Santa Wolfie

1 - God bless us, each and every one

"You're a wolf, right?"

It's a casual enough question. Stiles has been on his feet for around six hours, peeling spuds and defoliating brussels sprouts since the early hours of the morning, to get the preparations for the homeless shelter's winterval dinner finished in time for the first day's opening. At this point, with his ladle in the turkey broth, and the blister from touching the grill flamer hurting like a motherfucker on his left wrist, he's spewing out chit-chat without doing the first thing to engage his brain, first.

Most of the dinner guests are willing to humor him. A lot engage in amiable discourse right back. For the compos mentis and sober, this largely amounts to agreeing with his rambles about the weather, the festive season and the wonders of fellowship and community, and exchanging benevolent Christmas/Hannukah/Eid/winter solstice wishes as he dishes up the soup and the stuffing. For the rest, if they're not a hundred percent comprehensible then, well, neither is he. But the level of tolerance and mutual goodwill in this rented community hall is high, and that's worth a lot.

His mom used to do this, exactly this, year after year after year. After the first couple of years, she'd dragged Stiles and his dad into it too. Peeling parsnips, and getting on the phone to the kosher butcher for more lamb sausages, is what he associates with this festive season, ever since he was old enough to help out. It's as Christmassy for him as every memory of tearing into glitzy wrapping paper, with Scott whooping and helping his hyperventilating efforts.

This guy, though, brings him out of his tired daze. You know, what with the glower he gets in response. That must be it. One of the sullen, embittered ones, then. Either lost too far in a current cycle of substance abuse/getting clean/more substance abuse to swim his way up to the surface and notice Stiles' existence. Or just too tired of the slings and arrows, the continual series of punches in the face and boots to the butt -- metaphorical or not -- that probably make up his life, to be one degree cheered by an adequate free Christmas dinner, and a few carols with a bunch of do-gooders and troubled souls. (Sometimes both, in one.)

Maybe it wasn't a tactful question, though. Stiles' mom has had him well and ecumenically trained from being a tiny tot. There's no-one more religiously informed and culturally sensitive than Stiles. Ask the local rabbi: has he ever had such an exhaustive and exhausting discussion on regional and sect variation in circumcision practices, with anyone not of the faith? (Ask his if he's ever wanted to. Yeah, that's a different question. And maybe a different answer.)