Naughty or Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey

and I needed to stay home, put in some quality time with my family, and deal with some personal issues.
    I hung up.
    My row finally started to move. The big guy on the end got out, stood there, waiting for people to get out of his way so he could get his luggage.
    The big guy next to me took forever to get up, kept me captive until damn near everybody was gone. He grabbed his lap-top from under the seat, pulled his other bag from the overhead storage, then got up. I put my bulky laptop case on the seat, then reached in the overhead for my bag and coat. No problem getting my coat, but my luggage was so tight that I couldn’t yank it out. My headache escalated and I thought I was about to explode. I took a hard breath, rubbed my temples again, closed my eyes, and said something indecipherable. Simple things were going wrong. Simple things like that made me want to scream.
    â€œYou look like you need a hand.”
    I looked up and it was the big guy who had been sitting next to me. He’d seen me struggling, came back and helped me get my overpacked luggage.
    I said, “Thank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    There was an awkward moment when we made eye contact.
    He looked at me, smiled. “Whatever it is, it’ll get better.”
    My dominant mood had been written all over my face. Didn’t realize that until now. I pulled my lips in, then made myself smile. “Have a merry Christmas.”
    He raised a brow. “I’m Jewish.”
    Then we both laughed and headed down the aisle.
    I told him, “Happy holidays, happy Hanukkah . . . okay, you got me.”
    â€œThat’s better. You’re smiling. Happy holidays to you too.”
    Â 
    I caught a taxi and blended in with the madness of airport traffic that spilled out into the City of Fallen Angels. I closed myeyes to the madness. Ten minutes later the driver turned off Slauson and drove into Ladera Heights. A few of the houses had their curtains open, lights on Christmas trees creating a colorful night. One block had decorations up outside. One home had a nativity scene; another had a waving snowman, a sleigh and reindeer on top of the house, and elves throughout the front yard, the whole nine. My hands became fists. Breath was getting short, like all the air had been sucked out of the car.
    I leaned forward and said, “Driver . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    I was ready to tell him to turn around, that there had been a change of plans.
    Then I heard Tommie’s firm voice telling me to stop running.
    â€œNothing . . . just . . . just slow down.”
    He cruised by the triplexes and ranch-style homes at the foot of Ladera. As we went up the hill, single-level homes built between the forties and the seventies gave way to a tract of new millennium two-story homes built on small lots with modern floor plans, all made of beige stucco and reddish tile roofs, the kind that keep fires from spreading.
    When we were growing up, we’d look at homes like these and get so jealous. We had some rough times. Momma would be up all night cursing at those damn bills, trying to figure out how to stretch every dollar, knowing there wasn’t enough money to eat and pay them all, so Momma would put them in a hat, close her eyes, and pull them out one at time until she was out of bill money. If it was a really bad month, she’d throw them in the air and say whatever bill doesn’t come down gets paid. Momma would curse the bills, grab her cigarettes, and tell her girls to get dressed.
    â€œWhere we going?”
    â€œWe’re running away to Disneyland.”
    â€œThe one in the backyard?”
    â€œNo, the one down the 5. Get your shit. We’re outta here.”
    That’s what I wanted to do, throw my problems in the air and run away to Disneyland.
    Â 
    The taxi pulled away and I stood on my front porch for another five minutes, as motionless as the palm trees, before I