Read Online Remembering Christmas by Drew Ferguson - Free Book Online

and circumstance for the betrothal of a Windsor.
    â€œI’ll be there as soon as I can,” he promised, unable to convince her that, under the current circumstances at least, there was no place in the world he’d rather be than sitting down at his mother’s table on Christmas Eve for country ham and ninetyproof eggnog.
    â€œIt won’t be the same,” she said, hanging up to pull her pumpkin pie from the oven.
    He was too wired to sleep, so he showered and changed into dry clothes and ventured out on a scavenger hunt for something edible. The rain had changed to a steady snow that had quickly blanketed the streets and rooftops. The winter storm transformed the Town of Motels into a department store–window Enchanted Village. The inflatable Santas and Frostys and Rudolphs, their power cords buried in snowdrifts, seemed animated by magic. He took a short detour, making a pilgrimage to the illuminated crèche on the lawn of the First Lutheran Church. The town was perfectly still, the only sound the crunch of fresh snow under his feet. He shoved his freezing hands in his pockets and, through swirling gusts of snowflakes, headed toward the EAT sign, quietly singing “Away in a Manger.”
    The door flew open as he approached, and only his quick reflexes enabled him from narrowly escaping a broken nose. The tow truck ogre stumbled out of the restaurant, fumbling with his keys, staring at James wild-eyed, no glint of recognition on his face. James slipped past him, pitying anyone the man encountered on the icy roads tonight, and stepped into a thick fog of cigarette smoke. Christmas cheer was flowing from the beer taps. Holiday revelers, mugs in hand, already six sheets to the wind, were howling along to Springsteen’s “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” on the jukebox. It was a rough-looking crowd, weathered by hard work and hard drinking. The girls wore Santa caps and NFL gear, and there was nothing jolly about the distended, swollen bellies of the men. A fight broke out at the pool table, and a tray of bottles and glasses shattered on the floor before a fierce-looking dyke in a snowflake sweatshirt could hustle the pugilists out the door.
    â€œMerry Christmas,” the boy behind the bar hollered. “What are you drinking?”
    â€œCan I get a menu?” James shouted over the scalps of the drinkers hunkered down at the bar, arguing over the best way to eliminate the Muslim threat to their godly American way of life.
    â€œYou got a choice. Popcorn or pretzels,” the kid laughed, pointing at the baskets of bar snacks. “The cook called out sick. It’s on me,” he said, refusing James’s money as he handed him a shot of Crown Royal and a frosted mug of Bud Light.
    The boy bounced along the bar, cheerfully pouring booze, taking bills, and handing back the change. He knew all the customers by name and smiled through the abuse that was heaped upon him whenever one of the regulars had to wait longer than twenty seconds for a drink. James was tired and hungry, and the whiskey went straight to his head. He set down his empty mug, ready to call it an early night, when another round appeared on the bar. He waved his palm and shook his head, but the young man insisted he accept the drinks. He figured he should at least tip the kid for his generosity, but the boy frowned and wagged his finger.
    â€œYour money’s no good here tonight. Can’t accept it,” he said, turning away to appease the loudmouthed drunk who was cursing him for neglecting his empty glass.
    The motel was within stumbling distance, even in a blizzard, and James deserved to get a little buzz going after the shitty two days he’d had. He tipped the shot glass to his lips and let the whiskey burn his throat. The bartender looked like a college kid, barely legal drinking age, tall, square-jawed, with bright green eyes and a mop of floppy hair. He had the type of sharp features that