LXXVII. A One Horse Open Sleigh
For the past half a decade, in the middle of each December, my friends, their hot wives and I climb into a horse-drawn carriage and ride through Rock Creek Park to look at Christmas lights and drink wine under the stars.
Sounds fun doesn't it? It should be. But it isn't.
Last week, on the warmest night of December, the Carriage Friends and I donned our tank tops and coaching shorts and headed out for our annual holiday ride.
John, the jerk of the group, arrives with a bottle of wine in his belly, a 40 in his hand, and an edge that drink wouldn't smooth. "Merry Christmas, Clubber. Gonna ruin our night again this year?"
His wife, Rachel, leans into me and confides she is worried about her husband, not for the drinking as much as "the pill-mixing." I misinterpret the signal and try to stick my tongue in her ear.
With fresh handprint on my face, I climb into the carriage and jockey for position near Clara, the prettiest of the wives and the one whose virtue suffers most under drink. "Mind if I sit here? You know, in case I get sick." I smile to little response.
"Leave me alone. I just lost my dad," she says. I laugh off the news and wait for her next glass of wine.
The carriage lurches forward and crawls into the wonderland of Rock Creek Park. Sculptured lawns, dancing waters, twinkling lights, the footfalls of a horse on pavement – it all seems like a recipe for fond memory-making. But you're not accounting for the horse smell. It is overwhelming. Our horse is sweating a stew of stink through his winter coat, which he grew in anticipation of a winter below 80 degrees.
Hank then starts up with his "Sure wish I could afford a place like that" talk. He is pointing at a 45-room Italianate manse. He inhales sharply through his teeth and cocks his head to the side."That guy's gotta be worth a hundred mil," he says. "Betcha his trophy wife is even blond down there. How do you feel about that, Clubber?" The women shift uncomfortably, so I try to scoot a hand up under one of them.
The stench then takes a turn for the worse. "God, what is THAT smell?" Clara asks.
"Oh," the hard woman piloting the carriage pivots. "Switched old Remy's food here and his innards ain't taking it too kindly." We all stare at the bulging Santa sack under the horse's tail. Libidos quickly cool. Christmas is never cheerful on the business end of a Clydesdale.
"Driver, can we take a shortcut to get back? I've got an office Christmas party to get to," I say.
"You can just get out here," she says.
"Are you serious?" I say. "We're two miles from where we started."
"Get out. In fact, I want you all out," she says, then tilts up her flask.
We climb down and watch as the carriage retreats into darkness.
"Anybody up for a Christmas skinny dip?" I say. "I hear dancing waters."
Sounds fun doesn't it? It should be. But it isn't.
Last week, on the warmest night of December, the Carriage Friends and I donned our tank tops and coaching shorts and headed out for our annual holiday ride.
John, the jerk of the group, arrives with a bottle of wine in his belly, a 40 in his hand, and an edge that drink wouldn't smooth. "Merry Christmas, Clubber. Gonna ruin our night again this year?"
His wife, Rachel, leans into me and confides she is worried about her husband, not for the drinking as much as "the pill-mixing." I misinterpret the signal and try to stick my tongue in her ear.
With fresh handprint on my face, I climb into the carriage and jockey for position near Clara, the prettiest of the wives and the one whose virtue suffers most under drink. "Mind if I sit here? You know, in case I get sick." I smile to little response.
"Leave me alone. I just lost my dad," she says. I laugh off the news and wait for her next glass of wine.
The carriage lurches forward and crawls into the wonderland of Rock Creek Park. Sculptured lawns, dancing waters, twinkling lights, the footfalls of a horse on pavement – it all seems like a recipe for fond memory-making. But you're not accounting for the horse smell. It is overwhelming. Our horse is sweating a stew of stink through his winter coat, which he grew in anticipation of a winter below 80 degrees.
Hank then starts up with his "Sure wish I could afford a place like that" talk. He is pointing at a 45-room Italianate manse. He inhales sharply through his teeth and cocks his head to the side."That guy's gotta be worth a hundred mil," he says. "Betcha his trophy wife is even blond down there. How do you feel about that, Clubber?" The women shift uncomfortably, so I try to scoot a hand up under one of them.
The stench then takes a turn for the worse. "God, what is THAT smell?" Clara asks.
"Oh," the hard woman piloting the carriage pivots. "Switched old Remy's food here and his innards ain't taking it too kindly." We all stare at the bulging Santa sack under the horse's tail. Libidos quickly cool. Christmas is never cheerful on the business end of a Clydesdale.
"Driver, can we take a shortcut to get back? I've got an office Christmas party to get to," I say.
"You can just get out here," she says.
"Are you serious?" I say. "We're two miles from where we started."
"Get out. In fact, I want you all out," she says, then tilts up her flask.
We climb down and watch as the carriage retreats into darkness.
"Anybody up for a Christmas skinny dip?" I say. "I hear dancing waters."
posted by Clubber Lang at 3:55 PM
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