Journal 3, Entry 6- Recollection: "No Christmas"

A story my parents love to tell about me deals with a time we were in Mexico for Christmas. We were eating at a busy restaurant where the waiters weaves in and out between tables with Jenga towers of glass and silver ware. I was a lonely teenager and hated everything to a degree due to my suburban entitlement and sexual frustration. I got up too soon and a waiter collided with me and all the plates and glasses and butter knives hit the floor with a sound like a thunderstorm inside of a clay pot. My parents made the joke on my guilt and said it was because of me that the waiter would be fired. That he would return home to his family and tell them that Christmas wouldn't be coming this year. His little daughter would ask, "¿Dondé está Santa, Papá? ¿Es Navidad, verdad?" and the drunken bitter father would say, "Santa está muerto. Navidad es muerto."