Matt Demme did not remember bringing this much crap into the dorm with him at the beginning of the semester. His clothes, yes, his light table and art supplies, the various textbooks he had been unable to return for even a fraction of their purchase price… but the rest of this stuff was a real enigma. At what point, for instance, had the inflatable cow moved in? It seemed like a Halloween sort of thing, but Matt vaguely remembered it floating around during midterms. And more importantly, was it his or did it belong to his roommate?

Before this semester such a question would not have required even a few moments of thought – inflatable cows, rife with comedic potential they may be, were not the sort of purchase Matt Demme would make in an average shopping trip. That changed once he was paired off in the dorm with Jake Bixby. On a typical Sunday night it was common for Bix to summon one of the guys on their floor who happened to own a car to drive them down to Wal-Mart to snag supplies for the week. Once there, there was no telling what Bixby would con Matt into buying.

“Hey Matt, look at this cow."

“S’nice, Bix."

“Dude, you should totally get this."

“W-what would I do with an inflatable cow, Bix?"

“You’re the artist, man, you’ll think of something."

And there the cow would be, with no logic or reason behind it, and their dorm room would have a brand-new accessory with the Bixby seal of approval.

Matt gave the cow another moment of consideration, finally placing it in the pile he’d designated “Who knows?". It really wasn’t that big a deal. He and Bixby had agreed to room together again next semester, all of this junk would be back in the room in a month. If it weren’t for the university’s annoying rule requiring them to move all of their belongings out between terms, Matt doubted he’d bother to pack anything.

“Heading out, bro?"

Matt glanced up to see Bixby standing in the doorway. He towered over Matt – tall and slender, his brown eyes matching his brown, disheveled hair. Matt was thin as a rail himself but short, with fire-red hair atop his thin-framed glasses. They’d called him “the matchstick" in elementary school, because kids need to find something to make fun of in every other kid. His sister once told him he’d never grown because he looked down all the time. In one of his braver moments, he allowed himself to suspect that was because any time he dared make eye contact with her she berated him into submission.

“Y-y-yeah," Matt said. “Abby is going t-to pick me up at f-f-f--"

“Four?" Bixby ventured.

"Yep."

“Dude, how am I gonna survive four weeks without anyone needing me to complete his sentences?"

“You’ll m-m-m--"

“Make it?"

“No, m-m-m--"

“Mark time?"

“M-m-m--"

“Milk goats?"

“Muddle through," Matt finally got out.

“Ah. Yeah, I guess I just might."

“Got something f-for you," Matt said.

“What? What are you talking about?"

Matt picked up the only thing remaining on his desk – a rolled-up sheet of bond paper tied up with a red ribbon. “M-m-merry Christmas," Matt said.

“Aw, man, you didn’t have to do that."

“Wanted to."

“I don’t have anything for you."

“S’alright."

“No, I’ll find something. There’s a few weeks until Christmas."

“Just open i-it."

“Oh. Heh. Right."

Bix pulled on the ribbon, releasing the paper, which rolled open partially as soon as it was free. Bixby quivered.

“Aw, dude."

It was a color sketch of their dorm room as it had appeared 24 hours ago, pre-packing: posters on the wall, clothes and pizza boxes melding into a sort of mini-landscape such as a legitimate artist may paint, only with more beer stains. Amidst the peaks and valleys of this rolling vista were perfect caricatures of Matt and Bixby, the latter with his arm swung around the former’s shoulder, both laughing the way they only seemed to do when in each other’s company.

“Dude," Bixby reiterated. “Just… just dude."

“You’ve said that," Matt said, laughing. From Bixby, this was immensely high praise. “Just s-something I sketched one afternoon."

“Bull," Bixby said. “I’ve seen you work. This kind of detail, this kind of color took you a few days at least. More if you did it during exams."

“I would have had t-t-to retake English wuh-wuh-101 anyway."

“I’m getting you something awesome, bro."

Matt was about to insist again that was unnecessary, but Bixby took advantage of a stutter to ruffle Matt’s twisted shrub of red hair, indicating that the discussion was over. It was part of the odd two-person shorthand they’d developed since student housing assigned them as roommates at the start of each semester. Unlike most of the freshmen who’d been paired off, though, Matt and Bixby long ago decided they would remain together next term. They’d clicked, somehow. Loud, frequently obnoxious Jake Bixby and quiet, unassuming Matt Demme had become joined at the hip so fast they’d accrued a mass of nicknames ranging from the Odd Couple to Bert and Ernie. (Bixby insisted he was Ernie.) Nobody outside of their dorm room could fathom what drew them together. In honesty, they weren’t really sure themselves.

Bixby was still cradling the drawing like a 100-dollar bill when the phone rang, so Matt answered it -–something he usually left to his roommate when he could.

“Hello? Y-y-yeah, Abby. In a m-m-minute." He hung up the phone – Bixby’s phone, his own was already packed. “My s-sister. She’s p-picking me up." He bent down to wrap his arms around the first cardboard box.

“Hey, let me help you with that." Bixby put the drawing on his own rarely used desk and grabbed the first two boxes he could lift. Matt’s accumulation was sizable, but they should be able to get it all in two or three trips. Unless, of course, Bix decided he needed a nap.

Naw. He wouldn’t do that.

* * *

Matt saluted Bixby as they slammed Abby’s stuffed trunk shut. “Th-thanks, Bix."

“De nada. Hey, I’ll call you bro. We’ll get together over the break sometime."

“C-cool. Merry Ch-ch-christmas."

Matt climbed into Abby’s car and they pulled away from the dorm. Bixby walked back inside as they were leaving… but slowly.

“Your roommate’s cute," Abby said. Matt bristled.

“N-no he’s not."

“He is, he really is."

“Abby…" At that moment Matt could not put into words exactly why the prospect of Bixby dating his sister was such a bad idea, but there was nothing in the universe that frightened him more. It was probably that she had a tendency to drive away any guy who fell into her clutches for more than a month, and Matt didn't relish the idea of losing one of the few friends he'd ever had.

“Where does he live?"

“Um… h-huh-hundred miles or so."

This was an exaggeration – Bixby’s hometown was about 60 miles from Matt and Abby’s. Their high schools played each other in football every year, in fact. Matt had visited Bixby’s school twice, clarinet in hand. If Bixby had been at those games, it was to work his inimitable charm on a cheerleader.

Still, he hoped somehow he and Bix would find a way to get together over the holidays. Having someone around willing to listen to a stutter was a new experience for Matt, but it was one he discovered he liked.

* * *

Bixby’s mom was there an hour later in his grandfather’s truck. It took him another hour to finish packing his stuff (including this freaky inflatable sheep that seemed to appear from nowhere), then he threw it all in the trunk, strapped it down, and prayed.

“So… good first semester, Jakie?" Carla Bixby asked as the campus shrunk into the rearview mirror.

“S’okay."

“Just okay? Come on, I haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving and you barely spoke then."

“I was eating."

“How are your grades?"

“Didn’t fail anything."

“What did you do?"

“Stuff."

“Are you involved on campus? Are you in any clubs or groups?"

“I was going to start a Society For Apathetic Americans, but nobody really gave a damn."

“Okay smart guy," Carla said. “I can see this is gonna be a merry holiday season."

“Sorry," Bixby grumbled. It wasn’t that he was trying to be a smartass, he just wasn’t looking forward to being home. The threat of estrogen was already wreaking havoc with his endocrine system. Besides his mother he also had three sisters of his own to contend with – Leslie, Darcy and Tracy. And they all insisted on calling him “Jakie." With a last name like “Bixby," all of the long “e" sounds were the worst kind of nomenclature-based assonance. If his mother had borne a fifth child before his father died, she probably would have named her “Barbie Bixby" out of pure sadism.

Leslie was waiting on the front porch when they got home. Not waiting for them, mind you, but definitely waiting for something. The heat death at the end of the universe was Bixby’s best guess.

“Leslie, put that cigarette out," Carla said. Leslie replied by extending a black-painted middle finger. “Black" was her thing now – black hair, black nails, black clothes, and vampire-pale skin. She’d decided to revolt against conformity by joining ten thousand other teenagers who thought a pair of leather pants was what it took to be a Goth.

“Hey, sis."

“Bite me."

Bixby nodded at the only sister older than he. “Good to see you too."

Inside, Tracy was on the phone. Come to think of it, when Bixby left she was on the phone too. For all he knew, it was the same conversation.

“And so Linda and Stuart broke up because he went to the dance with Susan even though she’s supposed to be going out with Quentin oh hi Jakie and Quentin told Rachel he thinks Justine is cute…" When the girl turned 13, Bixby recalled, punctuation became her enemy.

Darcy, two years Bixby’s junior, was the sister who most resembled a human being in her relations with him. She looked up from the TV as he walked in with a box.

“Hey, Jakie."

“Hey Darce."

“Good semester?"

“Didn’t suck."

Carla huffed. “Oh, she doesn’t get the Apathy Club routine?"

Bixby and Darcy exchanged a knowing glance that ended with them each rolling their eyes in Carla’s direction. “I have a sarcasm quota for the day. Where’s Grandpa?"

“In his room."

“Thanks."

“Hey, are you just going to leave that box on the couch?" Carla shouted after him as he walked away.

Warren Bixby was lounging on his bed, the door open, when Bixby approached. He was chuckling at the TV, but not with much joy in his voice. It was a sound Bix knew well – he only made it when he was watching cartoons. He did, however, look up and smile a genuine smile when his grandson entered the room.

“Heeeey, welcome home, Jakie!" He, too, called him Jakie, although whether it was to get his goat or to surrender to the women in the house, Bixby was never able to ascertain.

“Whatcha watching?"

“One of my best. Barbarian Badger, 1944. Damn, I was good Jakie."

“The best, Grandpa," Bixby said even as he trembled at the cartoon on the screen. Warren Bixby’s life was one raw deal after another. He’d created a newspaper comic strip in the 1930s called, appropriately enough, “Bixby Badger." In 1938, he signed a deal with Climax Pictures to direct animated shorts based on the character. He made a decent living at it too, but in the 50s he realized exactly how big a chunk of change Climax was making from ol' Bixby. He asked for his fair share and got a legalese explanation that he’d sold all rights to the character when he signed the initial contract and, oh yes, got fired too. In that order. In the 70s he tried to sue the studio, draining all of his savings in vain, and in the 90s he moved in with his daughter-in-law, ostensibly to help her with the kids but actually because cardboard boxes have notoriously poor climate control options and his joints ached in cold weather. To this day, Bixby couldn’t watch a Bixby Badger cartoon without seething at how his grandfather had been treated.

“So, have you picked a major yet, son?"

“Not yet, Grandpa."

“Given any more thought to art?"

Bix sighed. He hated this discussion. Warren had declared, based on a third-grade watercolor, that Bixby was a natural artist. Bix never agreed. “Just not my thing, Grandpa. My roommate’s an art major, though."

“Really?"

“Yeah. Believe it or not, he’s even heard of you."

“I believe it. Is he any good?"

“See for yourself. Hold on." Bixby went out to the living room, dodged shouts from his mother to get the damn boxes off the couch and returned with Matt’s sketch of the two of them.

“Not bad, not bad. Use of color is great. Line is kind of wobbly." Bix glanced at the sketches of Bixby Badger marching around his grandfather’s drawing table. His own line wasn’t exactly the shortest distance between point A and point B anymore. This had not prevented him from several years of rehashing a character he could no longer legally make any money from, nor from attempting to create new characters nobody seemed interested in. Bix wouldn’t ever say so, but he’d personally given up when the old man started rambling about a talking sponge.

“So what are you gonna do with your break, son?"

“I dunno. Hang."

“Phpt. ‘Hang.’ That’s all you kids do these days. In fact, you don’t do anything. Doesn’t that bother you?"

“You know, you’d think it would. Guess we get used to it."

* * *

One week into the Christmas break and Matt’s fear of male pattern baldness was returning. He had no genetic reason to believe he’d go bald, but with each passing moment the urge to rip out his own hair one follicle at a time was becoming more difficult to resist.

It was being here at the Edmundson’s house that was really grating on him. James and Sue Edmundson were his parent’s best friends, a fact they accentuated by only actually seeing each other once a year, at the Edmundson’s Christmas dinner party. Matt had accompanied his family to this party his entire life, and in 18 years of trying, he was still unable to figure out why.

His parents, at present, were in the dining room chatting away about the economy or benign polyps or something else he’d drowned out a good half an hour ago. He was on the living room couch with seven-year-old Daniel Edmundson watching Miracle on 34th Street. And not the real one, the Elizabeth Perkins remake where they changed the brilliant ending for no good reason. He was wondering if perhaps the Edmundsons had the benevolence to install an escape hatch in the year since he’d been there.

“Lookadat! Lookadat!" Daniel announced, jabbing his finger at the reindeer on the screen.

“I s-see it, Daniel," Matt grumbled. He found himself envying Abby. She’d escaped this nightmare via the sound strategic move of having a date. Abby always had a date. Matt suspected that when she was born God had given her the allotment of social skills for the entire Demme family, leaving an empty well by the time he came along.

“Maaaatt!" his mother called from the other room. He grimaced. Anytime she stretched his name to the point where the “a"s outnumbered the “t"s it was a bad sign.

“Maaaatt! Come in here and tell James and Sue all about your first semester."

Matt reluctantly clambered to his feet, stumbled over Daniel (Lookadat!") and joined the “adults," as they designated themselves. Sue and James were on one side of the table with his parents, Harry and Marie, across from them. In-between were an assortment of meats, cheeses and wine, all of which had been devotedly sampled.

“You’re so quiet, Mattie," Sue gurgled, clutching a freshly-drained wineglass in her manicured fingers." Why are you always so quiet?"

“D-d-dunno," he said, because it was easier than saying, “Because every time I try to raise my voice half a decibel it sounds like I’m talking into a box fan."

“Too bad your sister couldn’t make it," James guffawed.

Bet you are, Matt thought. When Abby hit 16 or so, “Uncle Jimmy" became frighteningly curious about her general welfare. If she hadn’t had a date, Matt would not have blamed her for recruiting the nearest street corner Santa to help her escape this particular festive holiday tradition.

“I’m sure Abby’s fine on her date," Susan said, displaying the perceptive abilities of a cocker spaniel. “Why don’t you ever bring any of your girlfriends over?"

“I-I--"

“He’s just shy," Marie said. It was like saying his grandmother’s stroke was “just" caused by a blood clot. Most people would guess Matt’s greatest fear was public speaking. That was actually number two. Speaking to women in private far surpassed it. The girls in high school had all thought he was weird. The girls in college thought he was in the wrong class.

“You know whaaaat?" Sue said in a voice that made Matt’s blood run cold. “He should meet Ella!"

“E-ella?"

“Our niece," James said. “She’s a… a fine lass."

The lack of a licentious tone in James’ voice helped Matt to translate. He began to quiver. “Oh. Ah. I-I-I--"

“I think that’s a wonderful idea!" his mother cackled. “Don’t you think that’s a wonderful idea, Matt?"

“I-I-I th-think… I… g-get something… c-c-car…" Matt scrambled to his feet, bolted for the den and snagged his jacket so fast as he made his egress that the coat rack tipped over and his the wall. He poked his arm back into the room and set it right again before he popped out. It was damn cold on that porch, but Matt would prefer to risk losing any and all extremities to frostbite than go back into that conversation.

“Jeez. I w-w-wish Bixby were h-here," he muttered against the wind. He could picture the whole scene. If Bixby were here he’d turn it around on them. So, Jimmy, tell me about this Emma. Whatever. Now I need sizes. Wait, chest, schnozz, let’s have the numbers here. Heh. Matt’s mother would rupture every blood vessel above the clavicle, but it would be so worth it.

“Mattie?" came his mother’s voice from the doorway. He quaked again. “Did you find what you came out here for?"

“N-no," he muttered.

“What, dear?"

“Coming."

* * *

Bixby didn’t have an invitation to the party or anything, but that minor tidbit never bothered him before. After he left the house following a rousing theological debate (his mother wanted to know exactly when Leslie started worshipping Satan and when Tracy was going to hang up the phone, for Christ’s sake), he just slipped into his grandfather’s truck and started cruising around to familiar houses looking for any sign of life. As he certainly should have expected, he found it at Sandy Henson’s house. Enough cars in the driveway to evacuate either a small town or a high school football game, and the average cost was far more than the typical parent would spend on such impractical cars. Definitely the work of teenagers. Plus, he doubted Sandy’s mom would be blasting Nine Days at 150 decibels.

He parked behind a couple of Lexuses – Lexi? Oh whatever – and marched up the candy cane-lined path that took him straight through the front door. Knocking was non-compulsory at one of Sandy’s parties.

Sandy, in high school, had been the sort of girl who threw massive parties because no one would pay attention to her otherwise. She hated that she was naturally quiet, and thought if she surrounded herself with noise she’d overcome her handicap. She’d gravitated to Bixby for the same reason.

He walked into the room with the authority of a recovering drunk who was up to his third AA meeting. Nobody really noticed him, although he recognized most of the people there. Folks he hadn’t seen since graduation and, frankly, was not sorely missing. Every so often a familiar eye would greet his. There would be a mutual nod and each party would go about their business, which at these functions generally involved experimenting with anxious females to determine how much alcohol their systems could absorb without losing total consciousness.

“Bixby!"

It was Sandy, carrying a 12-pack box of empty beer cans on her way to the garbage. It took him a second to recognize her. Her long, blond hair had been cropped short. Extremely short. Short enough, indeed, that were it not for other particular attributes that tended to arrive a second or two ahead of her, her gender may be called into question entirely. Bix didn’t like it, but he smiled anyway.

“Sandy. Good to see you."

“I didn’t know you were back in town."

“Well, I ultimately decided not to go to one of those schools that convenes on Christmas Day."

“Heh. Well, it’s good to see you."

“You too. Hair’s different."

She snaked a finger to where her hair used to reach, where she used to curl it habitually, then reached the rest of the way up and patted the remainder. “Yeah. Sorority stunt."

“It’s not so bad."

“I kinda hate it."

“Yeah. Me too."

“I haven’t heard from you since… graduation." And since you dumped me, she added with a total absence of verbiage.

“College, y’know. Busy. But I wanted to drop by."

“I’m glad you did," she said with a thin sliver of a smile and a hungry look in her eyes. Aw, crap, he was afraid of this. Six months later, she still looked at him that way. He found himself suddenly wishing that Matt was here. Sandy had always tried to make herself the center of attention, but that was only because if she were as quiet as she wished she was afraid she would never make contact with the outside world at all. He suspected she and Matt would understand each other quite well.

“Badger! Hey, Badger-Boy!"

Bixby’s neck hair stood at attention. Had a genie appeared to him at that moment, his one wish would have been for the ability to projectile vomit venom at the arrogant creature that had just approached.

“Hey, Pete."

Pete Stern. Six feet and two inches of unnecessarily solid flesh without sparing any cells for trivialities such as higher brain functions. Black, sculpted hair, green eyes that held the sort of menace that did not require calculation and beard stubble that maintained a consistent length regardless of the elapsed time since his last shave. Bixby had reserved a special place in his heart to despise this man in fourth grade when he somehow learned Bixby’s ancestry and christened him "Badger-Boy." Like virtually everyone on MTV, he’d come up with one semi-amusing routine at the age of eight and then gave up on personal evolution.

“Bixby! Bixby Badger! Double-B! Where you been keepin’ yourself?"

“It’s called college, Pete. It’s where people go after high school if their daddies don’t own car lots. I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it."

Pete frowned. “I’ve heard of it," he said. Bixby had taken a minor risk. If you used enough words Pete only realized he was being insulted about half the time.

“Uh – Pete, could you take this to the trash for me?"

“Huh? Oh, sure," he said, taking the cans. Knowing how to avert an impending crisis was probably Sandy’s best attribute. She gave Pete the same weak smile she usually employed as she forked over the trash.

Then, just as John Lennon (via the stereo) began to chastise them because so this was Christmas and what the hell had they done anyway?, Pete went and did something that probably would have emasculated even a certified Beatle as much as it did Bixby. Pete glided his arm around Sandy’s waist and kissed her in such a fashion to suggest he had done such a thing many times before. Just not in Bixby’s presence.

“Later, Badger-Boy," he said, leaving the two of them alone, and it was a good thing too because if Bixby were ever to conquer the laws of physics and spontaneously emit a sonic death ray from his eyes, it would have been at that exact moment.

“So…" he said in the universal language of subtext.

“So," she said. It was the same language, but the female dialect sometimes required interpretation.

“So when…"

“Um… July. Around the fourth."

“Barbecue?"

“Yeah."

“Ribs?"

“Kinda."

“Mmm."

At this point, Bixby had officially exhausted any potential conversation in any language. “Um. Yeah. Hey, isn’t that a…"

“What?"

“That thing there."

“A couch?"

“If that’s what you crazy kids are calling it these days."

His anxious foot traced a line in the carpet. He wondered if he could find a spell in one of Matt’s “Dungeons and Dragons" books that, aided by the proper pattern in the carpet, would blow this house up. Matt insisted that they were just rulebooks and didn’t have any incantations or anything, but Bixby thought he just said that because his stutter prevented him from casting any spells without accidentally turning his kneecaps into cinnamon rolls or something.

“Yeah. I guess I should be…"

“Oh. So soon?"

“Oh yeah, you know. Busy man. Things to see, people to do."

“Heh. Well… it was good seeing you."

“Whatever."

Bix spun and walked out, encountering Pete again on the way. He smiled the smile of the magically ignorant. “Leaving already, Badger-Boy?"

Bixby paused. He stared. He resisted the urge to conjure up a giant mallet to wallop this cretin in the head with.

“Hey, Pete?"

“Yeah."

“Boink," Bixby said, simultaneously flicking Pete’s nose with his index finger. Then, satisfied he had handled the situation with the requisite class and dignity, marched out.

* * *

Matt was on ultra-Christmas overload. Bells, holly, ribbons, trees – he had hoped coming to the mall would be an escape. There was a week left before Christmas and he was about to lose his mind, wassailing around the house. Some people went stir crazy. Matt was a hair width from stir psychotic. He used Christmas shopping as an excuse to get away for a little while.

About when the fifth kid trying to get in line for Santa nearly trampled him, he realized this wasn’t quite the refuge he hoped. The place was full of couples shopping hand-in-hand, parents herding children towards the Winter Wonderland in the center of the mall, frantic husbands miscalculating how much their wives would like that George Forman grill… and the pathetic thing was how much Matt envied every one of them. Save the Edmundsons, his parents and Abby were the only humans he’d interacted with since the break started. Shopping was sadly easy… a tie for his dad, earrings for his mom, because neither of them presented him with enough of a personality for him to come up with a more creative alternative. All he needed to do was find something for Abby that would top the aromatherapy candles he got her last year and…

And he was done.

A guy a few years younger than Matt pulled his girlfriend into the line to see Santa Claus. She playfully resisted, but he kept saying it would be cute. He was probably right. Matt sighed and walked off.

His mother, to her credit, had tried to get him out of the house. Her suggestions, of course, had been brilliantly unhelpful. “Why don’t you call one of your old friends from high school?" she chimed. Somehow, in four years, it had entirely escaped her attention that he didn’t really have any friends. His personal relationships could be divided into three categories: civil, indifferent and openly hostile. Surprisingly, that last group was the smallest one, mainly because most people’s cognizance of him was too low to waste energy on being nasty.

There was Joanne, though.

He could have hit himself for thinking of Joanne Dean. In fact, right there in the science fiction aisle of Waldenbooks, he did. It had taken him the entire damn summer and a good part of the fall to stop thinking of Joanne Dean twice an hour. Now that he’d permitted a leak, the floodgates exploded.

She had been in many of the honors classes with him. For some reason, honor teachers were more likely to find an alphabetical seating arrangement conducive to learning, and as such he spent most of his high school career falling in love with the back of her head. A perfectly shaped, jet-black silken veil, usually having this wonderful aroma of strawberries and peaches. And on those occasions he had an opportunity to gaze upon her face, that wasn’t half-bad either.

Although she’d never so much as indicated she was aware he had gender, over the years she was nicer to him than most. One day she’d actually caught a glimpse of him looking downtrodden (how she’d known he felt more downtrodden than usual that day he’d never know) and she hugged him. Kissed his cheek, so close to his lips he thought he’d scream. And she said, “Cheer up, Matt. You’re such a sweet guy."

Sweet bliss and sheer agony in one sentence. There must have been something in the Y chromosome that negated that ability, no man in his experience had it.

Argh. This was stupid. Even standing here in Brookstone, looking at the overpriced gadgets he couldn’t afford wasn’t cheering him up. Of course it wasn’t – Bixby wasn’t here. It wasn’t the crap that cheered him up, it was Bix.

He could picture Bixby now, falling back into one of those massage chairs, acting like he had an entire harem kneading his butt. You get that Joanne chick in one of these, buddy boy, he would say, you’ll get her to do anything you want.

Aw, c-c-cool it, Bix, he’d say, because even in his daydreams, he couldn’t shake the damn stutter.

Cut nothing, boyo. He’d grab one of those high-tech barbecue forks with a built-in meat thermometer and poke Matt in the side. 98.6. You’re done, bro.

Ow! Q-quit it!

“Ex-cuuuuse me, young man."

“Mmm?"

Matt popped out of his own thoughts to realize he was sitting in the vibrating chair, turning the barbecue fork over in his hands and quietly laughing. Many shoppers were staring at him from behind electronic tidal clocks and vertical CD players, giving him the same look the frat guys gave him that day they caught him watching “Rugrats" in the dorm TV room.

“Heh. S-s-sorry," Matt said, putting the fork down. He sauntered out of the store in as classy a fashion as one can maintain while still actually sauntering. Food, he decided. Food would solve everything. Well, almost everything. Nothing, actually, but he was hungry and that made for a convenient justification for eating. He made his way to the food court, his chin dropping lower with each step, and by the time he made it to his favorite burger joint he actually was wondering why one of his shoes was laced right over left and the other left over right.

“Can I take your order?"

“N-n-number six." He could pick off the tomatoes himself. He hated tomatoes, but it took too many syllables to ask the girl at the counter to hold them.

“What would you like to drink?"

“C-c-coke," he said, forcing himself to raise his eyes. This was when, because there obviously is an all-knowing God and He has a tremendous sense of humor, Matt realized he had just ordered a double cheeseburger from Joanne Dean.

“That’ll be four eighty-five," she said, flashing him that sweet smile he had memorized. Her hair was up in a bun under her hat, but she still had those cool blue eyes and rosy skin with a splash of freckles across her nose. All the times he’d imagined playing connect-the-dots with those freckles. In his fantasies, they formed a perfect heart with “M+J" inside of it as though he’d carved it into a tree trunk. Even that was a fantasy – any effort to carve wood and he’d probably chop off his own thumbs, either from ineptitude than frustration.

Stop thinking, you idiot. He fished out a five and handed it over. He then tried to find a way to spend what he decided was the longest increment of time known to man, that period between ordering fast food and actually receiving your order.

“S-so…" he said. “How’ve you b-been?"

Her nose wrinkled. “I’m fine."

“O-out of s-school for the s-s-semester?"

“Um… yeah."

“Y-yeah." Oh good lord, this was painful. What was he supposed to say to her? What did normal people say in this situation?

“D-d-decided on a m-m-major?"

She glanced around anxiously, as if she was expecting a hidden camera to appear. “Um… look," she said, “do I know you?"

Ah. So that’s what it felt like to be used as a human shield against a legion of archers firing shafts of Christmas Holly. Matt always wondered.

“M-m-m-m-m--" he said. Wow. He was forgettable and repetitive. “Matt."

“Matt?"

“D-d-d--" he bit his tongue. “Demme."

“Matt Demme?"

“From Sc-sc-sch--" Dammit. “Excuse me," he whispered, although to escape his stutter he had to drop his voice so low he was never sure she heard it. He turned and vanished into the shopping crowd as fast as possible. Fortunately, going unnoticed was one of the few fields in which he felt accomplished.

A bag was placed on the counter and Joanne grabbed it. “Um, sir? Matt? You forgot your—Matt? Oh, Matt. Oh, no."

* * *

“Hey, Mister Cop!"

“We can’t get to see Santa!"

“Why not?"

“The big kid is hogging him!"

“Huh? Big kid?"

“Yeah. The skinny one with the red hair and the glasses. He’s just been sitting there stuttering for five minutes."

* * *

‘Twas the night before Christmas and Bixby was ready to scream. Actually, screaming would be a subdued reaction at this point. He wanted to grab a saw, cut a circle in the earth around the house and watch it plummet into an inky black void before ultimately popping up in a land where people walked upside-down. He’d have done it, too, if only he knew where to find a saw.

“Why do you always draw crap like this?" Leslie asked, flipping through her grandfather’s sketchbook.

“Well, what would you prefer me to draw, sweetheart?"

“Not sappy cartoon woodchucks, that’s for sure."

“Badgers, dear."

“Whatever. You should draw things how they really are."

“You mean bleak, dismal and with the fashion sense of Morticia Addams?"

‘That’s how the world really is, Gramps."

“Well I’m sorry, but I just can’t see it that way." Bixby snorted. If anyone had just cause to see it that way, it was his grandfather.

Leslie cackled. “It’s time to wake up, Grandpa. It’s not 1937."

“I know it – wait a minute, what’s 1937 got to do with anything?"

“I dunno. It’s just, like, a really long time ago. When people still believed in stuff."

Bixby’s current repressed emotion had something to do with a cyanide capsule and Leslie’s salad.

“Can’t we just have a nice Christmas Eve dinner as a family?" Carla asked, ladling mashed potatoes onto Tracy’s plate.

“Yeah, come on. Tell me some more about college, Jakie." Tracy did not actually care about college, but she was forbidden to bring the phone to the dinner table and was liable to undergo some deep, psychological scarring if she didn’t participate in some form of gossip. It was similar to how most brains sustain damage if deprived of oxygen for six minutes.

“There isn’t much to talk about."

“Oh come on!"

“What about your roommate?" Darcy said, rescuing him. “What’s he like?"

“Matt? He’s a good egg. Kind of quiet, but I figure I can knock that out of him by the end of next semester. Cute sister, too."

“Nice to know you’re thinking of ruining someone else’s family for a change," Leslie said, her black fingernails coming entirely too close to the peas as she served herself.

“Leave him alone," Warren said. “The boy’s growing up. It’s just right, he should be thinking of finding a girl."

“That is so sexist," Leslie griped.

“It’s sexist to say he should find a girl?"

“Yes!"

“Warren…"

“No, Carla, I want to understand this modern phenomenon."

“You are so old-fashioned."

“I’m old. It’s permitted. I’m surprised you’re even here, do you still believe in Christmas?"

“Warren!"

“Well look at her, Carla, the girl looks like she’s in some kind of damn cult."

Leslie shrieked at that. “Oh you…" she grabbed her fork and used it to overturn her salad bowl onto the bread. She then invited Warren to perform an action that was illegal in every state Bixby had ever visited and stormed out the front door.

“Warren," Carla said, doing a very poor impression of a calm person, “Can I speak to you for a minute?"

“No, you can’t."

“Warren!" she sniped again. She stood up, walked across the living room to the door that led to her bedroom, and stood there wearing the “I’m going to count to three" face that all mothers genetically know how to make. Bixby couldn’t believe it – she was going to tell him off! Meanwhile, there was Leslie going from “stubborn" to “tantrum" in 2.5 seconds and Carla never so much as said “boo."

“Hold down the fort ‘till I get back, Jakie," Warren said. He tossed down his napkin and walked after her. Once the door was shut it muffled them just enough that grunts and inflections were still audible, but actual words were not.

“Has it been this pleasant ever since I left?" Bixby asked.

“Just about," Darcy said. She nibbled a piece of lettuce.

“What?"

“What, what?"

“You’re not telling me something."

“Yes I am."

“No you’re – wait, did that make sense?"

“Yes."

“Tell me!"

“No."

“Why not?"

“You’ll freak."

“I won’t freak."

“You’re freaking right now."

“I am--"

“She’s putting Grandpa in a home!" Tracy squawked. Bix and Darcy both fell silent, although admittedly, Darcy maintained it longer.

“Is she telling the truth? Is Mom putting Grandpa – Are you putting Grandpa in a home?" he screamed at the closed door, which at the moment was too concerned with internal communications to notice Bixby.

“Jakie, calm down," Darcy said.

“No! I’m not gonna calm down, dammit! I’m sick of calming down! Nobody in this house gives a damn about anybody but herself!"

He kicked away from the table and snatched his mother’s keys from the counter.

“Where are you going?" Darcy said.

“OUT!"

* * *

One thousand, two hundred and eighty-seven. That’s how many stripes were on the wallpaper in Matt’s room. He knew. He counted. Three times. Well what the hell else was there to do in his room? It wasn’t like he could leave it… he’d only come out for meals and occasional bathing since that security guard yanked him off Santa’s lap. Boy, did those kids scream when the beard came off in his hand.

The knock on the door interrupted his fourth count at only 125. “G-go away, Abby."

The door creaked open. “How did you know it was me?"

“N-no one else kn-n-nocks."

“Right. Look, Matt, I don’t know why you’ve been in this funk since you got home but you’ve got to get out there. It’s Christmas Eve. Don’t leave me alone with those people."

“You’ll live."

“Yes, but they might not. And the last time I checked, patricide was a one-way ticket onto Santa’s naughty list. Come on, rescue me."

Come on, Matt, said Bixby’s voice in his head. You’re gonna have to face the universe sometime.

“Will not," Matt grunted.

“What?"

“N-nothing." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and forced himself into an upright position. “If I g-g-go, you’ve g-gotta leave me an escape hatch."

“The submarine door will stay open even in case of a flood."

“And if they w-want us to carol?"

“You have a sudden, violent stomach virus. Come on."

Abby led Matt to the living room, where their father was feeding wadded-up newspaper to the fireplace and his mother was on the phone. To his surprise, she actually turned up at him.

“Well how nice," she said. “The whole family together for a change. Hmm? No, Candy, my son just came out of his fortress of solitude."

“Get me some more paper, Matt," his father said, as though he’d been there all along. To his father, Matt was something to use when it was there and forget about when he wasn’t.

“You know what we should do?" his mother asked, hanging up the phone. “We should take a family Christmas photo."

Matt and Abby looked at each other in desperation. Neither of them had any escape route for this one. Of all the Demme holiday rituals, this was the one they despised the most. Their father would spend half an hour trying to get a respectable fire burning, then another half an hour trying to remember how to work the timer on his camera, then an additional half-hour trying to restart the fire which had died in the interim. During this process his mother would offer helpful suggestions (“You’re doing it wrong") and admonish Matt for not helping his father, even though every time Matt tried to approach the camera or the fire his father would ward him off with all the tact of a junkyard dog guarding a steak. Still, he supposed it was nice to have these sort of family traditions.

“Now how the hell did I do this last year?" he muttered, pushing random buttons.

“Well don’t do it that way, it’s not working. Matt, help your father."

“D-d-dad--"

“I’ve got it!"

“B-but the f-f-fire--"

“Leave it alone! I’ve got it just like I want it."

“Sputter," said the Yule log, which at this point had more cozy embers than actual flames.

The only thing worse than the posing was the way the actual photos turned out. His parents put on plastic smiles and Abby curved the corners of her mouth just enough to avoid persecution. On those occasions she had a boyfriend at the holidays he would join them in the Christmas Eve picture, and although none of them had yet succeeded in a repeat appearance, they all looked more natural in the picture than Matt ever did. Once he’d taken one of his old school photos, completely out of scale with the rest of the family, and taped it on so he appeared as a disembodied head hovering above his parents. No one noticed.

“All right, I think I’ve got it," Harry said, tossing the last shreds of the sports section into the fireplace. “Is everyone ready?"

“Yes, dear."

“Whatever."

“…"

“Good." He took Matt and Abby and positioned them next to each other. After a moment’s deliberation, he laced their hands. Once his wife was in place, he ran to the camera, hit the timer, and ran back during a countdown.

“Four," he said. “Three. Two…"

“Ding-dong."

“Huh?"

“Snap."

“I-I’ll get it."

“Matt, come back here!" Marie said. “We need to take the picture again! What if the camera showed me reacting to the doorbell?"

“S-someone’s got to answer it," Matt grumbled. He opened the door with a “H-h-h-hello," just as a gloved hand reached in, grabbed him by the sweater, and pulled him outside.

“Come on, bro," Bixby said. “I’m busting you out of this joint."

“B-bix! What are yuh-yuh-yuh--"

“What am I doing here, you ask? Thought I’d see what it’s like to spend Christmas with somebody who gives a damn for a change. Now are you with me, or would you rather go back to that Hallmark card I pulled you out of?"

“Hey, it’s your town. You tell me."

* * *

“You do know how to have a good time, bro," Bixby said, chugging his hot chocolate. Even sitting here in the back of his mom’s truck, parked in the rear of Matt’s old high school, deserted for Christmas, Bixby’s preference would have been a cold beer. He’d let Matt handle the provisions, though, so the steaming hot chocolate and package of sugar cookies made for an acceptable substitute.

“So she didn’t remember you at all, dude?"

“Not even m-m-my n-name."

“Jeez, that sucks. Women, you know. Turns out my ex is dating this dude that makes Mike Tyson look like Stephen Hawking."

“Ouch."

“But you know what’s even crazier than women?"

“What?"

“Men. Because we want ‘em."

“Amen."

“You know, I never thought I’d see the day where I wanted school to start."

Matt smiled the widest he had since he’d left campus. “M-me neither."

“Hey, I got something for you."

Bixby reached into his coat and produced a small piece of paper, rolled up, and tied with a length of string that he probably found in the cab of the truck. Bixby had never been told that presentation was everything.

“W-what’s this?"

“Open it and see."

Matt pulled the string off and unrolled the paper to reveal a simple pencil sketch. It was a little rough, and the lines were not as clean as they once would have been, but the drawing of Bixby Badger was unmistakable.

“Matt," read the inscription, “Keep drawing. Warren Bixby."

“W-w-whoa."

“Thought you’d like it."

“I-I don’t know what to say."

“‘Thank you’ is customary."

“Th-thanks, buddy."

“De nada."

Bixby took another swig of his hot chocolate. “You know, man, this stuff ain’t half bad."

Matt stretched out and looked at the Christmas sky. “Not half bad at all."

They sat. They drank.

“Hey, you have that chick’s number?"

“No."

“Too bad. Next year, maybe. Yeah. Next year is your year, bro."

Matt doubted that, but said nothing. There was, after all, nothing to lose from hope.