Above the front door

I dreaded going to Herbert’s annual Christmas party. Herbert (mind you, not Herb, not Herbie … it’s Herbert) had an overbite like the grill of a 1950s Buick and smelled of Lysol disinfectant. His idea of cologne, I suppose. But I digress. Herbert always put mistletoe above the door to his dining room and stood there, beckoning guests to greet him from behind his black-framed coke-bottle glasses.

“If you want any food, you’ll have to kiss me first,” he’d say and then laugh a high-pitched hyena’s melody.

High incentive to stay on my no-carb, low-sugar, high-protein diet. Herbert always served the worst food. A vegetable platter with ranch dressing, pepperoni, potato chips (don’t forget the sour cream and onion dipping sauce), you name it – egg rolls, too, and (for some reason I haven’t figured out after all these years) jelly beans. The same spread every year.

“Herbert, Merry Christmas!” I said when I finally entered, an hour late on the hope that he’d be occupied with twenty other guests. No such luck. I was the second person there. Tiny little Ruthie Plezinsky sat on the sofa in the living room, all by herself, while Herbert lorded it over the dining room entrance.

“Come to Herbert for his holiday kiss,” he said, puckering up his lips.

“Can’t this year, Herbert, thanks. I’ve got a little head cold. I’ll just blow you a kiss as I pass –“

“Oh, no problem!” Herbert said, and took out his Zycam spray and squeezed a little into his mouth. “Kissy time!”

“No, Herbert,” I said, deciding to put my foot down.

“All right then, you know the rules. No kiss, no food.”

I turned and went into the living and joined poor Ruthie. It was then I noticed she didn’t have any food, either.

“So what was your excuse?” I said, sotte voce.

“None,” she said, also whispering. “He kissed me, and then I lost my appetite.”