a pine forest.
“ Hi, Noel,” she said. “Where’s that Christmas music coming from?”
“ It’s my iPod. I’ve connected it to small amplified speakers concealed in my pants pockets.”
“ Very ingenious.”
We said good-bye to Aunt Rosa and set off for the party–linked if not by hand (I was too chicken) then by a shared sense of festive anticipation. Soon, Mel Torme gave way to Barbra Streisand. Walking in the deepening twilight with the woman of your dreams in your own cocoon of mood music is a great way to start one’s Saturday night.
“ Does this bra look too ridiculous?” asked Uma.
Rendered virtually speechless by her query, I inspected the area in question.
“ Uh, no. You look fine, I mean great.”
“ I wasn’t going to wear one, but my aunt insisted. She said people could see my nipples–as if every person on the planet doesn’t have them.”
“ Uh, some people,” I stammered, “some people have more than two.”
“ Well, don’t get your hopes up in my case, Noel.”
I was not entirely sure what she meant by that.
“ Your aunt lives with you?”
“ Yes, ever since she left the convent. She used to be a nun.”
“ A man? Really! She had a sex-change operation?”
“ Hardly. I said ‘nun.’ She used to be Sister Rosa.”
“ Oh. Sorry.”
A night of firsts: First time I had spoken to a nun. First time I had discussed intimate apparel with a girl.
“ For 17 years. Can you imagine that? Then she called it quits. She wants to get married, but she hasn’t had any luck finding a fellow. She needs a cultured gentleman of the old school. Catholic too, of course. Just try finding that type in Winnemucca. Know anybody?”
“ Uh, I don’t think so.”
“ Well, we’ve got to find her someone, Noel. I can’t have an ex-nun telling me how to dress for the rest of my life.”
I liked her use of “we” in that sentence. I was about 98 percent ready to grasp her dangling hand when I noticed that we had arrived at our destination. Mary Glasgow herself answered our knock and squealed out an enthusiastic “Merry Christmas!” Draping a skinny arm around her shoulder was Drew Kolstiner, my long ago grade-school next-door neighbor and best friend. His mother remarried, they sold their trailer, they moved to a fancier street, and that was that. His romantic interest in Mary Glasgow was news to me, though probably not to the rest of Winnemucca.
“ Hi, Drew,” I said.
“ Hi, Noel. What’s with the bulge in your pants?”
Everyone looked down at my crotch. Nope, nothing amiss or inflamed down there.
“ Those are speakers in his pockets,” volunteered Uma. “Noel’s a walking Christmas concert.”
“ Very nice,” said Mary, obviously meaning “very weird.” She should talk, being dressed in fuzzy pink rabbit pajamas like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story.”
I switched off my iPod, as I’d need a sound truck or a nuclear bomb to compete with the din blasting forth from the Glasgows’ stereo. The CDs were being fed in by Dasan Williams, one of the few authentic African-Americans in our class. Despite the announced party theme, his cutting-edge tastes apparently did not embrace Christmas music.
We made our way into the living room, crowded with Winnemucca’s teen elite. Providing the only illumination were twinkling lights strung on a bizarrely decorated artificial Christmas tree in a corner of the room.
“ I hope you’ve brought your decorations,” screamed Mary over the noise.
Uma nodded, opened her purse, extracted a limp jockstrap, and hung it on a branch next to a hood ornament off someone’s Mercedes. I prayed her contribution was not a memento of some steamy encounter with Scott Chandler.
“ Where’s yours, Noel?” screamed Mary.
“ I didn’t know we were supposed to bring any,” I bellowed back.
“ You have to put something on the tree!” she insisted. “Something personal!”
I removed my shirt, peeled off my sweaty t-shirt, and flung it at
“ Hi, Noel,” she said. “Where’s that Christmas music coming from?”
“ It’s my iPod. I’ve connected it to small amplified speakers concealed in my pants pockets.”
“ Very ingenious.”
We said good-bye to Aunt Rosa and set off for the party–linked if not by hand (I was too chicken) then by a shared sense of festive anticipation. Soon, Mel Torme gave way to Barbra Streisand. Walking in the deepening twilight with the woman of your dreams in your own cocoon of mood music is a great way to start one’s Saturday night.
“ Does this bra look too ridiculous?” asked Uma.
Rendered virtually speechless by her query, I inspected the area in question.
“ Uh, no. You look fine, I mean great.”
“ I wasn’t going to wear one, but my aunt insisted. She said people could see my nipples–as if every person on the planet doesn’t have them.”
“ Uh, some people,” I stammered, “some people have more than two.”
“ Well, don’t get your hopes up in my case, Noel.”
I was not entirely sure what she meant by that.
“ Your aunt lives with you?”
“ Yes, ever since she left the convent. She used to be a nun.”
“ A man? Really! She had a sex-change operation?”
“ Hardly. I said ‘nun.’ She used to be Sister Rosa.”
“ Oh. Sorry.”
A night of firsts: First time I had spoken to a nun. First time I had discussed intimate apparel with a girl.
“ For 17 years. Can you imagine that? Then she called it quits. She wants to get married, but she hasn’t had any luck finding a fellow. She needs a cultured gentleman of the old school. Catholic too, of course. Just try finding that type in Winnemucca. Know anybody?”
“ Uh, I don’t think so.”
“ Well, we’ve got to find her someone, Noel. I can’t have an ex-nun telling me how to dress for the rest of my life.”
I liked her use of “we” in that sentence. I was about 98 percent ready to grasp her dangling hand when I noticed that we had arrived at our destination. Mary Glasgow herself answered our knock and squealed out an enthusiastic “Merry Christmas!” Draping a skinny arm around her shoulder was Drew Kolstiner, my long ago grade-school next-door neighbor and best friend. His mother remarried, they sold their trailer, they moved to a fancier street, and that was that. His romantic interest in Mary Glasgow was news to me, though probably not to the rest of Winnemucca.
“ Hi, Drew,” I said.
“ Hi, Noel. What’s with the bulge in your pants?”
Everyone looked down at my crotch. Nope, nothing amiss or inflamed down there.
“ Those are speakers in his pockets,” volunteered Uma. “Noel’s a walking Christmas concert.”
“ Very nice,” said Mary, obviously meaning “very weird.” She should talk, being dressed in fuzzy pink rabbit pajamas like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story.”
I switched off my iPod, as I’d need a sound truck or a nuclear bomb to compete with the din blasting forth from the Glasgows’ stereo. The CDs were being fed in by Dasan Williams, one of the few authentic African-Americans in our class. Despite the announced party theme, his cutting-edge tastes apparently did not embrace Christmas music.
We made our way into the living room, crowded with Winnemucca’s teen elite. Providing the only illumination were twinkling lights strung on a bizarrely decorated artificial Christmas tree in a corner of the room.
“ I hope you’ve brought your decorations,” screamed Mary over the noise.
Uma nodded, opened her purse, extracted a limp jockstrap, and hung it on a branch next to a hood ornament off someone’s Mercedes. I prayed her contribution was not a memento of some steamy encounter with Scott Chandler.
“ Where’s yours, Noel?” screamed Mary.
“ I didn’t know we were supposed to bring any,” I bellowed back.
“ You have to put something on the tree!” she insisted. “Something personal!”
I removed my shirt, peeled off my sweaty t-shirt, and flung it at
Similar Books
