A Christmas Carol

Ho! Open-palm slam on the table right next my Caesar salad. Shake water glass and all. “So what do you do for a living?” We here at my wife’s Christmas party, my twenty-month-old on my lap, waiting for thirty dollar prime rib, and her—the new supervisor—trying for make conversation like Gestapo interrogation. No: Where you from? What high school you went? What year you grad? Sheez, I would even take one, What’s your favorite color?

I get nice aloha shirt, ironed jeans, fancy—Scott—slippers, and fresh shave. So I tell, “Look good.” And my wife kick under the table.