The Days of Gluttony
Thanksgiving ushers in the Christmas season, and with it, the slow destruction of the human soul.
Parade
On the streets of New York City, the season of subjugation begins with spectacle. The public roads are barricaded, sidewalks swept of cigarette butts and bums, wreaths hung, lights strung, and trees erected—the avenues awash in a sparkling, comforting splendor. The most devoted flock like pilgrims to the dazzling, dangerous metropolis, lining the route in mittens, scarves, and diapers, or shelling out thousands for a hotel room from which to take in the magnificent march through an iPhone lens.
At home, the once-flourishing turkey simmers in the oven, suffusing the neighboring rooms with a savory aroma at once nostalgic and promising. We flip the television on mechanically, instinctually, just as our own fathers did. Our children stare mesmerized at the glass, drinking in the perverted pageantry unblinkingly. Militaristic high school bands march in lockstep, blasting “Let It Snow” and “Winter Wonderland” off the skyscrapers, throwing in a “God Bless America” for good measure; the NYPD’s own come next, brass in their hands and steel on their hips; Sabrina Carpenter—in a satin slip—lip syncs a half-heard, somehow even hornier rendition of “Santa Baby.” Ohtani, Oprah, and the Pillsbury Doughboy, swaddled in Canada Goose, cruise by in a convertible Porsche, waving coldly to the Corolla owners clamoring from behind the barriers.
Pikachu, Snoopy, Spongebob—bloated and lifeless—hover through Midtown Manhattan beside the high-rises, grappled down by minimum-wage workers, peeking into windows, looming over us as gods. Our children jump and shout and press their fingers to the screen with delight and we smile at these fun, familiar faces. That Pikachu is returned to a suffocating Pokeball, that Snoopy can only dream of glory from atop his doghouse, and that Spongebob languishes as an underpaid fry cook in a chronically understaffed kitchen is of no concern to us. We only look up, awestruck, and mouth our thank yous to the powers-that-be. Who lives in a pineapple under the sea.
The parade ends, as it of course must, with Santa Claus. Fat, lecherous, draped in a show-stopping red and white suit—also Canada Goose—the Big Man tracks forward on the final float, his faithful, haggard elves beside him, no Mrs. Claus in sight. He waves and bellows and guffaws and casts his watchful gaze out over the merry mob below as they clap and shout and cheer his name, greeted as a king in a land that claims none. The celebration of Thanksgiving thus begins not with gratitude for the good fortune of today but with mania for the spoils of tomorrow. Santa Claus has come to town, brought to you by Macy’s, and he will come again.
Feast
In the United States of America, circus must always be accompanied by bread: the Super Bowl and buffalo wings, burgers and fireworks on the Fourth, the Thanksgiving Day Parade and the afternoon feast.
The turkey, golden brown, basted in its own fat, stuffed with the finest delicacies, is pulled tantalizingly from the oven. The table is set meticulously, methodically, expectantly—not unlike rose petals on a hotel bed. We sit before the beleaguered bird, gripping our forks and licking our lips. Your cousin snaps a video of the Instagram-worthy spread. The final plate is filled and only then do we indulge, greedily and gutturally, mopping up the gravy with thick slabs of meat, gulping down eggnog, guzzling corn, going up for seconds, thirds, and even fourths in the case of a voracious, vulgar uncle. Conversation flows only after the wine has, its contents dictated by the abundance before us: Uncle Kevin’s retirement glossed over but his candied yams praised; Aunt Kay’s fourth martini unmentioned, her carrots glazed. And—oh my God—the rolls.
Beside you, at the Kids Table, the children enact the ritual in miniature, animatedly and uncritically: they scoff down mac and cheese, swig Sprite, speak of their Christmas lists as shareholders, relishing the warmth and wonder and excitement of the coming month (except your niece who throws a fit over the green beans and refuses to even touch the plate. Your sister, heartbreakingly, makes her a Toaster Strudel).
The feast ends. We sit stuffed, sated. Is it now time to talk, to laugh, to take joy in each other’s company? Of course not. The women, their soles sore, stay in the kitchen to scrub the plates. The men migrate to the couch to watch the Cowboys and Lions deliver false hope yet again. Your drunk cousin pulls up Fanduel every five minutes to check his Turkey Day Parlay, screaming in rage when that piece of fucking shit CeeDee Lamb goes down at the 40 with a torn ACL, failing to secure the seventh reception and $150 payout that was so close he could almost taste it. Commercials bombard us between literally every snap, all Christmas-themed: Santa Claus Kit Kats, diamond rings gifted by the Rockefeller tree, an $80,000 Telluride carving through the blizzarding Rockies to the tune of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
The tryptophan, Tito’s, and THC gummies weave their soporific spell, lulling us mercifully, just as the rest of the family migrates into the living room. We sink into the couch in a post-coital stupor, pass interference calls mingling with clanking dishes and distant conversations. From somewhere far off, somebody says something about dessert. As you drift off to sleep, your phone buzzes with a notification, a Best Buy Black Friday deal, unbeatable. Online shopping has stolen its thunder but you’ll hit the Outlets early tomorrow, just in case. In the afternoon you’ll come home and put up the tree because that needs to get done this weekend and your kids won’t stop asking about it. But tonight—your eyes glassy and your stomach filled—you’ll sleep soundly, contentedly, thankful for the free market and thankful for food. The dress rehearsal is over. Christmas season has begun.