It’s Christmas morning.
For as long as I’ve been alive, this morning has had a magic for me. As a kid, I was just like any other kid, eagerly anticipating the dawn of this particular morning, believing in Santa early on, then not caring as I grew older, so long as those presents kept appearing under the tree.
It was Christmas morning where I was exposed as a fraud, or a con-boy. I was the youngest child, so all my older siblings, eight, ten, and twelve years older than me, gave me money to buy Christmas gifts for the family. The only condition was that I not say anything, a condition I had no problem with, given how I was collecting cash from them all.
I proceeded in a business-like fashion, finding the cheapest of gifts, purchasing them, and pocketing the difference. Hai Karate cologne for my brother Jeff. Curlers for my sister Karen, who happened to have curly hair. Janice got a scarf. I can’t remember what I got my parents but a lightbulb wouldn’t be out of the question. One for each. It’s not like I’m gonna make my mom and dad share a lightbulb.
Then I sunk my hard-earned profits into myself, buying several books from the Hardy Boys series, which, in retrospect was probably a sound self-investment. But it was a self-investment rooted in graft, in chicanery, and in the nastiness of childhood fraud schemes.
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