Sunday Project – for Seafood –
“The Christmas Story”
Christmas Day in the Multnomah Hotel,
the lower level reception room where there is breakfast for the
guests. I'm a guest, I guess... at least it's not Sunday, but then it
is Christmas Day, which only comes one a week. Once upon a
time it was the most special day of them all, Sunday. Everything was
closed, yet everyone had to work anyway, the busses weren't running,
and our cars wouldn't start. We had to walk, in the cold, unplowed
streets, miles and miles and miles to the factory, and glue together
those soccer balls.
You're either a guest, or you're a
host. Typically, there's a reciprocal thing going on. But in this
unique situation, I've managed to become both the guest and
the host, thanks to Mr. Ray Wheat, who left his credit card in the
room that I rented, so easy to find. In fact, he must have wanted me
to find it, or he would have at least put it under a loose floorboard
or something. So there you are. Wheat, on Christmas Day, for being my
host, and also allowing me to be the host—no, wait—I'm not a
host. I'm only a guest. A host is—fuck that—you don't want to be
a host. You might get a couple dollars, but no, don't be a host!
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