Super Punch

DECEMBER 28, 2009

Apparently, all of my previous Christmases were shams because this year I found out that it just isn’t Christmas without the liquid fruitcake known as Jannamico Super Punch. I discovered a half-empty bottle of the stuff in my parents’ cabinet. Mesmerized by the label, I pulled it off the shelf and tried to open it, but the sugar-sealed cap was way beyond my broken arm’s ability to crack, so I handed it to Deborah and asked her to unscrew it for me. Even with her two good arms, it was a struggle, but in a hailstorm of crusty sugar, she finally got it loose.

“What the hell is this stuff?” I said as she handed me the bottle. Like all sweet liqueurs, it smelled like cough syrup, and I should’ve just put it quietly back in the cabinet, but I was driven to find out what kind of concoction could inspire such a fiendish label. I found a semi-clean glass among the counter clutter and poured a splash. I swirled it in the glass, sniffed it again, and prepared myself for a life of blindness.

A tiny sip and I felt like I’d been super-punched in the face with a twenty-pound Italian lollypop. Not the kind of stuff to be swallowed straight, I realized, though I couldn’t imagine what the hell you would ever mix it with, either.

Too early in the day for further experimentation, I put the bottle away for next year. I’m sure it will still be there.

Sixties Ornament

As a freelancer, it’s not unusual for work to slow down during the holidays, but this year my broken arm took it a step further, bringing everything to a grinding halt. I’ve only worked a few days since September, so gift-giving was looking pretty bleak. Fortunately, not only is Deborah a jewelry designer, but she recently took up knitting, too. Scarves and earrings save the day.

We would’ve had a little more flexibility if a xeroxed memo slipped under our apartment door hadn’t extorted us into tipping away our limited Christmas funds to our building superintendent and his lackies. The note laid out the protocol about who we were expected to tip — the two part-time concierges, the building superintendent, and several porters — but no clue as to how much.

We didn’t mind tipping the concierges, since it’s been such a joy to have packages delivered without having to worry about them being vandalized or stolen, like they had been in our previous apartment. Of course, we see them every day, too, so not tipping them would mean an awkward encounter every time we came and went.

The porters? Sure, why not? I couldn’t pick any of them out in a lineup — in fact, they seem to disappear into a secret door whenever they hear someone walking down the hall — but they keep the hallways well-swept, I guess.

The superintendent is where things got tricky. Deborah has been at odds with him since day one — he’s good at telling you what he’s going to do, but not so good at actually doing it. You may as well ask a tree to make you a cup of soup. Deborah can barely say his name without clenching her fists, so rewarding him with a tip was a painful exercise in Christmas spirit.

We spent quite a bit of time negotiating how little we could get away with. “That fucker should be tipping me!” Deborah said as I started putting a few crisp bills into a card. I took some out, then put some back in and sealed it in a red envelope. Since we were expected to tip the porters through the super, who would divvy up the loot at his discretion, we felt compelled to throw in a decent amount of money.

“It burns me up that we can’t afford to give presents to the people we love, but we’re expected to tip this guy. He’s just going to pocket it all, you know that, right?”

“Most of it, I’m sure.”

Our friend Brad asked me to send him our new address, adding, “I want to send you a really fast dirt bike for Christmas, ” to needle me about my recent accident.

I told him that new guidelines for 2010 require all motorcycles and motorcycle-related items to be presented to Slash for approval. (Ever since Deborah dressed as Slash for Halloween, that’s what Brad calls her.) He wrote to her:

Dear Slash,

I am sending you a proposal for pre-approval for presenting to your partner, Dirt Bike Rider Extraordinaire, Mr. Jamie Boud, a new YZ450F Yamaha race bike. We do understand he had a little mishap at race camp last month at 5 mph. That’s why we are interested in getting him on this big, bad, FAST dirt bike. We at Yamaha believe this is something he could really get into and successfully compete against the young fellows who dominate this sport. Slash, please feel free to get back in touch with me with your thoughts. I do have your shipping address now. Happy Holidays.

Mr. Hoshimoto

I forwarded his email to Deborah, but she was caught up in Christmas knitting and didn’t respond until after Christmas. When she finally did, she simply wrote:

Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude,

:(

Slash

Meanwhile, we had been especially cheap and creative with a present of our own for Brad. While visiting his alpaca farm in September, and watching baby alpacas plop to the ground every other day, we offered to help him come up with names. We let the project slide until Deborah, out of money and ideas, decided it would make a good Christmas gift. We printed out three lists: Boys, Girls, and Unisex — about 300 names in all, though many of them are probably useless — put them in a fancy envelope and mailed them to Brad.

He got the lists and emailed me about it:

Jamie,

Are you wanting me to help pick out baby names for you and Slash? I can help with this for sure. Looks like the free promotional offer for the Yamaha did not get through corporate approval. That’s the way it goes.

Cheers, Brad

I thought about it and came up with a suggestion: “Maybe if we keep it at your place.”

“The Yamaha or the new baby?” he said.

“The Yamaha,” I said. “But if any babies show up on your doorstep, you’ll know where they came from.”