The end of Thanksgiving as we know it, being a fictionalized account of a simple man who loved the holidays

Otto hadn’t received a gift for as long as he could remember, if ever.  In all these senses and more, the entire holiday season meant absolutely nothing to him.  In that case, why did he love the holidays so, when he was alone and did nothing to celebrate in any event?

Otto didn’t have much to be thankful for.  He had no family, friends, only a rather mangy dog without a name who hung around out of boredom more than as an actual companion of any kind.  He lived in a small, downtrodden house, much in need of repair.  The yard was more weeds than grass, poking through the concrete of the sidewalk in wiry bunches like hair from a craggy, creepy back.  The shutters hung from broken hinges; there were cracks in the windows, holes in the ceiling and walls.  The floors creaked and rattled with the slightest touch; the linoleum in the kitchen was peeling around the edges.  The cheap Formica of the countertops was in as bad a shape, as though there had been an earthquake a hundred years earlier, especially when everything in sight and otherwise was covered with dust and grit, even some grease as though it had been left to rot.  Repairs or even a thorough cleaning, however, were miracles of the sort Otto couldn’t even imagine, being both beyond his means as a menial laborer with only occasional work and somewhat beyond his awareness as a person comfortable with their lot in life for reasons that might seem inexplicable or irrational to others.  If Otto was anyone else, he probably would’ve been unhappy, bemoaning his plight, jealous of those who had more, coveting everything he did not, but he was of a different sort and soldiered on, looking forward to one thing and one thing only every year:  The holiday season.  Like almost everything else about the man, many might have found this strange, why a person who had no one to spend the holidays with, eating his supermarket bought smoked turkey leg alone for Thanksgiving, loved this time of year so much.  Otto himself probably couldn’t have explained it if he tried or bothered to think on the matter in the first place, and yet every year as soon as the calendar read November 1, he began to feel at peace, feeling he finally belonged even when he most clearly did not.

He should’ve  known something was different this particular year when there was no mischief on Mischief Night, even before the season officially began.  Otto’s house was an easy target for teenagers, knowing he was unlikely to either accost them in the act or call the police to make a report.  It had become an annual tradition to wake up Halloween morning to a yard in even more disarray than usual, toilet paper hanging from the lone, stubby tree to the right and eggs plastering the decrepit siding all around.  Both strangely reminded him of some kind of warped Christmas decorations, as if the teenagers in his neighborhood were doing him a favor by trimming his tree in advance, not that he ever actually had a tree of his own.  In fact, he always treated the rolls of paper streaming in the wind on the newly bare branches as garland, not doing anything to clean them up, preferring to let nature take its course, letting them dissolve in place or blow away somewhere else.  This morning, however, he awoke before dawn and peered out the mottled shades to survey the scene, only to discover nothing there, no ghosts drifting in the yard in the light of the streetlamps or glistening yolks to be found.  There was something immediately unsettling about it, a feeling something was missing, a lack that was hard to define and yet lingered in his mind the entire day, even as he could see other houses had been hit.  Why not his?  Was he being left behind somehow?  The questions continued when he made his weekly trip to the grocery store the next day, after spending Halloween itself in a rare kind of shock and confusion, so acute even the dog seemed sympathetic.  Otto had never been known as a particularly observant individual, missing out on the finer details of much of what went on around him, but there was no mistaking that something was terribly amiss that morning.  There were no holiday decorations of any kind, anywhere.  No signs announcing how customers could earn a free turkey or ham.  No displays with recipes, tips, and tricks for the season.  No cartoon pilgrims, not so much as an ear of corn set in sight or a frozen turkey to be found.

Instead, an almost eerie emptiness prevailed, as though all the aisles, shelves, and corner stands had been completely sanitized and disinfected immediately prior to his arrival or the store was somehow left unfinished, the teams of construction workers stopping just short of completing their goal. The few shoppers present this early in the morning pushed their carts down gleaming floors, the wheels, somehow less crooked and creaking than normal, left little streaks in their wake from the dust in the parking lot.  There was a strange hush as well, as if no one dared speak or break the silence in any way, leaving the soundtrack to the occasional squeak from the shopping carts themselves or rustle of a product taken off the perfectly organized shelves, for they too seemed like they had never been touched, as if no human had ever entered the store before this very morning.  Otto himself entered far more cautiously than normal, knowing something was horribly wrong even before he crossed the automatic threshold. He waited by the entrance for a while, lingering in an alcove and watching in a desperate attempt to understand what might be happening, what big mistake could have been made, but was unable to come up with anything other than a vague feeling things might never be the same again and a strange conviction he was the only person aware anything was the slightest bit unusual. As far as he could tell in his limited capacity, everyone seemed to be acting as if this was all completely normal. They moved up and down the aisles seeking whatever wares were on their list, occasionally reaching for a box on a high shelf or stooping down to pick up something near the floor, perusing a label, comparing a few brands, the same as ever.  He recognized a few people as well, knowing most in his small town, having performed the occasional odd job for the great majority of his neighbors over the years.  There were a few smiles at him as they passed, as if nothing was wrong save for the way he was standing there at the end of an aisle looking rather confused.  One family, a younger couple who had moved in a couple of years earlier with a child of three or four offered him an appropriately warm wave, even asking how he had fared on Mischief Night.  There was nothing at all out of the ordinary about the question or their manner, and yet Otto felt like he was subject to a strip search; the cold hands of the police, the bright lights shining in his face, completely naked, unable even to cover his shrinking genitals.  He had done some painting for them shortly after their arrival in town, and they were aware of his social eccentricities, attempting to smooth over the obvious discomfort if not outright fear on his face at the simple question.

“That bad, huh?”  The man giggled in commiseration.  “They got us too, something good.  The little one here wrapped himself in the toilet paper like a mummy this morning while I cleaned it up.”  He offered, pointing to their son, who had somehow slipped past Otto and was now standing behind him, innocently grabbing a pantleg.  The combination of the man’s question and the nearness of the toddler, prompted a sudden panic.  He came uncomfortably close to squealing, jumping forward a good two feet from the boy, straight into his mother, who managed to stand her ground even as she was somewhat flummoxed by the outburst.  Otto was not a tall man, and found himself looking up at the woman from far too close a distance, but even, so there was only a mild surprise on her face and no hostility or anger.  Instead, she smiled at him, perhaps a little confused.  “Oh, Otto, it’s OK,” she said.  “We can help –”  Before she finished her statement, he turned around and ran, unsure what had come over him.  Once home, he spent the remainder of the day in the safe solitude of his tiny living room, where he’d preserved one old, tattered, and stained yet comfortable chair, sitting across from an old fashioned, standard definition tube television he rarely ever watched and wasn’t sure even worked.  He curled up at first with his head buried in his knees, resolving in his own simple way that the grocery store must’ve made some kind of mistake in their scheduling or something of that sort.  Perhaps, the decorations and the promised free turkeys would arrive a day later than usual this year and that would be it, everything would go back to normal.  He convinced himself this simply had to be the case, or else the whole world had gone permanently out of joint, telling the dog as much, as if canines could listen.  Regardless, he was determined to return to the store the next day, when everything would be right again.  It simply had to be, or what?

He spent a sleepless night, moving from the chair to a tiny twin bed with threadbare covers and a mottled blanket with a few old holes in it at some point he couldn’t quite remember, worrying this eventuality over in his limited mind, chewing on it with all the grim determination and none of the tired excitement of a miniature terrier too long in years with no teeth, the leg bone of a bison. What if Thanksgiving had been canceled this year for some reason and no one had told him?  Could there really be a year of no thankfulness and – dare he even consider it – no Christmas as well?  What would become of him then?  Otto wasn’t sophisticated enough to realize the irony that the end of either tradition meant very little to him personally.  His own plans would not change in the least.  He could, on his own, do what he always did on both days and absolutely no one would be the wiser, not even the dog, assuming they still sold smoked turkey legs, that rare treat, in the first place.  He was never invited to join the festivities.  The closest he came was lurking at the edge of the Christmas tree lighting, hoping no one took his interest for spying on them or their families.  He hadn’t received a gift for as long as he could remember, if ever.  In all these senses and more, the entire holiday season meant absolutely nothing to him.  He was aware enough to make this connection in some limited way, in passing he wondered a couple of times why it was that he cared so much about what didn’t really affect him in the first place.  Why did he love the holidays so, when he was alone and did nothing to celebrate in any event?

It was a question he couldn’t possibly answer, but for some reason he simply did and there was nothing else to it.  In this regard, he was much more like a dog than the average person, constantly questioning everything even though there were no satisfactory answers.  He waited for the sun to slip over the horizon the next morning, visible only as a grayness outside the rotting drapes of his bedroom window, and readied himself to face the future, hoping that he would find the grocery store in full Thanksgiving mode but somehow knowing and dreading that was unlikely to be the case.  He didn’t know how he was aware of this by any means, but somehow a part of him was convinced there would never be another Thanksgiving, Christmas, or New Year.  The holidays were finished, and he had no idea why.  This time, he didn’t even have to go into the store to confirm his worst fears.  Even from outside, across the street, huddled under a tree, hoping no one saw him, he could see that there were no signs in the windows, the same as yesterday.  Otto’s memory of the past was generally limited and hazy, but he would’ve sworn that every other year there had been a smattering of Thanksgiving themed advertisements, proudly announcing the various specials available for a fine meal to even those passing by in their cars, as though they might slam on their brakes and zip inside.  He distinctly remembered a large turkey, painted directly on the glass along with various deals and coupons available for the savvy shopper.  The windows this morning were clear of any and all obstructions, however, allowing him to see straight into the store with an uncomfortable clarity, as though he were watching animals at the zoo he visited once as a child.  The cashiers were properly manning their check out stations as usual, and Otto could almost hear the polite beep of the machine scanning the items, one, after, another, after another, a sound which normally soothed him but today only served to whip him into a frenzy.  There were customers inside, a few already finished with their shopping although the store had only been open a half hour.  They exited the building while others entered in the endless dance of a retail property.

None of it should’ve been unusual; he even recognized a husband and wife among the shoppers, but somehow Otto was shocked to the core, as if someone had dumped him over the head with gallons of freezing water or the ice had broken beneath his feet on a frozen lake. He ran away for the second time, taking care that no one saw his fear or his desperation for some reason.  He remained too frightened to leave the house for several days until even the dog looked confused (though he just might have been hungry), unsure what he should do next.  Eventually, however, he came up with what to him was a radical plan.  He would return to the grocery store for a third time and in the probable event there were no holiday displays, would ask someone what happened to Thanksgiving, Christmas, and all the rest.  Surely, someone more intelligent and more aware than he was should know why the holidays had been canceled this year for seemingly no reason.  Perhaps it was another pandemic or whatever that was that had shut the world down a few years earlier, he couldn’t say for sure.  He set out the next day regardless, the same as he had twice before, hoping he could keep his courage up unlike the previous trips, knowing it would be difficult, but armed with something that passed for sense of purpose in his own small way.  He stood across the street, under the same tree, observing the same lack of signage, wondering once again how things could’ve gone so wrong without his knowing anything about it.  He waited a few slow, cautious minutes, not trusting himself to turn around and run like the last time, but eventually forced himself to cross the street, entering the store as if everything was totally normal and he was only picking up a gallon of milk.  It was then, however, that he realized there was a rather significant flaw in his plan:  Despite spending hours thinking it through for almost two days, he’d never considered exactly who he should ask.  Oddly, it didn’t occur to him that he might simply knock on a neighbor’s door instead either.  For some reason beyond his meager comprehension, he felt he must find out the truth at the grocery store itself, having some vague sense that stores were the center of all civilization.  The only ones who could possibly know what was going on, the only place he could get the answers he needed, but unfortunately, he didn’t recognize anyone upon entering and the aisles were strangely empty, as if the town itself had decided to thwart his plan by not shopping on this particular morning.

There was only one check out counter open, and behind it stood a young woman, likely still in high school.  She was somewhat pretty, hair tied back behind her head. With no customers to serve, she had retreated into her phone, where something prompted her to smile and giggle as those of that age often did when confronted by their ever present devices, a behavior he never understood.  She didn’t notice Otto standing in the entrance at first, so frozen in place that the automatic door could’ve sliced him in half if it malfunctioned and closed.  Instead, she must’ve noticed a gust of cold air sweeping in from outside, for she shivered and held her arms across herself before looking up.  She stared at him for a moment or two, a little confused and unsure why he remained in the doorway rather than entering.

“Can I help you, sir?”  She stammered at the strange man who’d appeared before her accompanied by the blast frigid air, as though he must’ve brought it with him, some wizened wizard who lived in the far off mountains.  Otto was unable to speak at first, overcome by a paralyzing fear, like a ghost had gotten hold of his spine, freezing him place and clutching his lungs so hard he couldn’t breathe.  Somehow, however, his heart managed to pound in his chest and even though he wasn’t sure he could move, it took everything in his power not to run away again.  He mastered himself as best he could, took one step forward and then another, fully entering the store as the door swooshed shut behind with an authoritative, somehow permanent click, as though he’d entered a place he might never escape. Otto stood before the young woman, palms stretched outward as though she were an oracle, and readied himself to ask the dreaded question, only to identify the second critical flaw in his plan.  He hadn’t really considered what he should say, or how he should phrase it.  Before we continue, it is worth considering what a sight this was. The clerk was finely groomed as young women often are, dressed up for each other as the song goes, barely a hair out of place, in a nicely pressed apron that shined as white as an angel. She was taller than Otto and looked down upon him. In comparison, Otto appeared a beggar. His clothes were not dirty, but worn almost through and mismatched. He hadn’t shaven in several days and his hair was in complete disarray. He even managed to have a shoe untied, the end of the lace fraying. Still, he pressed forward and uttered a single world, almost in prayer. “Thanksgiving?” At this, the clerk looked more confused than ever, shattering the illusion she was a heavenly creature. She pinched her lips as though he’d given her a huge slice of lemon, no idea what he wanted and unclear whether or not he was even sane in the first place, a feeling that would undoubtedly get worse as the conversation progressed.

“Pardon, sir?”  She remained polite, though the wideness of her pale eyes suggested she was increasingly looking for a way out of this strange encounter.  When he didn’t reply, merely looking at her more confused than ever, she attempted to fill the gap, reasoning out what he might have said.  “Thank you for what, sir?”  She asked.  This time, Otto was ready with a more proper question, certain the answers he sought would be rapidly forthcoming, as though she were some puzzle were answers would be provided only if he cracked the right code.  “When is the store going to be ready for Thanksgiving?” He asked, even trying to lift his eyebrows in reassurance. “Thanksgiving, sir?  I’m sorry.  I’m new here, but I haven’t heard anything about that.  I can call my manager, though, if that would help,” she offered.

Otto could only stare at her blindly, having no idea what to say as she turned to the intercom and pressed the button that would summon her superior like magic from his perspective.  Supervisors in general frightened him for some reason and the two remained silent for the next ninety seconds waiting for the manager to arrive, avoiding looking too closely at one another in the interim.  For better or worse, he was not unfamiliar with the uncomfortable pause; most of his limited conversations featured more than one, but this elongated silence seemed particularly grueling, as if he were somehow waiting on whether he would live or die, knowing there was an extraordinarily high chance of the latter.  The manager herself soon arrived, showing only a perky confidence and a desire to help, however, nothing like a headsman’s axe in sight.  She was only a few years older than the clerk, with lighter hair and darker eyes, but somehow seemed far more wise and mature, as if a life in retail serving customers like Otto had aged her beyond her years.  “How can I be of assistance, sir?” She asked with the surety she could actually be of some assistance, or at least the promise she would do her best.  He recognized her after a moment, having seen her performing her duties with the same upbeat efficiency many times, but continued to remain silent, completely unsure what he should say, thinking now might be a good time to beat a hasty retreat rather than continue this apparently doomed quest for answers.  The clerk, meanwhile, took the opportunity to attempt to extricate herself from the situation, slightly unnerved by Otto himself and not wanting to upset a customer so new into her career at the grocery store.  “I’m not sure.  He mentioned something about ‘thanks’ and ‘giving’ or something?  Have you ever heard of it?”  She asked her manager, desperately hoping the slightly older woman would have answers she did not, taking a step back to make clear she had nothing else to offer. 

“Unfortunately, no,” the manager replied, appearing as crestfallen as a wilting flower before perking up again, “but I am sure we can do our best to help you in any event.  I’ve seen you shop here before.  We always appreciate our regular customers, you can count on us.  What do you need, sir?” The manager smiled again, attempting to project her former confidence in her customer service abilities, but was only partially successful even with the positive attitude, as though she had some premonition this particular customer wanted the impossible.  Otto thought for a moment before replying, furiously wondering how he might make them understand what he was trying to say.  Finally, he settled on something that might be in their language so to speak, the most astute question he had ever asked. “Every year around this time, you give away free turkeys for Thanksgiving.  Are you going to do that this year?”  He raised his eyebrows once more, but his hopes to communicate on their level were almost immediately dashed when both the manager and the clerk only looked at him as if he was asking whether he might rob the store in broad daylight, certain he was growing more insane by the moment.  “A free turkey,” the manager replied, chewing on the word as though something had gone rotten in her mouth.  “Why would we do that?  I’ve been here five years, and never heard of it.  You must be mistaken or something,” she rambled on, obviously unsure how to proceed while still clinging to the notion she could be of some assistance, “but if you’re hungry and need food, there is a shelter just a few blocks away.  I can’t promise turkey or anything, but I am sure they can get you a good meal?  I can call them if you like…”

It was now Otto’s turn to be dumbfounded.  A part of him had expected to learn that Thanksgiving and with it, the entire holiday season had been canceled, but he’d never imagined that they’d never heard of it in the first place and couldn’t properly conceive of the idea he might be the only person on the planet who knew what it was.  The mention of the soup kitchen and the notion he might be begging for food somehow only further complicated matters, making it practically impossible for him to respond in any meaningful way.  At first, he couldn’t even speak, moving his mouth as if words should be coming out, before a series of unintelligible stutters.  Somehow, the manager and the clerk reflected these stammers in their own increasingly open mouths, becoming more and more shocked as Otto grew more and more confused.  Finally, he managed to spit a few words out, albeit rather incoherent and disconnected.  “Thanksgiving?  Has no one ever heard of Thanksgiving?  How about Christmas and everything else?  The holidays?  Any holidays at all?”  It might have been the single longest string of words he’d put together in more than a decade, but even with his own limited capacity, Otto could tell they were not having the intended effect.  The manager and the clerk had both become closed off somehow, as though they were watching a man melt right before their eyes like the old movie he used to like when he was a kid.  It was as clear to them as it was to Otto that they could not help him now, no matter what they did.  Even worse, there was a small line building at the cash register and they looked upon him the same way, a strange combination of sympathy, embarrassment, and fear.

“Sir, I am sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.  It doesn’t seem that we can help you and there are other customers waiting now,” the manager said, gesturing at the few people in line as if Otto had gone blind as well.  To some extent, he had as the figurative meltdown from earlier turned all too literal.  He screamed, he raged.  He wasn’t violent and didn’t hurt anyone, but the cash register and the displays near the check out would never be the same after his tantrum.  The register itself was upended on the floor, the machine still trying to open and close like fish flopping on the shoreline.  The display was mangled even worse; cookies and chips were scattered all over, so far and wide, they could’ve been shrapnel from an explosion.  One man was hit, removing a bit of crumbs from his cheek, the same as one who’d suddenly discovered they’d been shot.  A woman screamed.  A child cried, and everyone scattered.  All the same, the entire scene took place in less than three minutes before police arrived.  Otto was taken into custody and remanded to a mental facility where he lived out the rest of his days.  Most would probably consider this an unhappy ending, but not to Otto himself:  Inside the facility, he was allowed to believe it was the holidays all year round and over time, he became something of a prophet to the other inmates.  Over more time, the staff, who initially thought he was crazy and had no idea what he was talking about, played along as well and adopted Thanksgiving and Christmas as their own.  About fifty years after Otto’s death, the tradition had spread and the whole world celebrated once more.