You Better Not Cry: Stories for Christmas by Augusten Burroughs Page A
Authors: Augusten Burroughs
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she sings “The Chipmunk Song”?
I thought, then bit the inside of my cheek.
But Shirley did not sing any Christmas carols nor did she launch into “The Impossible Dream.”
Shirley sang an aria.
It was the music of my early childhood; an opera my mother used to play on summer afternoons. I knew it the way a person can know a smell they cannot name but that transports them to one specific moment of one specific, long-gone day. It felt like opening the door to your childhood room and finding that nothing at all had changed. Her voice was unspeakably magnificent.
Perchè, perchè, Signor,
Ah, perchè me ne rimuneri così?
As she sang, the windows of the brownstone across the street shimmered in reply. Her voice had weakened the molecular bond of glass. It filled the space between the flakes of falling snow and packed the air with beauty.
It was, at once, Christmas in Manhattan.
I cried but I did not make a sound.
When she finished, Shirley bowed her head and was silent for a moment. Without looking up she said, “Vissi d’arte from Puccini’s
Tosca.
Do you speak Italian?”
I shook my head.
Shirley smiled at me. “It means,
Why, why, O Lord, why do you reward me thus?
”
“Burr, I gotta say—I’m a little worried about you,” Matt said over our table at China Grill. “You’re almost—and please, don’t take this the wrong way, okay? But you’re almost—really, quite nearly—sunny. Should I take this to mean that you had yourself a merry little Christmas after all?”
I smiled. “Actually, I did.”
He laughed. “Oh, really? That’s great, Burr, that really is. Went home to see the folks, did you? Yeah. Except, didn’t you have something of a
Dances with Wolves
childhood? Or maybe it was raised by wolves. Either way, I don’t think you went home. And I’m your only friend, so we know you weren’t with any human people. I think you crawled into your lair with a few bottles of Wild Turkey, whooped it up making prank calls to the maternity ward at Lenox Hill.”
“Well, aren’t you the new Steve Martin. But I do need to correct you on a few points. The first being, you are not my only friend. I have a number of friends but none of them have ever met because I compartmentalize. You occupy the compartment that exists to make me feel broad-minded and Societally Conscious—all my other friends are over six feet, like me. You are my short-person friend. If you were Asian or black, we could see each other twice as often. That’s why I always turn you down when you ask me if I want to go to a movie.
“Now, if you think I would make prank phone calls to a maternity ward, you just don’t know me at all. I have doctor friends, and all it would take is one case of good French wine and any one of them would walk up to maternity and tell one of the mothers that she had better prepare herself, she was going to have a Harlequin baby.
“And finally, I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas morning with some bums, the ones that hang out at the movie theater around the corner from me. The place with the skanky red carpeting?”
Matt choked on the ice cube he’d been knocking around in his mouth. He crunched down on it and killed the choke. “Are you fucking kidding me? You spent your holiday with homeless people on the street?”
“Yeah,” I said feeling very bright-eyed. “With one in particular, Shirley.”
“You didn’t fuck her, I hope. Christ, Burr, tell me it wasn’t some homeless chick that got you to play for the other team.”
“No, I didn’t fuck her, asshole. We talked.”
“You talked. What? For two days?”
“Actually, I think it was three. But I only remember one. Part of one, really. And mostly, just a few hours of the one. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. What matters is, it was inspiring. Or wait, maybe that’s not the right word.”
He was watching me. If I levitated or if smoke began to vent through my ears, it wouldn’t have surprised him.
“Okay, she
I thought, then bit the inside of my cheek.
But Shirley did not sing any Christmas carols nor did she launch into “The Impossible Dream.”
Shirley sang an aria.
It was the music of my early childhood; an opera my mother used to play on summer afternoons. I knew it the way a person can know a smell they cannot name but that transports them to one specific moment of one specific, long-gone day. It felt like opening the door to your childhood room and finding that nothing at all had changed. Her voice was unspeakably magnificent.
Perchè, perchè, Signor,
Ah, perchè me ne rimuneri così?
As she sang, the windows of the brownstone across the street shimmered in reply. Her voice had weakened the molecular bond of glass. It filled the space between the flakes of falling snow and packed the air with beauty.
It was, at once, Christmas in Manhattan.
I cried but I did not make a sound.
When she finished, Shirley bowed her head and was silent for a moment. Without looking up she said, “Vissi d’arte from Puccini’s
Tosca.
Do you speak Italian?”
I shook my head.
Shirley smiled at me. “It means,
Why, why, O Lord, why do you reward me thus?
”
“Burr, I gotta say—I’m a little worried about you,” Matt said over our table at China Grill. “You’re almost—and please, don’t take this the wrong way, okay? But you’re almost—really, quite nearly—sunny. Should I take this to mean that you had yourself a merry little Christmas after all?”
I smiled. “Actually, I did.”
He laughed. “Oh, really? That’s great, Burr, that really is. Went home to see the folks, did you? Yeah. Except, didn’t you have something of a
Dances with Wolves
childhood? Or maybe it was raised by wolves. Either way, I don’t think you went home. And I’m your only friend, so we know you weren’t with any human people. I think you crawled into your lair with a few bottles of Wild Turkey, whooped it up making prank calls to the maternity ward at Lenox Hill.”
“Well, aren’t you the new Steve Martin. But I do need to correct you on a few points. The first being, you are not my only friend. I have a number of friends but none of them have ever met because I compartmentalize. You occupy the compartment that exists to make me feel broad-minded and Societally Conscious—all my other friends are over six feet, like me. You are my short-person friend. If you were Asian or black, we could see each other twice as often. That’s why I always turn you down when you ask me if I want to go to a movie.
“Now, if you think I would make prank phone calls to a maternity ward, you just don’t know me at all. I have doctor friends, and all it would take is one case of good French wine and any one of them would walk up to maternity and tell one of the mothers that she had better prepare herself, she was going to have a Harlequin baby.
“And finally, I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas morning with some bums, the ones that hang out at the movie theater around the corner from me. The place with the skanky red carpeting?”
Matt choked on the ice cube he’d been knocking around in his mouth. He crunched down on it and killed the choke. “Are you fucking kidding me? You spent your holiday with homeless people on the street?”
“Yeah,” I said feeling very bright-eyed. “With one in particular, Shirley.”
“You didn’t fuck her, I hope. Christ, Burr, tell me it wasn’t some homeless chick that got you to play for the other team.”
“No, I didn’t fuck her, asshole. We talked.”
“You talked. What? For two days?”
“Actually, I think it was three. But I only remember one. Part of one, really. And mostly, just a few hours of the one. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. What matters is, it was inspiring. Or wait, maybe that’s not the right word.”
He was watching me. If I levitated or if smoke began to vent through my ears, it wouldn’t have surprised him.
“Okay, she
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