A Thanksgiving Lizard

Or, how to do a proper holiday.

Yesterday, I nearly stepped on this lizard. I made noise that sounded a bit like NYAARRRGH and sprang away so wildly I almost sprained an ankle. Not my ankle, you understand, but my wife’s ankle. She had stumbled over, laughing at me. There is no dignity in being a man, but I digress, because what I wanted to mention was that it’s Thanksgiving.

There he is. He was on the steps below, basking in the sun. I saw him just in time.

I lived in Boston for fifteen years, and that’s where my heart will go at this time of year. It surprises me, the memories that seem most important to me, now as I look back.

There happened to be a remarkably nice lady called Liz who worked in the administration of the library, when I worked there. I’ll tell you how nice she was — every time there was a special event or function in the library — you know, catered lunches and dessert tables and that sort of thing — she would make note of it, and call me up to let me know afterwards, if there were any leftovers. We were all deeply fond of her. Whenever she called, my friends and I would bound upstairs to the fourth floor and descend upon the leftovers like so many shameless vultures. Thanks to Liz’s kindness, we enjoyed a free lunch at least twice a week for many years.

Now I think about it, Harvard gives out a special award to certain employees who are just, you know, generally nice people. Liz won that award. Nobody was surprised. During her acceptance speech, she spoke about how important it was to be nice. We all cheered. We were all there, how could we not be? And you know something else? There was free food at that event, as well. It was amazing.

So, Liz was the best, and particularly so because she was always thinking about others. Every year after Thanksgiving, Liz would find me and ask me if I’d had a nice holiday, and we would ritualistically have the same conversation. But wait, let me interrupt my story with another.

Liz had a daughter who did ballet, and every single year, Liz would invite me and my friends to see her daughter perform in the Nutcracker. The issue is, I’d grown up with these sisters who were dancers, and I’d have to wait around for them with my mother outside church halls every afternoon for years, waiting for them to finish their ballet class. And in consequence of this, I have become a man who is now thoroughly sick of all things ballet.

So, whenever Liz would invite me to attend her daughter’s performance in the Nutcracker, I would put my head on my desk and moan with despair, and exclaim that I could not, and would not, ever attend ballet, in this life or the next. I’d tell her how my mother made me go to all my sisters’ performances, and I’d have to wait outside a church for hours every day, and that I now hated everything to do with the subject. And Liz, of course, would laugh and laugh.

Every year she stopped by my desk specifically to invite me to her daughter’s performance, and every year, I’d throw a tantrum and exclaim hotly that I would not ever attend any such performance, and off Liz would go, fully entertained.

Then one day, years later, when my daughter Boudica was four, I brought her back to visit some friends still working in the library. And as we entered, there at the entrance was Liz. She was overjoyed to see us. She asked Boudica what she wanted to be when she grew up, and Boudica said, “A ballerina!”

Liz nearly cried with laughter. But back in the day — and as I was saying, above — Liz used to come and ask me about my Thanksgiving, and we always had the same conversation. Inevitably, it played out like this.

“Well, Liz, I couldn’t go to Thanksgiving with my wife’s family because ... well, I had all this work to do, so I elected to stay behind ...”

“Oh no!”

“Yes, it was ... quite a lot of work. Terribly sad, because obviously I love seeing my in-laws.”

“So you didn’t do anything to celebrate?”

“Well, you see, my wife was away, so I just basically skipped breakfast, because, let’s face it, breakfast is not a meal for serious people.

“Instead, I ordered a family-sized Meatlover’s Pizza with barbecue sauce from Dominos. I was careful to specify extra sausage, because my wife isn’t around saying words like ‘cholesterol’, which does not fully enter into the spirit of ordering pizza, in my opinion, but I love my wife, so I’ll say no more about it.

“Here’s the clever thing, Liz. What I did is I ate half the pizza for lunch. Because — why over-do it, see? Then later, around dinner time, when I’m feeling a bit peckish, I stop by the refrigerator there it is — a whole ‘nother half of a pizza, which I’d forgotten all about!

“It’s like a life hack I invented for myself. You can use it, though I’ll warn you, it does require some restraint.

“And bear in mind,” I add, “that my wife is away, staying with her family, so I don’t even eat a salad that day. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I have my reckless moments. Though, I’ll admit that by 9pm I’m having some grave concerns about my cholesterol —”

“So, you didn’t get to eat any turkey?!” Liz would interrupt, astounded and indignant.

“No,” I would say, and as I said the following words, I could hear a hardness enter my tone. “And I don’t understand why Americans have to always pretend turkey tastes good. I don’t understand this charade, and furthermore, I refuse to participate in your culture of lying. If turkey tasted better than chicken, it’d be called Kentucky Fried Turkey.

“But one day of the year, you all flip a switch and magically pretend — but you know what? I’m not going to talk about this anymore. It’s beneath me.”

“So you didn’t spend Thanksgiving with anyone?” she’d exclaim.

“Sadly, no. I had no choice but to play video-games all day. Violent ones, too, Liz. I didn’t want to, but it turns out that, within a video-game, it’s a lot more convenient to steal a car with deadly force than, say, going into an imaginary office and submitting yourself to a credit check.”

“Really?” Liz would say with a tone of admonishment. “Well, I wouldn’t say I could picture you playing violent video-games, Kris.”

“I’m sad to admit it, Liz, but the violence helped alleviate my loneliness and isolation. But how was your Thanksgiving, Liz?”

Then she’d describe it to me. There were all sorts of relatives flying in from New Mexico and that sort of thing. And lots of cooking, I seem to remember, but no pizza, which was sad, and also no video-games either. Obviously, I pitied her. But what I learned from my fifteen years in Boston is that Americans don’t generally know how to celebrate Thanksgiving, and I think it eats at them, if I’m being honest. And yet, all the same, when I think of Thanksgiving, I somehow think of this terribly nice lady who worked in the library called Liz, and I hope that she, and everyone like her, is having a wonderful day.

Then there’s the other thought I have, which is that Americans don’t seem to know how to talk about Karl Marx. That’s what I used to do, by the way, whenever I had to attend Thanksgiving with my in-laws. I talked about Marx. Mind you, it doesn’t have to be Marx — it can be Nietzsche. It’s a lot of reading, either way, but ultimately it’s worth it because if you do it correctly, your Thanksgiving will be a peaceful one.

But I think what I’ll do is tell you all about it tomorrow. Two newsletters from me this week, I promise. Or at least, I think I promise. There is a lizard living just outside my back door, and if it startles me — or worse, if I startle it ... You know, I don’t want to think about the lizard anymore. What I’ll do instead is say goodbye to you for now, and — hopefully tomorrow — I’ll send you some thoughts about how to use Karl Marx as a conversational exit strategy.

Until then, and with chaste affection,

Kris St.Gabriel

PS. A fourteen-year-old ecard I made. Because everything I write is true.