Eating Christmas: Amy Young on losing a car but finding an angel

In a story only Amy Young can tell, this Eating Christmas essay features a missing car, a diner and an angel. Here’s her performance at last week’s Bar Flies show at Crescent Ballroom in Phoenix.

AMY YOUNG: Christmastime in Cleveland is a heavenly place for holiday fanatics. We all know them. They’re the ones who wear matching Christmas pajamas to the grocery store a month ahead of time and attach those floppy stuffed antlers to their car so it looks like they’re driving a reindeer. And for no real reason, I am ridiculously annoyed by all of that.

However, when finding yourself on the eve of Christmas, in a city buried in snow and slush, without a car and a party that couldn’t possibly live without your presence, well, a fake automotive reindeer doesn’t look so bad. It especially blows because just days before, you had a car. Nothing festive, just a crappy old Buick Skylark with only one way in — through the passenger side door.

A couple of days prior, my friend David Louis Loy borrowed my car and showed up on Christmas Eve as we were ready to hit the club for the fabulous holiday party. When the person who borrowed your car shows up, you assume your car is outside, waiting for you.

I put my shoes on to give him a lift home, and he told me not to bother. Come again? My car wasn’t outside, he told me. OK, great, but that leads to one big question: Where. The. Hell. Is. My. Car? “It’s not coming back,” he tells me, almost making it sound like the car was unhappy and went to make a new life for itself.

My roommate — who was also Dave’s ex-girlfriend — and I shared that car, so he was dealing with not one but two angry, spiky-haired women wearing even spikier metal jewelry.

He hemmed, he hawed, he got mad that we had the nerve to put him through this grueling inquisition.

The tension hit an all-time high when the reason for the Skylark was a no-show was revealed after my first guesses of frozen engine, flat tire and trapped under a snowman.

Dave stopped, paced around the room for a minute, threw his hands up in the air and said:

“Your car’s not coming back.”

“Because I lost it …”

“In a poker game.”

Life prepared me for some things at that point, but saying adios to my only mode of transportation because someone in a grimy basement had the best hand wasn’t one of them.

I was mad. MAD mad. But even at the height of my anger, I still had a party to go to. The last thing Dave wanted to do was go to a goth dance party, but we didn’t care. Dave borrowed his friend Ed’s car to get to our place, so there were wheels, and we were going to take advantage of that since Dave had used my car as a poker chip.

We mixed and mingled, but no amount of gloomy music alleviated my anger.

Karen and I vented about Dave in between songs and chats with our friends, and as we were on our way to get a cocktail, someone stumbled into us from behind. Already aggravated, we whipped around only to see a girl in a flowy white dress with bright pink lipstick on an out-of-place smile. She said, “It’s me, I’m Becky.” Karen and I looked at each other, mostly to make sure we were both seeing this glowing, angelic person. “I came up from Cincinnati, and I feel like we should be friends.” We weren’t sure why we were chosen out of everyone at that party, but we couldn’t disagree. Becky was elegant and more ethereal than we could even hope to be. The three of us clung to one another all night until Becky asked if we wanted to go to the diner across the street for coffee and food. We invited Dave, who couldn’t say no if he wanted to — and he didn’t because he was also under the spell of Becky.

We moved through the clove smoke and made our way to the diner, crammed ourselves into a round booth. Becky went to use the pay phone, and we marveled at this stranger encounter. When she returned, she said we had to eat pancakes and french fries with syrup because that’s what people should do on Christmas Eve. Who could argue? We watched Becky joyously dip one fry at a time into a pool of thin diner syrup and look at them with sparkly eyes before taking a bite, switching between fries and pancakes

When Karen and I decided to go back to the club, that seemed to annoy Dave, not that we cared. Becky said, “Actually, I need a ride home - me and my boyfriend. “Oh, Dave would be happy to give you guys a ride home,” I said, knowing that Dave didn’t realize she came up from Cincinnati, four hours away, on a bus with a guy.” “Sure, why not,” he said. Karen and I exchanged numbers with sweet Becky as her guy friend showed up.

Dave stood up and said, “All right, let’s go.” I grabbed Karen and pulled her towards me, walking away. “Dave, hey,” I said, “We’re going back across the street, but thanks for taking them home. By the way, they live in Cincinnati. Have a great drive.”

Dave and I locked eyes. He was fuming. I was so mad at him but chuckling about my little dose of revenge. But then we looked at Sweet Becky, the Christmas Eve angel, and found a temporary holiday truce in her unbreakable smile.