Page 53 of King of the Crease

“Yes! Brodster, can you be cringe with me for one more night?” Hank saying cringe makes his son cringe.

I move my head back and forth, covering this verbal ping-pong match, of which I’m in the middle, and yet have no idea what they’re talking about.

“Could someone fill me in?” I ask. For all I know, the D’Angelos’ could have an escape room. I haven’t been, but they sound scary.

Hank rubs his hands together. “The less you know, the better. We don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

16

NICK

Afew minutes later, we hop into Hank’s car. Brody lets me ride in front. We drive through quiet, peaceful Sourwood for about ten minutes before turning into a development of newer houses.

“You see that house over there?” Hank points out his window. “Derek caught his boyfriend falling out the bathroom window naked. Cary wanted to surprise him, but didn’t know another real estate agent was showing the house that day.”

The men in Sourwood sure are…interesting. Then again, I’ve never bought real estate, and never in America, so perhaps this is par for the course? This sounds like it could’ve happened in an episode of Friends. Americans are very curious creatures.

We drive through the suburban street, then turn right. A glow of light illuminates the sky and beckons us. At first, I think there’s a stadium in the middle of this development. Maybe a skating rink. As Hank rolls slowly down the road, the source of light becomes clearer.

Someone, for some reason, has decided to decorate every inch (and I do mean every inch) of their house’s exterior with Christmas lights. Strands of twinkling lights are laid across the brick front, strung along the gutters, wrapped around the columns in front of the door, stretched across the garage doors. On the roof is a replica of Santa’s sleigh and his eight reindeers, each of them a different glowing color. (Oddly, Rudolph isn’t red. He’s turquoise.) Sticking out of the chimney is a replica of Santa Claus himself—or more accurately, Santa’s ass and legs as he makes his way inside.The lights blink to a coordinated rhythm. Speakers are set up playing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

The whole thing is incredibly tacky, yet the confidence of such garishness gives it an undeniable charm, too. Kind of like Hank, the setup is loud, proud, unashamed, and oddly lovable.

The house to the left is pitch black. No lights except for a sign on the front lawn illuminated with a spotlight. It has an arrow pointing to the D’Angelos’ house and says, “We helped.”

“What do you think?” Hank asks.

“It’s very…joyous.”

“They won the decorating contest in the development for years, to the point that all their neighbors stopped trying.”

“American—I mean, Sourwood residents love to go all-out.”

“These people are nuts, don’t get me wrong. This is not normal. But it’s fun to look at.” Hank leans over me to get a better view. I get a whiff of his spicy natural scent.

“Have you met them?” I ask, suddenly very curious about the D’Angelos.

“Never. I’m not sure if I’d want to hang out with them. They seem like showoffs.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask deadpan.

Hank leans back, our faces close, and he flashes me this sexy smile that makes me light up like the house out my window.

“It’s pretty to look at,” he says.

“I’m glad I don’t live on this cul-de-sac,” I say as I stare out the window.

“I wonder what their energy bills are. How much do you think they’re running on an independent generator versus the town’s power grid?” Hank wonders.

“Dad, we should show Nick the Rosengartens’ next!”

“Good call!” Hank rubs his hands together.

I don’t know how anything could top this house, but I’m eager to find out.

“Wow,” I say. Wow is the only acceptable response as I stare at a house strung with blue and white lights. In every window is a lit menorah. On the lawn are three giant inflatable dreidels, an inflatable donut broken open to reveal a jelly center, and an inflatable menorah.

“The Rosengartens are Jewish,” Hank explains.