A Thanksgiving Miracle

For DeBron Lipscolmb, Thankgiving at his folks’ place rarely meant more than warm malt liquor and a Detroit Lions loss. The malt liquor was fine, it beat playing Mexicali for Nyquil shots, which was all DeBron remembered of Thanksgiving 1987. It was the Lions losses that were getting to him. To the tune of 40 grand, the last time his bookie called. And DeBron wasn’t even from Detroit.

It was really all because of his father, Pops Lipscolmb, Jr. Pops was from Denver and proud of it. His pride sometimes manifested itself in odd ways.

For instance, he insisted on supporting anything and everything that started with the letters “DE,” like his beloved Denver. That was why DeBron had grown up watching Dennis Quaid movies, listening to Def Leppard, chewing Dentyne and watching those horrible, horrible Dennis Miller specials. And why he’d become a gambling addict who couldn’t stop betting on the Lions.

By the time DeBron was born, Pops, Jr. and his wife Bootney had moved from Denver to Des Moines, Iowa. Pops had gotten a job with Delta Air Lines as an in-flight dessert taster. Every day from dawn til dusk, Pops would sit in a paneled cubicle and eat spoonful after spoonful of lowfat yogurt while sitting on a large vibrating box called a Turbulence Simulator. By the time he got his 6.5 hours off for Thanksgiving each year, Pops was ready to unwind.

That usually meant two cases of Turbonegro Malt Liquor sitting in front of the fireplace and a box of Swisher Sweet filter tips on the porch. Pops, Bootney and DeBron would flash-fry a game hen and eat it together while the Lions lost on TV. It was a tradition, like malt liquor and cigarillos on Christmas. Or like malt liquor and cigarillos on Bastille Day.

Yes, the Lipscolmb family celebrated Bastille Day, but not because they were French. It was another manifestation of Pops, Jr.’s strange love of Denver. As a boy, Pops had learned that Denver was English for “bastille,” an erroneous claim that could have been easily checked at any point. No such checking for Pops, though! Truth be told, Pops was more than likely responsible for the execution-style murders of 19 fact-checkers in and around the Des Moines area over a 10-month period in 1992, such was his dislike of facts being checked.

At least, that’s what DeBron had always assumed was the reason behind their sudden Thanksgiving, 1993 flight to Denmark. When they arrived in Copenhagen, the family was greeted by a trio of Eastern European ‘fixers’ who helped the Lipscolmbs establish new identities. Pops changed his name to Denver Bastille and opened a small embezzling concern in Odense. Bootney changed her name to Ootney Bastille and penned a series of well-received bootblacking textbooks.

As for DeBron, he never quite took to life in Odense, so one day he filled a small satchel with malt liquor and cigarillos and hit the road. For thirty years, he lived the aimless life of a traveling grifter, swindling spinsters and conning nitwits on four continents. He forgot all about the life he’d led before, about the Thanksgivings at home, the tepid Turbonegro Malt Liquor by the fire. His only connection to any of it was his maddening obsession with betting on Detroit Lions games.

“Oh yeah,” blurted DeBron aloud to no one in particular, “I owe that bookie forty grand.” He picked up his phone and transferred the funds in a matter of moments. You know, before the advent of today’s modern smartphone technology and whatnot, DeBron wouldn’t have been able to pay his bookie off until the following Friday. With that in mind, you might consider the denouement of this tale to be something of a Thanksgiving miracle.

“I know I do,” DeBron agreed, flashing a wry smile. “Happy Thanksgiving, one and all!”