o tannenbaum

i'd fallen asleep. there were only 6, 7 people left in the living room still drunk from the party, our annual Christmas party, the surreal Christmas party. the pretty lights, the stench of pine and beer and pot and debris all over the kitchen. that's when the tree fell over. it just leaned and fell, slo-mo, balls cracking on the floor like eggs, the lights twisted like underwear around the bulbous waist of the tree. the Wicken star was toppled and replaced with a can of PBR jammed onto the hard thrusting tippy top. it looked hung over leaning against the window. we lifted her up, yanked off the can, straightened the lights, swept up the broken balls and re-inserted and tightened the stand screws. it was ok now, but off kilter. room mate Travis: 'the Christmas tree has been drinking, not me...'. now it has a personality, being at a tilt. more endeared am i to this one, this imperfect touchstone to childhood, then all the pretty houses with all their pretty trees. pretty loses out to truth. the next night is a dead zone at work, but i luck out. two Very Cute Boys (Berklee/LA) are among the few seated in my section. because it's slow going, we talk. i, on weak legs. the power of The Beautiful upsets my balance. the black-haired kid in particular hurts to look at. i have to latch onto words like a plank in a flood in order to not hold his eyes uncomfortably. to be with both and not monopolize one vs the other and without presuming intimacy. all goes nicely. info is exchanged as if after a car accident, smiles all round and nervous goodbye handshakes. we meet up later at the Behan. the rush rising with each sentence. i stumble. my stumbling is obvious i'm sure to these straight, savvy kids. they know i'm a homo, they know that i know that they know. but here's the kicker, drunken tree part 2 BEFORE the boys at the Behan. there is a group that hits Doyles after the Berklee boys leave came from volunteering at a homeless shelter. they and the homeless with them are Not Cute. some stink, their faces have bruises, there are holes in their clothes and their shoes are untied. they are persnickety about food orders, although joyful and full of legit Christmas spirit. they sing in loud out of tune voices all the carols they can remember and then standards (Puff the Magic Dragon, Kum-By-Ya) up on their feet, hugging and singing at each other. i skate back and forth from bar to table, cleaning up, delivering food and beer when one of them, the dirtiest, with pockmarked skin, a sweaty scarf, open boots, shirt-tails out, orders one Bud after another. as soon as i drop one off, he asks again. when the singing really takes over, he goes to the bar and orders a bigger beer, a giant bottle of Pilsner Urquell. he isn't going back. he isn't going to be part of the silly singing. he sits by himself at a round table with his big green bottle. during one of my manic traverses, he looks up at a spot above my head and says 'i love you'. his lipless mouth is agape, a yawning walrus with flappy chops and the faint lift of a smile. 'i love you', wow. had Very Cute said this to me from his astonishing face i would have collapsed into his heart. i am, like the song says, a fool for beauty. but this homeless man, like our peculiar, sad tree, is the one to deliver this snail of an endearment. not the pretty boy with the hot smarts, nor his friend with the dark eyes.