Christmas Eve at the Lyndon Hotel by Henry Lara

I didn’t want to make a spectacle of the night, but I did want to bring in some turbine. A different flow for Sheila and I. We’d been together for three years and lived at the Lyndon on seventh. There wasn’t much
holiday spirit in the building except for the plastic Christmas tree in the lobby. It was decorated with big
colored bulbs that were faded and didn’t blink. In 1985, Sheila and I planned on bringing some of the
stars from up above and setting them inside room 203. She always talked about her dad during the
holidays. She went into great detail about a special grilled cheese that her dad would prepare for her and
her brother during the holidays. Four days before Christmas, we made a trip to the bargain store to grab a
few decorations and the ingredients needed to make that grilled cheese she remembered loving so much.
We also picked up a Bing Crosby Christmas tape to inspire Santa. Money was short due to our crack
habit but there we were, in the kitchen preparing the grilled cheese which consisted of sliced sourdough,
butter, cream cheese, cranberry sauce, peanut butter and honey. As she began to spread the butter on
the bread, I softened the cream cheese and smashed the canned cranberry sauce to make it spreadable.
We manufactured the sandwich and put it on the grill. Our place got smoky and it smelled like burned
butter. While she finished off the sandwiches, I warmed some powdered milk that we got from a food
bank. We sat on the table and she sliced the sandwiches in half. That crunchy sound made me hungry.
We looked out the window while Crosby did his best for us. We looked out for stars but there were none.
The sandwich was one of the tastiest things I’d ever put in my mouth. Crunchy, sweet and bitter. Then
suddenly, Sheila began to cry.

………
“Oh, c’mon baby don’t cry,” I told her.

……..
“Oh, I can’t help the memory, it’s been over ten years since I’ve eaten this,” as she broke up her cry.

………
I knew her well. She was lost in thought and all together at once, I knew she was thinking of her dad, the
sandwich and crack cocaine. She took two bites of the sandwich and left it on her plate. I ate half of mine.
We both knew what we wanted. We made our way to the living room and reached euphoria. The next
thing I remember was waking up at 11 pm. I didn’t see Sheila, so I went into the restroom and saw her
sleeping like a baby inside our pink bathtub. She was in fetal position. She looked snug, so I didn’t wake
her. I went down to the liquor store to grab some smokes. It was windy and cold, and I saw palm tree
hairs, paper cups and city debris flying over me.

Henry Lara was born and raised in Los Angeles. Most of his writings and photographs are a straight
inspiration from the city and the people of Los Angeles. Dryland, Issue 8, 2018 and Zyzzyva No 119,
2020, have published Lara’s work.