V.I.B.

            My favorite holiday isn’t Thanksgiving. That’s not because I’m ungrateful for the things and people I have in my life, it’s just, well, not as awesome as Christmas or my birthday. Sure, it’s nice to see family, and you definitely won’t leave the table hungry, but I get enough of the political debates and the personal questions about why don’t I have a girlfriend and why don’t I find a new job and why don’t you have a better attitude at Christmas. So, when I have to answer these questions or defend my beliefs and eat pumpkin pie not only at Thanksgiving but at Christmas, it feels like déjà vu. Thanksgiving is Christmas without gifts and without church.  

I'm a classy Brandon.

            If it seems like I exaggerated the previous paragraph, it’s because I did, slightly. I love turkey and pumpkin pie, and can eat it anytime of the year. But I was being serious when I said I don’t really enjoy Thanksgiving.

            You see, the best part of Thanksgiving is when it’s over.

            Ouch.

            It sounds harsh, but let me elaborate: The best part of Thanksgiving is the day after Thanksgiving.

            Black Friday?

            Black Friday.

            Before I’m called a heartless capitalist who lacks the sincere appreciation of family time, let me clarify further: The best part of Thanksgiving—when I was younger—was the day after Thanksgiving.

            Better? Yeah, thought so.

            Black Friday was anything but a corporate folly for me. It was a day slated as father and son time.

            What did a typical Black Friday look like for young Brandon? To answer that, we have to go back to when I was a little, less opinionated, and more polite than I am now.

                                                                        ***

            By far, the best part of Thanksgiving was the morning of Thanksgiving. I’d rush downstairs to my mother and father, who sat in the living room. The Thanksgiving Day Parade would be playing on the television as white noise, until Tom the Turkey made an appearance. Once that ugly animatronic bird was gone, all eyes were back on the important task of finding stuff to buy. My mother and father would scour the newspaper that was scattered across the floor.

“They’ve got it here for $199,” my father would say, handing the advertisement over to my mother. “That’s cheaper than this place.”

She’d scrawl some notes in a journal. “Got it.”

            I’d jump into the mix, and before we’d know it, the newspaper would get passed around in some communal ritual. Once it’d made it through all three of us, it was sorted into stores we’d avoid or never shop at (Kmart, Walmart, etc.) and stores we planned on stopping at (ToysRUs, Target, Home Depot—shameless corporate plugs, I know. Just deal with it). I’d even peek at the list my father would be writing, you know, as preliminary planning for the following day.

Honestly, I didn’t care if I was surprised on Christmas morning. I was a patient lad.

            Mapping out the day was always simple: The store that had the thing we wanted most would be the one we’d go to first. If there were a limited number of door-busters available, we’d go to that store early as well. Stores that opened before 5:00am were crossed off our list. Some stores (Best Buy), we avoided entirely based on our better judgment.

            “I’m not waiting in that nonsense,” my father would mutter every time I’d mention something on sale at Best Buy. “Those people are crazy, sleeping overnight in tents and such.”

            Once we’d hit all the major retailers we wanted, then it’d be time for breakfast, which was always at a Village Inn. Classy, I know.

            With the newspaper exhausted, and the parade boringly moving along (look, it’s the exact same balloon from the last ten years! That’s so cool!), we’d clean up our paper trail and get ready for the day.

            Then would come the phone call from my grandparents.

            “Happy Bird Day!” my grandma would sing to me.

            “Happy Bird Day!” I’d retort. Then I’d pass the phone to my father, who then talked strategy with my grandfather, who also participated in Black Friday. Though, he had to do it by himself, which was nowhere near as fun as being with my Dad and I. I know I’m modest, no need to go email me about it.

            After the phone call from my grandparents, my father would go and bake muffins and I’d go back to doing whatever the heck I did on the computer, which was probably play Rollercoaster Tycoon or The Sims (Keep in mind that this is twelve-year-old Brandon; he didn’t search for dirty things on the internet, and he still doesn’t, mind you).

            Eventually, it’d be time for dinner. Many years, we’d go to my grandparents or my aunt’s house. We’d go have a good time with them, eating good food, talking about school, watching Survivor on television—which for some reason I enjoyed as a child—and eating devouring pumpkin pie. Over dessert, we’d talk about Black Friday, which my aunt participated in with my two cousins. After the dishes were washed, my father would drive us home early, and then I’d rush to bed, ready for the real fun to start the next day.

            Wake-up call for Black Friday was four o’clock. Early, I know. But I enjoyed it, much more so then than I did during college when I worked retail. My father would come in, turn on the lights, and whisper, “It’s time!” and close the door. I’d bolt from bed, get dressed in clothes laid out on edge of my bed the previous night, and meet him down in the kitchen, after brushing my teeth. Good hygiene is important, you know.

            I’d find my father pouring coffee into a massive travel mug. I hated coffee and disliked drinking it. Instead, I would make myself herbal tea. While the water boiled in the microwave, I donned on my hat, gloves, and heavy coat. Once the tea had steeped, it was out the door we’d go.

            “Here you go, navigator.” My father would hand over the advertisements and the list of things we needed to grab. I felt like a commander in an army: powerful and unstoppable.

            The car rides to the stores were awesome. My father would drive (naturally) with rock and roll playing over the car stereo. His cell phone would be charged and ready for any incoming calls from my aunt or grandfather; there were no text messages at this time, believe it or not.

            The streets were vacant and dimly lit by moonlight and streetlamps. Whenever a car would pass, I’d point, exclaiming, “They have the same idea as us!”

            “Yes they do,” my father would respond.

            The first store was always the coldest, since we had to wait outside in line before the doors opened. This generally was Target, where the line would wrap around the building.

“That’s a long line!” I’d comment, retracting my observation later in the evening when the newscast would show much longer lines at stores we didn’t go to.

We’d stand in line, talking with others, pumped to shop, and cold. Very cold. Then, the doors would open (finally), and it got crazy. We’d politely make our way in and grab a cart before hurrying down the aisles. We’d toss things in, and when the crowds got thick, I was in charge of watching the cart while my father darted into the mass of people to retrieve that treasured toy. We’d be in and out in a few minutes, unless we were stuck in the horrible lines at Kohl’s or ToysRUs. That took forever.

Once outside, we’d high-five.

We high-fived like this! 

“Piece of cake!” my dad would say.  

“Piece of cake!” I’d parrot back.

Unless we just left Kohl’s or ToysRUs, then it sounded like this:

“That was ridiculous!”

“Yeah, ridiculous!”  

We’d make our way to another store or two, the crowds thinned a bit. My aunt and grandfather would call and we’d share stories of crazy people we’d see at the stores. We were lucky enough never to have had any of those crazy people around us, so we mostly reported on the gifts we were able to grab.

Several hours later, my father and I would find ourselves reading the newspaper in a Village Inn, him drinking more coffee and me more herbal tea. This was before the “Very Important Breakfast” (V.I.B.) promotion, so an ultimate skillet was always what I’d order. He’d order the same. We would eat our meal, pleased at our spoils. Then, it’d be time to go home, where I’d distract my brother and sister while my father hid the gifts. My dad would take my brother and sister to Target or ToysRUs so they could say they participated in Black Friday, while I told of our adventures to my mother.

It was amazing, those Black Fridays.

I remember one year, when I was a freshman in high school, a group of girls came up to us and asked if they could interview us for a project they were working on for a class. The topic: Black Friday, and the reasons people do it.”

            “So, sir, why do you participate in Black Friday?” one girl asked.

            “Well,” my father said, looking into the video camera, “It’s just fun, you know? Going out and doing something different. It’s neat just to be in the rush. It’s exciting to see all the people.”

            “Why do you like Black Friday?” the girl asked me next.

            “I get to spend time with my Dad,” I answered.

            Earlier I said the best part of Thanksgiving when I was younger was Black Friday. My excitement for Black Friday died when I made it to college. I got tired of buying things just for the sake of buying things, and now that I had to manage my own money, I saw that “deals” weren’t really deals at all. Plus, the instant stores started opening earlier: midnight, and now even Thanksgiving Day, my father abandoned the tradition.

            “How stupid! How can you have Black Friday on a Thursday? Ridiculous,” he complained. “Who wants to ditch dinner for some cheap shit anyways?”

            I agreed with him. Then, I worked on two Black Fridays in retail and really agreed with him.

            “Bloody hell, why did I enjoy doing this when I was little?” I’d whine to my coworkers. “This sucks! People are assholes and I’m tired and bored. I want to go home and drink wine with my family.”

            Of course, I knew the reason why I enjoyed Black Friday when I was little. It was because I got to spend time with my father, who works two jobs and whom I didn’t really get to see all that often. Black Friday was a time for us to bond. I know, it’s silly to bond over buying stuff we don’t really need, but it was bonding nonetheless. I sure wasn’t going to bond with him over watching football, or worse, hockey; and he wouldn’t have the stamina to join a book club with me. We couldn’t bond over homework, because homework was a time of frustration (“I have no idea how to do this, Brandon. Go ask the neighbor,” he’d say). So Black Friday it was!

            Now that I’m an adult, my father and I have a lot more in common. We share stories of ridiculous people we deal with on a daily basis, and our Black Friday father-son tradition has transformed into Department 56 Village collecting, which, trust me, is a lot cooler, and more valuable in the long run.

            I’ll always remember those early morning drives, jamming to Ozzy Osborne and Metallica, waiting in the frigid cold for a GPS that would break a month later, eating breakfast at Village Inn. It was a time when it was all about my father and I, and all the attention made me feel like a Very Important Brandon (V.I.B.).

Even though the days of getting up early to buy discounted junk at stores is over, I’m lucky enough to have a father who makes me feel like a V.I.B. every day, no 4:00am wake-up call or long wait lines necessary. 

If you made it to the end of this post, congratulations! Your prize is a photo of me as an adorable child!