Brown-Out Immaturity

The presents wrapped in brilliant neon shades clustered together under the tree as if sheltering from the rain. They were big and small, thin and floppy, thick and bulky; boxes clad in red paper and blue and gifts caked in glitter and tied with fine ribbon. Stacked atop one another in a precarious pile, they were a mound of joyful mystery at the foot of the conifer.

Then, there was the present meant for me. It was wrapped with bland, stiff brown paper, recycled from the grocery store my parents frequented. It wasn’t thin or bulky, big or small; it was of medium heft and medium size. It was awkward to hold, but it didn’t weigh much. Nor did it rattle with the promising clinks or jangles of toys like the vibrant presents of Timmy, Tina, Billy and Sarah.

While the rainbow brigade of boxes meant for the rest of the family had decorative tags dangling from their edges that proclaimed in bright, exciting fonts their intended recipients, my brown paper enveloped present only had a white notecard. It read, in sloppy black sharpie, “For Myles: A necessity through all time.”

The other gifts weren’t cryptic. It was only my present that wasn’t fun or lighthearted. The other gifts weren’t boring looking; they were colorful, sparkly and so enticing! I was a good boy this year, I deserved better! I wanted my present to look like Timmy, Tina, Billy and Sarah’s. I wanted Timmy, Tina, Billy and Sarah’s presents. But I knew my siblings would definitely try and stop me from taking them. I still considered it, considered letting them try.

Instead, I confronted my parents over the matter, storming through our home, clutching the brown parcel. It was the penultimate eve and all through the house, no one stirred, not even our dog, Mouse; I found my parents nearly catatonic, lounging in the living room. Mom was on the couch, afghan over her lap, Dad in the recliner, feet elevated comfortably. My irate footfalls announced my displeasure.

“What is this?” I demanded of my parents, obstructing their view of the black and white flick they were watching.

Regarding the brown paper wrapped present I proffered, Mom said, “Your gift, honey. Step to the side a little, please.” Her eyes reverted to their fixed angle on the screen behind me.

“This is an outrage!” I protested, “it’s nothing like Timmy, Tina, Billy or Sarah’s! I deserve better!”

That got Dad’s attention. “Deserve better?” he scoffed, “Timmy, Tina, Billy and Sarah deserve to be treated like the little kids they are—you deserve to get your own place, pay your own rent. You deserve to act like the thirty-five year old you are, Myles.”

I huffed, I puffed, I blew a thunderously loud raspberry of rage. “Screw you Dad!” I screamed and threw the brown paper wrapped box at him.

The stiff, beige wrapping unraveled like a spring, peeling away from the box as it bounced against Dad’s nose. The cardboard crumpled, Dad grunted. In the carnage, a pair of black socks flew onto the carpet. Wrinkling his red nose and brushing paper and tape off his sweater, Dad glowered at me. I withered backwards and suddenly, I felt very old and very tired. To this day, I still regret throwing that brown paper wrapped box.

We haven’t celebrated the holidays together since then. Dad won’t answer my calls either, and I only see Mom when she occasionally takes me for a ‘pity lunch.’ I haven’t received a gift from them in a long time, but that’s okay. I understand now. My siblings, the parents of Timmy, Tina, Billy and Sarah, have worked hard for those colorfully wrapped, ribbon-tied, thin and floppy, thick and bulky presents. I’ve learned the importance of providing that mound of joyful mystery to the young and impressionable; I’ve learned how correct the sloppy, sharpied words of my parents had been on that white notecard.

From the dingy couch in my cramped living room, in the apartment I paid for with my own money earned from the dead end cashier’s job I’d landed; in the shadow of the sickly conifer I had mounted on top of my coffee table, I wrapped two pairs of thick black socks in brown paper, packaged them in a cardboard box and postmarked it for Mom and Dad’s house. “From Myles,” I wrote on a notecard, “who now knows why.”