh, I'm okay," I lied.

"You were very brave up there tonight, I thought. You remembered to stop, drop and roll. That was very important."

"Yeah," I said. I was sick of talking to her already. Mr. Murphy was hovering a few yards away, giving me one of his cheese-dick head nods. Ciarocci bent down to my eye level and reached inside her jacket pocket.

"I brought you something."

She gently grabbed my hand and placed a little wrapped package into my glove. I opened it up. Inside were two of my macaroni Wise Men. They were a little beat up, but they were still intact. She'd saved them from the wreckage.

"I thought you might like them." She smiled, her hair beautifully backlit by the headlights and falling snow.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Have a Merry Christmas, Jake. I'll see you in a couple weeks."

She stood up and turned to walk away.

"Hey Miss Ciarocci?"

She turned back and brushed her hair behind her ears. "Yes, Jake?"

"Would you like one, one of my Wise Men? You know, that way we can both have one?"

"I'd love one."

I handed her a Wise Man and she gave me a hug.

"Look, Phil, Jake gave me one of his Wise Men."

"One of his what?"

She put her arm around me. "His Wise Men. See?"

"Oh, oh yeah, cool. Good work there, little buddy."

Don't patronize me, Murphy. I stared him down. He blew into his hands impatiently, still keeping his distance in his bright yellow Green Bay Packers' jacket.

"Come on, hon." He nodded to Ciarocci. "Let's get going." He turned to head back toward his car. Only then did I notice the large black and brown marks on the back of his coat.

"What happened to Mr. Murphy's jacket?"

"Oh, that? Well, he tried to put out the fire with it."

"You mean I ruined his Packers' coat?"

"I guess you did." She smiled slightly. "And between you and me, I'm kind of glad. I hate that thing."

I stood there by the van as the two of them walked toward his car. Smiling a secret smile, I watched as charred bits of green and yellow nylon flaked off his shoulders and fluttered into the night.

Jake Doyle: 1. Wisconsin: Zip.


The house was alive with activity. Cousins ran up and down the stairs. The California Raisins' Claymation Christmas flickered away on the TV. My mom and my aunts bustled around the kitchen while Elwood and my grandpa sat by the window calmly solving the world's problems over a glass of scotch. It was Christmas Eve on Watson Street, the holiest of all holy nights in Batavia.

Packages upon packages rested haphazardly under the tree. They were all guarded by the stern and often torturous warnings of my grandmother, who would not allow us within fifteen feet of them for fear of us detecting what was inside. We had been warned that even touching a present before present time would result in the loss of a gift. No one really believed her, but no one really wanted to test it out either.

"Get away from those presents, Jeff!" she yelled from the kitchen.

"I'm not touchin' anything, Grandma, jeez. I'm just looking."

The fifteen-feet barrier was the hallway outside the living room. A steady stream of cousins would line up at the edge of the double doorway and peer into the Christmas abyss, obsessively trying to decipher what was what.

Little Maggie was doing her best to see through her one good eye as Kevin continued to try to poke it out with a pencil.

"Quit it! I'm trying to see. Quit it!"

"Make me."

"Mom!"

Cole and Donnie plowed through their unending bag of Hershey's Kisses, robotically munching away as they took stock of the pile below the tree.

"Definitely a shirt box right there. Definitely a shirt box for you, Donnie, not me."

"Definitely not a shirt in that box, definitely not. Probably Legos, not a shirt."

"Shirt box. Definitely."

As for me, I was on the stairs in a headlock, compliments of Uncle Hillard. He was telling my dad another one of his insightful cop stories. The man both talked and looked like a cross between one of the SNL Superfans and Dennis Franz from NYPD Blue. You couldn't get more Chicago than Uncle Hillard.

"So I get to the house, I don't know: One, who's coming for backup? Two, what kind of yahoos are inside? Tree"—he meant three—"what the hell is going on?"

I was gasping for air under his armpit. "This hurts."

"It's supposed to." He clamped down harder. "Go ahead. Try and get away."

"No."

"Come on."

"No. Let me go."

"Say, 'Uncle Hillard.' Say it."

"Uncle Hillard."

"I can't hear you."

"Uncle Hillard!"

"Don't make me read you your rights, boy."

"UNCLE HILLARD!"

He released me and I scampered off down the hall. "Heh, heh." He grinned at my dad. "You got a whiney little kid there, John. Anyways, where was I?"

"You were wondering what the hell was going on."

"Oh yeah, right. So I says to the lady who opens up the door, ya know, what's the problem? I'm thinking domestic abuse of some nature, which I will 'handle,' thank you very much. Ends up, she's got raccoons."

"Raccoons, huh." My dad was now discreetly sanding a banister.

"Raccoons. Several dozen, loose in her apartment. I don't know, one, how they got there; two, what I'm supposed to do with them; tree, what the hell is going on. I call the Department of Health, they send me to Animal Control, who sends me to the Humane Society. Humane Society asks if any of the raccoons are injured. I says no, they are not, to my knowledge, injured. Guy says, well, officer, we can't help you then. I hang up. Click. I pick up my gun. Click. I take aim. Bang-a-bang. I pick up the phone again. Ah, yes, Humane Society? Why yes, there does appear to be an injury here with one of the raccoons. Tra-la-la, dip-dee-doo, thank you very much."

"You sure showed those raccoons, Hil."

"You betcha."

"Dinner's ready!" my mom yelled from the kitchen doorway.

Two dozen Doyles shot up and clamored toward the smell of turkey and canned cranberry sauce. Christmas Eve dinner was here at last.

The foremost dynamic to the American extended family dinner is one of positioning and posture, dominated by two distinct and segregated groups. They are universally known as the Grownup Table and the Kid Table. Your position at either of these stations is only advanced by death or divorce. Ranks are never to be broken. There is no buying your way up a notch, no bargaining for position. You're stuck where you're stuck. Only Father Time could grant release from a crowded card table in the kitchen to the spacious, adult luxury of a dining room spread. With the size of the Doyle family, some of my cousins and I would be married and in our late twenties before we actually got called up from the Kid Table to the big show.

The food at a Doyle Christmas was pretty standard. Turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, corn, some of those perpetually bottom-burned Pillsbury crescent rolls—it was basically the exact same meal we'd eaten at Thanksgiving four weeks earlier. You'd think we could have mixed it up a little bit, but no.

The lone difference between Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas dinner was the addition of a gourmet Doyle delicacy known as NutraSweet orange Jell-O. Our family loved the stuff. We savored it the way other families might savor caviar or imported wine. And since Aunt Connie only made it once a year, (even though it came straight out of a box), we looked forward to it like the Second Coming. It was like dessert for dinner. A creamy, off-colored, gelatin dreamsicle of sorts, it tasted like a combination of sherbet and Big League Chew. I couldn't get enough of it. I would have gladly substituted orange Jell-O for turkey as the meal's main course. I plowed through the stuff at the Kid Table like a Hungry Hungry Hippo, often leaning in and sucking it straight from the plate.

There were nine of us kids now scrunched together at the kitchen table; a few in booster seats and high chairs, each of us actively protecting our plates from any number of Kid Table attacks that we might be subjected to. There were no rules at the Kid Table. It was every man for himself. My cousin Kevin was inconspicuously spooning peas into his sister's milk, while Jeff entertained us between gulps and burps of Pepsi. He was in the middle of the alphabet, belching up the "L-M-N-O-P" section, which, as everyone knows, is the trickiest part.

Jenny put on her earphones. "That's totally disgusting, Jeff."

Burrrrp... "Q-R-S, you're totally disgusting"—burrrp—" T-U-V"—burrrrp—" W-X, Y and"—burrrrp—" Zeee!"

The whole table applauded, even my sister. The kid had real talent.

"Thank you"—burp-burp—" thank you very much. Alright, let's get down to business. What do we got out there?"

We all knew the drill. For years it had been a Kid Table ritual to skip the small talk and systematically divulge as many Christmas gift secrets as we could come up with. Figuring out what your parents were giving you for Christmas was always tough, but figuring out what your parents were giving your cousins, well, that was a manageable task. Our Kid Table had become a well-orchestrated unit of little spies all working together throughout the year in various sibling splinter cells, gathering information and intelligence for our big Christmas Eve meeting.

I sat up and went first. "Jenny, Lizzy and I saw that my parents got you a tape of a band."

"What band was it?" She took off her earphones.

"I think it started with a D. My mom came in the room before I could get a good look at it."

"Depeche Mode? They're so hot."

"No, that's not it."

"Def Leppard? They are so hot."

"No, it wasn't them."

"Flock of Dorkheads?" Jeff burped. "They are soooo hot."

"Shut up, Jeff. Was it Duran Duran, Jake?"

"Yeah. That's it. Duran Duran."

"Oh my God, yes! They're totally the hottest."

From there we went around the table for the next ten minutes, revealing the contents of practically every carefully wrapped package under the tree. Despite the cloak-and-dagger aspect of it all, it usually wasn't too hard for me to figure out what I was going to get from my aunts and uncles anyway. The Doyle family was pretty predictable.

You had my uncle Hillard and aunt Anne. They were the king and queen of the two-for-one sale. So their gifts directly correlated to the gifts they were already giving their kids, who, unfortunately, were way younger than me. That meant that I always ended up getting baby crap that I wouldn't be caught dead using. This year was no exception.

"My mom got you the Boxcar Children books," said Heather. She was six. "It's stories about kids who live in a boxcar. It's my favorite."

"Neat."

"They also got you a Sesame Street sweater."

"Ha ha!" Jeff laughed in my face. "Books and clothes! Books and clothes!"

Then there was my uncle Jack and aunt Connie. Their gifts came from wherever they went on family vacation the previous summer, as if they just had to show you how great it was that they went to Iowa or the majestic falls of Douglas County, Wisconsin. Not only that, but their gifts were also very bizarre, items that no kid in his right mind would ever want.

"My parents got you a birdhouse from Phoenix," said Jenny. "It's for both you and Lizzy. It's very ornate, by a very famous Pueblo artist."

"Yeah," burped Jeff. "It sucks ass."

"Mom!" Heather yelled. "Jeff is swearing at the dinner table!"

"Don't make me come in there!" eight dining-room voices called out in unison.

My grandparents of course got us presents too, but we didn't have as much access to figuring out what those might be beforehand. It wouldn't have mattered. They got us the same stuff every year. The dreaded "stuff we needed" versus "stuff we wanted." Did I want a new winter coat? Not really. But did I need one? Probably. So that's probably what I was going to get. One thing I could be sure of was that there was no way in hell Grandma Doyle thought I needed a Nintendo Entertainment System. That was bound in ironclad certainty.

"Well, what about Dr. Dan?" I asked Ronnie. "What did your dad get me?"

Dr. Dan was my only hope left this year at getting a Nintendo. He was the lone wild card in the bunch. Rich, adventurous—with no regard for parental concerns whatsoever—Dr. Dan was the dream uncle when it came to presents. He once bought my cousin Jeff a BB gun that looked exactly like a Glock nine.

Dr. Dan did all his Christmas shopping on December 23rd, in one hour, on his lunch break, with his secretary. It was a game to him. How fast could he get all of his Christmas shopping done? Could he beat last year's time? Could he get everything on everyone's list in one store? Could he buy everyone the same gift somehow? Price was of no concern to him. It was all about speed.

He was also an exceptionally oblivious shopper. I knew for a fact that he wouldn't have heard about the recent ban on video games in Batavia, and even if my parents had told him of their disapproval of Nintendo he would have paid very little attention. Dr. Dan was going to buy what he was going to buy. If it was in the store and it was on my list and he didn't have to go searching for it, he was going to get it for me. Which is exactly the reason I had mailed him my Christmas list months ago. And exactly the reason I had kept it short and sweet. It read simply:

 NINTENDO

(And no clothes) And that was it. That was the whole list. I'd typed it at school on one of the library's new Apple IIE computers to look as professional as possible, something I thought a man of his stature would appreciate. I was banking on Dr. Dan coming through.

"Hey. Ronnie?" I asked again with baited breath. "What did your dad get everybody this year?"

Ronnie was putting the finishing touches on a snowman made of mashed potatoes and Hershey's Kisses on his lap. "Savings bonds, from the bank," he said, without making eye contact. "Definitely Barris Bank. It took him sixteen minutes. He said it was a new record."

"Yeah, definitely a new record," chimed his brother.

The whole table groaned. Savings bonds? From Dr. Dan? That was worse than clothes. That was nothing at all—a useless piece of paper that you'd have to make a trip to the bank on a Saturday just to get rid of. This was the worst year ever!

For a brief moment the Kid Table was quiet. Kevin tossed another pea into his sister's milk, Jenny put her headphones back on, and I worked my way through the remnants of a turkey–Jell-O salad I'd mashed together on my plate. My faint glimmer of Nintendo hope would have to hang on till Christmas morning now.

Fat ladies standing by quietly warmed their vocal cords.


There are few tasks more difficult in the life of a kid than trying to fall asleep on Christmas Eve. You could rank it right up there with attempting to fly or meeting Michael Jordan at Jewel-Osco. I'd never been a big fan of sleeping in general, so on Christmas Eve you could forget about it. I was wide awake.

At this point in my increasingly pessimistic Christmas career, I was pretty sure I did not believe in Santa Claus anymore. That was the popular line of thinking in third grade anyway. But that night, lying under my covers, listening to the desperate sounds of our house creak with the wind and the cold, I could think of no one else on Earth who could help me. I had to believe in Santa now. There was no other choice.

After all, believing in the big fella was the key to any number of great Christmas stories. I'd read The Polar Express. I'd watched Miracle on 34th Street. I'd even sat through friggin' Prancer with my sister multiple times. Believing in Santa Claus was the key to a happy ending in every single one of them. If you didn't believe, you were doomed.

Maybe, I thought, if I believed hard enough and I managed to stay awake late enough, then maybe I could talk to the man. Maybe I could convince Santa to give me a Nintendo. He had to have extras on his sleigh, or at least some kind of go-to elf floating off in the atmosphere somewhere with a bunch of emergency toys ready to go. I was a pretty convincing guy. I could convince Santa to give me one, right? Heck, with a cap gun and the Mahoney brothers, I had almost convinced little Jimmy Yong from three doors down to lick yellow snow last winter. That took some doing, so maybe I could do the same with Santa. All I had to do was stay awake and listen for him.

A train whistled in the distance. My Chicago Bears clock ticked away on my wall. I laid there, eyes and ears open, and I waited...

Tick, tick, tick... Ten o'clock. I tried organizing baseball cards in my head, thinking of new and revolutionary ways to sort them based on batting averages and moustaches.

Tick, tick, tick... Eleven o'clock. I had little conversations with my GI Joes and He-Men, introducing them to each other. "Orko, this is Shipwreck. Shipwreck, Orko. Here's a topic of conversation: annoying sidekicks. Ready, discuss."

Tick, tick, tick... Midnight. I rubbed my blankets together, shooting off static electricity in the dark. I recited the "Super Bowl Shuffle" lyrics in my head, I threw Creepy Crawlers at my wall, anything to keep me awake.

Tick, tick, tick... Another half an hour passed. I was still awake, but my eyes were beginning to get a little heavy. I was starting to realize that not being able to fall asleep and trying to stay awake were two entirely different things. Elwood had given up on me at this point and was now lying beneath my bed, dreaming of chasing rabbits and pooping indoors. The house was completely silent. Even the wind had died down. Watson Street was fast asleep and there was still no sign of Santa. I rolled over and concentrated on the window, searching the skies. Tick, tick, tick...

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

The noise was soft, but it was enough to wake me up. My eyes shot open. The clock read two thirty. Oh no! I'd been asleep for two hours! Had I missed him? Had I missed Santa? I sat up in bed.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

The noise was real. I wasn't imagining it. It was coming from outside. I tossed off the covers and rushed to the window. My heart was pounding. Could it be? Was it the sound of reindeer landing on houses up and down the block? It made sense. I mean, I was in full-blown believing-in-Santa mode right now, what else could it be? I looked out the window. More snow had fallen but there were no tracks, no signs of life, no disturbances to any of the roofs on my block.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

There it was again. It was coming from the other side of the house. I could barely make it out. I stood still and listened. It was a pattern of sorts. A familiar sound, somehow, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Where had Elwood gone off to? Maybe he was downstairs with Santa right now. Maybe he was hanging out with the reindeer in the backyard at this very instant! I had to get down there.

Quietly, I slipped into my imitation LL Bean slippers and grabbed my robe. I knew the rules about getting out of bed on Christmas Eve—there were serious repercussions, including, but not limited to, being banned from presents for life. But this was a risk I was willing to take. My Nintendo fate rested on getting to Santa now, no matter what the cost.

"Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" eerily scored the scene in my head as I felt my way down the hallway in the dark. Like my mad dash home from school without a coat on, I knew that this mission was a big one. I had to get downstairs without being detected by my parents, a feat I had never even attempted before. This was going to be tricky.

I crawled past their doorway to the top of the stairs and looked down. The stairs were always the toughest section to maneuver in my house. They creaked like an old ship, and you had to balance your weight evenly on either side of them to keep them quiet. I gently hopped from step to step in the dark, careful not to touch the railing, which my dad had said he was going to varnish before going to bed. I could tell that the Christmas tree lights were still on, illuminating the family room below. Cautiously, I crept to the landing and made my way to the hallway. I tiptoed around the corner and peeked into the room.

Rats! Santa had come already. There was a fresh mound of presents under the tree. Never before in my life had I actually been upset to see presents. I'd missed him. I'd missed Santa. The cookies and milk were gone, and so were the pickles that Lizzy had left for the reindeer (we were out of carrots). For a moment I just stood there, looking over the scene, trying to think of what to do next.

And then I saw it.

It was off by itself at the back of the tree, a present far bigger than the rest. It was thick and rectangular. It looked heavy and solid. Could it be?

Hello Jake.

My heart skipped a beat. The Kevin Spacey voice was back. I felt myself floating toward the tree. Before I knew it, I was picking up the package and holding it in my shaking hands. The tag on it read exactly what I hopped it would. "To Jake. Love, Santa." It was a Nintendo. It had to be.

Up a little late, aren't you, Jake?

"Are you for real?" I heard myself asking the package out loud.

Do I feel real?

"Yes." I lifted it again. It felt like about the right weight. I shook it. It was solid. No moving parts, no Legos rattling around. I put it up to my nose. Cardboard. I could smell it right through the wrapping paper. I pushed at it harder. It felt like Styrofoam underneath, another good sign.

My gun-shy mind fired through the possibilities. There were no other toys this size that I'd ever expressed interest in. There was no way this box contained clothes. It wasn't a train set or a GI Joe hovercraft. There were no random cardboard boxes that would fit a present like this. This was a Nintendo. As sure as I lived and breathed, it was a Nintendo. And it was all mine.

I had done it! I began running around in circles, sprinting from one side of the room to the other, silently screaming at the top of my lungs. Santa had come through! Everything was going to be okay! I could go on living! Come tomorrow morning, I would bask in the 8-bit glow of flying turtles and sideways-running mushrooms. I would shoot fireballs from my eyes and smash bricks with my head. I would get to the last level in Super Mario Bros. and not have to worry about waiting my turn or having to go home for lunch. I would be a Nintendo owner! Dreams really do come true! I dove headfirst onto the couch and kicked my feet wildly in the air. Ha-ha! I jumped on the coffee table and danced around like a moron, trading high fives with an entire imaginary starting lineup. Nintendo-my-friendo! Nintendo-my-friendo! You can put it on the boaaaaaard, YES!

I was so caught up in the moment that I barely registered the back door opening and closing shut. By the time I heard the footsteps coming down the hall, it was too late. I crouched down and saw my dad's profile walk into the doorway. He was wearing his work jacket. He looked cold, like he'd been outside for a while. Elwood was with him. I tried hiding behind the coffee table, but the dog went straight for me.

My dad jumped. "Jesus, Jake. You scared me half to death. What are you doing up?"

"Uh... nothing. What are you doing up, Dad?"

"Uh... nothing."

We were at a standstill. I'd never heard my dad answer "nothing" before. This was weird. Maybe he had just seen Santa. Maybe that's why he was outside.

"I thought we told you never to get up on Christmas Eve, Jake."

"I heard a noise. I, uh, I was looking for Elwood. Did you... did you just see Santa?"

He paused for a second, like he wasn't sure if I was asking him for real or if I was just yanking his chain. "Yeah," he said finally. "I saw him. He told me he knew you'd snuck downstairs and I should send you back to bed before your mom finds out. He seemed like a pretty cool guy, actually."

But I was already halfway out of the room by the time he finished the sentence. There was no way I was going to blow this opportunity now, not with a Nintendo sitting right there under the tree. I flew up the stairs and dove into bed, already envisioning all the games I was going to buy and not share with anyone. If it was hard falling asleep before, then there was no way I was falling asleep now.

A few restless hours later, I was standing in the pitch-black hallway outside my parents' bedroom watching Lizzy pace back and forth. It was still dark; the sun had yet to come up. We were counting down the minutes until it was safe for us to wake our parents to let us go downstairs.

"Now?" she asked, shaking with excitement.

"Not yet."

Waking up our parents on Christmas morning was a very exact science. It had to be done with just the right timing and just the right mixture of excitement and subtlety. If you went in too early and too loudly, you could get yelled at, but if you tried to wake them up too quietly, you ran the risk of not seeming excited enough and you were sent back to bed without really waking them up at all. I'd learned that sending Lizzy in to do the dirty work was a much smarter move. She was cuter than I was. My dad had a hard time telling her no.

"Now?"

"Not yet, Lizzy, just a minute. We have to wait until seven or they'll send us right back to bed."

"What if we just change their clock?"

Man, Lizzy was a pistol. "No, we're not changing the clock. We don't want to get in trouble on Christmas morning, dummy. Just wait."

"Alright, alright, gosh."

Elwood wandered into the hallway, his tail wagging from side to side. Even he seemed excited. Lizzy gave him a great big bear hug.

"It's Christmas, Elwood!"

"Shh. Quiet, Lizzy, jeez."

I stared daggers at my father's digital alarm clock resting on his bedside table, silently willing it to turn from 6:59 to 7:00. It was the longest minute of the year.

"Now? Now?" Lizzy was practically crawling on me.

Finally, it ticked to 7:00. This was it. It was officially Christmas morning.

"Yes, Lizzy. Now."

Lizzy's plastic-footed pajamas pitter-pattered into my parents' room.

"It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" She dove onto the bed, jumping up and down between them. "It's Christmas! Wake up! Wake up!"

My mom rolled over. "Merry Christmas, Lizzy, dear."

"Merry Christmas, Mommy. Dad. Dad! Wake up, it's Christmas!"

"Christmas is canceled," he groaned.

"Daaad."

"No Christmas, it's too early." He put the pillow over his head.

"Can we go open presents now?"

"There are no presents."

"Pleeease, Dad. Can we pleeeease go downstairs. We waited until seven."

I stuck my head into the room and gave Lizzy a thumbs-up. She was doing great.

"Pleeease, Dad." She dug her head under his pillow. "Pleeeease."

"Oh, alright... I'll put the coffee on, Patty."

Christmas morning in the Doyle house always started off with a painful series of delays. It was worse than a space shuttle launch. First you had to wait until seven before you could wake my parents up. Then you had to wait until they went to the bathroom and brushed their teeth before you could line up on the stairs. Then you had to wait at the top of the staircase until they got their coffee and let the dog out before you could go downstairs into the family room. Then you had to wait until everyone was seated and somebody got the garbage bag for all the wrapping paper before you then had to wait your turn before you could actually open a stinking present. It was torture.

Lizzy and I jostled for position at the top of the stairs. For some reason, being the first one downstairs was very important to us, just in case maybe there was a present down there without a nametag on it and somebody had to call dibs first.

"Can we come down yet?"

"Ask your father!" my mom yelled. "He won't let me in the room either."

"Can we come down yet, Dad?"

"Just hang on a minute."

One minute. Got it. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, I was counting down the seconds.

Lizzy couldn't wait that long. "Can we come down yet?"

"Hang on."

"How 'bout now?"

"Hang on, will ya!"

I was crouched down in a runner's position, straddling the top two steps like they were starting blocks at a four-hundred-meter dash.

"Okay," my dad yelled, finally finished with whatever grossly unimportant thing he was doing down there. "Come on down!"

I threw two big elbows and took off like a shot.

Running downstairs on Christmas morning was an unparalleled feeling. Those two or three seconds of sheer joy always proved to be the absolute pinnacle of the kid year. In that moment anything was possible. I hopped the stairs two at a time and slid across the hardwood floor into the family room, almost knocking down my father and the bizarre apparatus he was now operating. It was a brand new video camera.

"Say cheese!" He grinned from behind the tripod. It had a ribbon on it and everything.

My mother, who had just wandered into the room, was practically speechless. Video cameras were very expensive. "A video camera? John, when did you get this?"

"Relax, Patty, I won it in a hockey raffle. I'm gonna record the whole morning. Isn't that great? We're all on tape right now!" I'd never seen the old man so excited. "Everybody say Merry Christmas!"

Lizzy just stared at him. "You know the red light's supposed to be on."

"God bless it!" He fiddled with the controls. She was right. Nothing had been recorded. He'd missed the entire opening scene. "Go back upstairs and do it again. Run back down the stairs again. Everybody. On the double!"

With the video camera now in the mix, this year's Christmas delays were prolonged even further due to technical difficulties. The next thirty-five minutes were spent sitting on the couch watching my dad try to figure out how to work the camera's maze of controls and buttons. We were not allowed to open a single present until he did so. I was practically foaming at the mouth.

"I think you're supposed to press the red button, John."

"I just pressed it, Patty."

"Well, what does it say in the manual?"

"Half of it is in Japanese, how the heck should I know."

"I think that's the translation of the English half, dear."

"Oh, you speak Japanese now? Up, up, wait." He closed a flap and the VHS canopy whizzed and clicked. "I think I got it. There! I got it!" The red light blazed forth. It was working. "I did it! Ha! Lizzy, say something cute."

"Gimme a present!" she rasped.

"Are you having a good Christmas so far?" He zoomed the camera in closer.

"A present! A present!" she yelled again. Elwood was barking too; he could barely stand it either.

"Just let her get a present, John."

"Okay, okay. Lizzy, you're Santa this year. Go ahead and pick one out for yourself first."

For reasons I could only see conceived as a means to inflict agonizing pain on me, my parents always let Lizzy play Santa. This meant that she was in charge of my supply of presents. She dictated the entire operation. Not only was she extremely slow in selecting and distributing the gifts, she was also quite adept at finding the crappiest presents to give to me first. I usually had to sit through two or three rounds of shirts and sweaters before I got a toy, and this was no accident.

"Let's see..." She was sifting through the mound for her gifts. "I'm gonna pick this one for me first." She sat down and tore into a Cabbage Patch–sized box with a gleam in her eye, only to be disappointed by a Barbie Ferrari.

"Wow, look at that, Lizzy." My dad zoomed in closer. "A car for Barbie."

"Yippee."

I was up next. The Nintendo box was still under the tree. I'd made darn sure of that the second I ran down the stairs. I did my best to drop hints to Lizzy to give it to me. Subtle ones like "Hey, look at that big present for me behind the tree, why don't you give it to me first?" She handed me a shirt box instead and smiled.

It went on like this for some time. Packages were selected and passed out. There were "oohs" and "ahhs," "thank yous" and "you're welcomes." Discarded paper was thrown directly at the camera whenever possible. My dad was already turning into a regular Scorsese behind the lens, setting up different angles and demanding more emotion from his actors. My mom sipped her coffee and smiled, every once in a while picking up a discarded bow and placing it in her bathrobe pocket for next year. Slowly but surely, I ate away at the remaining presents. There were a few He-Man action figures, a couple of books, the sweater my mom had picked out for me weeks ago at Water Tower Place, but nothing of any real significance. I kept my eye on the prize the whole time.

"Okay, Dad, your turn." Lizzy handed him a thin, record-sized present.

"What's this?" he asked, turning the camera around.

"It's from me and Lizzy," I said. The two of us had spent the better part of half an hour wrapping it. There was a considerable amount of tape involved. The old man inspected it closely. He was a painfully careful opener, as if he were uncovering a fossil or handling a piece of broken glass. He used his thumb and forefinger to pull apart each individual section of the paper, unwrapping it in one big piece. Eventually he got to the gift inside. It was a large black-and-white cardboard cutout of an old man's face.

"Who's that?" my mom asked, leaning in to get a better look. The cut-out man had an enormous forehead and a pained expression on his face, as if someone had just punched him in the stomach or asked him for money.

"That's Bill Wirtz," my dad scoffed. "Owner of the Blackhawks."

"It's for your dartboard in the garage!" Lizzy exclaimed. "We cut it out of the newspaper."

My dad smiled widely, staring down the face of his enemy. It might have been his favorite gift all year. "Wow. Thanks, guys. I love it." He gave Lizzy a hug and shot me a wink. "Hey Jake, why don't you hand Lizzy that present to the left of the tree over there."

Toward the back of the tree was a crumpled-up package wrapped in newspaper, no doubt the handiwork of my father. I handed it over to Lizzy. I was pretty sure it was the doll. Even though we hadn't spoken a word about our infamous Aurora mission since it went down, I knew the old man had been hard at work getting the doll in fighting shape.

Sensing the magnitude of the moment, and perhaps feeling a plastic face underneath the newspaper, Lizzy tore open the gift with one large rip.

"A Cabbage Patch!"

It was indeed a Cabbage Patch, in the rudimentary sense at least. Apparently my dad's dye job hadn't gone exactly according to plan, because the doll's hair was now bright purple. She was also clothed in nothing more than a child's size Chicago Bears T-shirt, which I was pretty sure used to belong to me. I shot my dad a look to see if he would offer some kind of excuse or explanation but he just brushed me off. Lizzy didn't seem to care one bit.

"A Cabbage Patch! A Cabbage Patch!" She was clutching the doll to her chest. "Smell her, Jake, she smells like a newborn baby!" I took a whiff. It smelled a lot like food coloring to me, but I let it slide.

"Yeah, mmm, smells good."

"I'm going to name her Dawn Rebecca!"

"Okay, sounds good, Lizzy. Why don't you hand me my present now." There was only one present left under the tree. It had been sitting there patiently for over twenty minutes. I hadn't taken my eyes off of it once. Lizzy had gotten what she wanted. Now it was my turn.

Lizzy ran over. "Mom, look at how beautiful Dawn Rebecca is!"

"Oh, she's gorgeous, Lizzy. We'll have to dress her up and find some—"

"Hey!" I yelled, bobbing up and down on my knees in front of the tree. "There's still a present left with my name on it. Can I grab it or what?"

"Don't interrupt your mother," my dad barked from behind the camera.

"Sorry, Mom."

"That's okay. Lizzy, hand your brother his present."

Lizzy trotted over to the gift and slid it across the carpet toward me. Her eyes widened at the size of it. She too could tell what it was. Her mouth opened a little, and for a second it almost looked like she was happy for me.

"Look at how big this is, Jake," she whispered.

"I know."

"It feels like it's—"

"I know, Lizzy, I know." I slid the package farther out into the room and sat down behind it, facing my family. I wanted everyone to have a good view. I read off the tag. "To Jake. Love, Santa." I smiled devilishly. "I wonder what it could be?"

Below me sat the product of hundreds of man-hours of plotting and scheming. Now that it was finally here, I hardly knew how to go about opening it. I placed my hand at the edge of a fold and closed my eyes. I'd later read of Olympic athletes training their entire lives for one ten-second moment. This was it. This was my moment.

Carefully I peeled back a corner of the paper and took a peek. All I needed was a little sign to make sure it was a Nintendo, just a little visual confirmation. One inch, then two inches, then... there it was! A small patch of an outer-space backdrop shone through the red-and-white wrapping paper. It was just like the Nintendo box I'd seen Kleen unwrap months earlier. Praise be to God! Halleluiah Santa Claus! A Nintendo Entertainment System at last! An electronic RBI Baseball crowd roared in my head. The Mario Bros. invincibility star pulsed through my veins. Double Dribble cheerleaders danced all around me. This was it! It was time to break out the pop! It was time to sit in front of the TV all day and do nothing but play Nintendo! I pulled back further on the paper, overjoyed to finally read the eight letters I'd spent months dreaming about. My eyes sped across the logo at top of the box. In big red print and in clear, beautiful English it read...

L-I-T-E B-R-I-T-E.

"Lite-Brite?"

Lite-Brite. The world suddenly came to a grinding halt. Oh God, NOOO! Not Lite-Brite! Anything but that!

"You've got to be kidding me!" I yelled out loud.

I wasn't looking at a space scene on the box at all. I was looking at a bunch of glowing plastic peg-lights. Santa Claus had not brought me a Nintendo. Instead, the son of a bitch had brought me the shittiest of shit presents in all of Shitville: fucking Lite-Brite!

An 8-bit Mike Tyson socked me in the face. My Rad Racer car exploded into flames. Two hundred and seventy-six Kung-Fu elves began kicking me in the groin. Lite-Brite wasn't a toy or a game or even a thing. It was in a monumentally bad category of its own. It was a crappy plastic box that you plugged into the wall and stuck little light bulbs into through construction paper, like you were some kind of retarded savant. Its annoying commercials had haunted Saturday morning cartoons for years. They were filled with preppy-looking six-year-olds staring in slack-jawed wonderment at illuminated ballerinas and clown faces. It was a baby's toy. Even its jingle was terrible. "Lite-Brite. Lite-Brite. Turn on the magic of colored lights!" Getting a Lite-Brite instead of a Nintendo was like asking for a ten-speed for Christmas and receiving a three-legged mule. Was this some kind of joke?

"It looks like it's the deluxe edition, Jake," my mom pointed out proudly.

It was indeed the deluxe edition, that's why it was so big and that's why it felt like a Nintendo box. I'd been duped. Santa had played me like a game of Uno.

"Think of all the neat projects you can make."

I couldn't speak. I wanted to cry but I was in a state of shock. I just sat there staring at the box with my mouth open. Lizzy plopped down next to me and put her hand on my shoulder. Elwood nuzzled my chest. They both knew I'd just lost the war. As I slowly tried to grasp the situation, I began to fear that I might never recover from this. That this was a tragedy so great that I would never go to prom, never go to college, never get a job, never leave the house. I'd be a thirty-year-old balding man sitting in his parents' basement making elaborate pictures of Zelda with his Lite-Brite. Christmas was dead to me now.