WHAT HAPPENED TO THANK YOU? (a.k.a. Gifting Games - Merry Christmas)

This Christmas, Uncle Troy asked me and my sister, “Whatever happened to thank you?”

            Of course, he meant our tendency to get so excited by his gifts that we forget to show relevant gratitude. Still we do like to make fun. 

            Afterwards, when he had gone home full of brussel sprouts and self-satisfaction, my sister and I answered his question properly.

            “Thank You had some shopping to do,” I started.

            “Thank You has errands all day,” my sister followed up.

            “Thank You owes a lot of his friends.”

            “He can’t just go around thanking people the whole time. They need more than that.”

            “Thank You’s a bit of a layabout when it comes down to it.”

            “But at least he knows where to get all the best deals. Even on Christmas Day.”

            “He will be back in a while. Thank You gets around to everyone eventually.”

            “Thank You is like Santa Claus in that way. He just comes later.”

            “Thank You comes when he damn well pleases.”

            “Please certainly thinks so.”

            “The less said about her though, the better.”

            “Please can be a bit lofty but she does know Thank You best. It’s just they’ve grown apart in recent years.”

            “Not often there at the same time.”

            “It’s a shame.”

            “It’s all Shame ever goes on about.”

            “He’s like that about everyone and everything though.”

            “At least he’s always there. Thank You on the other hand...”

            “He’ll be back.”

            And that’s where we left the matter. Uncle Troy always hears back from Thank You, no matter what happens.

            As for me and my sister, we just get on as we are.

LISTEN FOR THE GIFT (a.k.a. Your Giving, Should You Choose to Accept It...)

If you are hearing this, please do not adjust your earpiece. You are just the person I have been meaning to reach.

I need you to be my arms, so to speak. My legs too and obviously my eyes. I'm afraid I will have to do as brain for now. The task I ask you to complete is very simple but profoundly important.

A wrapped present was left in your house. In fact, you came across it just the other day, threw it out. Fortunately it was salvaged from your dustbin and can be found up on the roof, just beside the gutter. Good thing there was no rain this week where you are! Now I would like you take it down. Use the stepladder: if you hurt yourself, I would never forgive myself.

Got it? Excellent. By all means, weigh it in your hand, press your ear against it. You will see for yourself that the present isn’t a clear and present danger. However, please don’t unwrap it yet. All I ask is that you act as courier. Believe me, this is for the best possible cause.

With that in mind, come back inside and ascend the stairs. Tread lightly: it is almost midnight. Now, when you reach the landing, I want you to enter the bedroom nearest to you. Yes, that will be your child’s room. This gift is for them.

You should be proud. There aren’t many children who get this service anymore. Though technology has advanced, the old intention remains as vital as ever. Science, magic: they both pale in comparison to charity and acknowledgement of good deeds well done. We only intercede to keep an element of mystery for both you and your child.

I am sure you will turn to your partner tonight and tell of the sudden bizarre twittering in your ear, some jolly stranger giving you instructions that filled you with dread. For that I can only apologise and ask that you look past it. Think only of the following morning, the smile on your little one’s face as they see this present, the smile on your own as you realise that it wasn’t a bomb or anything nefarious, but just what I said it was. A gift.

Now place it in the stocking, tuck it right down into the toe. Excellent. With that, I will stop talking and leave you in peace. Don’t you just love the final stillness of Christmas Eve? By all means, remove your earpiece and listen to that quiet. Mission accomplished. Merry Christmas. 

A CHRISTMAS OCCURRENCE ON THE SHOP ROOM FLOOR (a.k.a. A Festive Moment of Entropy)

Closing time was an hour ago. Nobody is in the department store. The cleaner was in and out within twenty minutes, hastily vacuuming patches of carpet and splashing the main lino path with a damp mop. Since she left, the whole building has been very still.

            Then the wrapping paper rolls rustle. The thinnest is pinched forward by the combined weight of the rest and thunks onto the square of crimson carpet beneath it. This green and white roll's bottom half raises two thicker rolls and together they tip the whole box-stand over, everything spilling out.

            It all tumbles a short distance to the base of the large Christmas tree by the tills. Three low-hanging golden baubles dislodge themselves from the feeble plastic branches and roll far to the left.

            One clatters against another then another until the last bauble stops in front of a motion sensor Dancing Reindeer. It shimmies its automated hips, triggering a chain reaction of shimmying until all the surrounding Reindeer have broken out into a muffled poor-quality version of Jingle Bells. They echo each other and fill the store with life, albeit artificial. Just as soon as it begins, the song is over. While it lasts, it plays only to decorative snowmen and caricatures of Santa and his elves on chocolate selection boxes.

            The security camera won't get a clear view of the spectacle as it happened, just a black-and-white recording of a couple of baubles and the stiff mass swaying of the Dancing Reindeer. The magic of the instant will be overlooked by the mess.

            But it has happened. It all has happened in a glorious moment of unexpected life the Monday before Christmas. The staff will tidy it up eventually, sell all these brightly-coloured trinkets and decorations at discount rates. Except these will be mispriced, the department store cheating themselves out of their true worth.

            Then again what is the cost of such a Christmas occurrence on the shop room floor?

SANTA'S LIQUID LUNCH (a.k.a. A Harrowing Break from a Holiday Job)

The girl found me out. I thought I had managed to hide away in this brown and beige bar round the corner from where I was supposed to be. The place was squat and stank more of lacquer than liquor but I liked it just fine. Not a goddamn Christmas decoration in sight. Still I suppose it being the only place in the mall not lit up and draped in green tinsel, I made it kind of easy to find me.

            She stopped beside my bar stool and folded her arms.

            "Santa," she said, "You've gotta go back now."

            Craning my neck, I could just see that there was a line developing from the grotto. "Has the creepy kid left?"

            "A while back."

            "I mean the building."

            The girl sighed. "Short of checking with security I wouldn't really know, now would I?"

            This was the mouthiest teenage elf I had ever worked with. She had bright red chipmunk cheeks and little black eyes that looked constantly bored. Still her ears were naturally pointy so I suppose she had rare qualifications.

            The bartender laid down a neat bourbon for me right on where my fake beard met the bar.

            "Whiskey for your whiskers," he joked. I forgot to laugh.

            The elf girl cleared her throat.

            "I'll admit what that little boy said was unsettling but there are also normal kids about to lose their shit over there."

            I threw back the bourbon.

            "Please don't be that guy."

            I leaned back on the bar. "Which guy would that be?"

            "Another half-in-the-bag Mall Santa."

            I tapped the counter and got the bartender’s attention. He was still chuckling to himself at his little joke. Getting in the spirit of the season I wouldn’t wonder. Glad someone still could.

            I glared at the elf girl. My eyes were probably bloodshot but I just didn’t give a rat’s ass. "Did you hear what that goddamn kid said to me?"

            "To be honest, I've heard worse."

            "No!" I smashed my palm against the bar. She jumped and the bartender stopped smiling. This just made me angrier. "This wasn't just some sugar rush brat bruising my lap! He knew just what he was saying!"

            The elf girl looked unconvinced but what did she know? Fresh out of braces and fresh out of sympathy for some fat old geezer in a red suit. I picked up my next glass and waved her away.

            "Go on. Tell them Santa won't be back today.” I stared at the half-empty glass as it shone in the weak light. “Too tired. Dead tired.”

            “Really?” The girl’s tiny eyes squinted.

            “Yeah.”

            She gave out a haughty little huff and puff. This seemed to perk up the bartender. "Kids say the darnedest things, huh?"

            Both I and the elf girl stared at the idiot. I could have thrown the glass straight at his fat head.

            "The darnedest." I finished my drink. "How about 'I know you ain't real, Santa, cos I killed him last night'? That's pretty darn cute, ain't it?"

            Except that wasn't it exactly. The boy had told me about his daddy's service revolver, how Santa's inside red wasn't as bright as his outside red. The devil is in the details, I suppose.

            "Sounded like a dream to me," the elf girl spoke up. "You know how kids can get. Too many Westerns and War movies. It probably seemed real for him."

            "It sure seemed real to me," I said. The service revolver especially. My daddy kept one around the house too. Until it went off.

            The elf girl sighed. “The kid’s gone now. Long gone.”

            She caught my eye. I could tell she wasn't about to let up anytime soon so I forced my ass off the bar stool.

            "Come on," I told her. "Santa will tell the kids and their parents that he’s done himself. Otherwise they might not believe it."

            I left behind a deserving tip to the bartender though I'm sure he would have thought a lump of coal would be better.

            The elf girl crinkled her nose as she opened the door for me. "Your breath. The parents will smell booze."

            "I'll probably smell the same on their's.” The girl turned away in disgust but I shrugged my shoulders. “After all, it's the most wonderful time of the year, ain't it?"

SNOWCRACKER (a.k.a. An Abominable Way to Break the Ice)

Tough time of year, Christmas. For the kill. The fastest roads to your destination are all clogged, there are no quiet corners in public places and sometimes there is even snow.

            As a kid I loved a clean bed of pure white snow, untouched and shining with possibility. As a man I dread it, knowing that I will leave tracks no matter how careful I try to be. Still you won’t last long in this line of work if you just hold on to your anxieties. So today I take back control.

            I wear size 14 boots. My feet are size 9 but, with two layers of thick cotton socks, they fit just fine. Not only are these boots huge, they have two-prong toes. That and the wide curved heel make my tracks look almost hoof-like. Think of a reindeer but the biggest bastard you ever saw. I swear the authorities will look at the tracks from my target’s house and think: Don’t wanna mess with that. Don’t wanna even pursue that. And they’d do right.

            Still I feel awful silly, stretching my legs out as I move. If I lose my balance even once, I’ll give the game away; an undeniable snow angel flailing to get back up. Even so I stomp like a heavy four-legged beast all the way downhill.

            It’s morning but you can’t tell from the sky, thick angry grey slowly lightening to a stiff white. This snow must have fallen only hours ago: it’s crisp and not even the real country critters have been on it yet. As I search for tiny paw prints to dwarf with my own, I take in a deep lungful of frosty air. Goes straight to my goddamn head. My jaw begins to feel like it’s freezing up and there’s a wetness to the tip of my nose.

            I should feel lousy but I’m actually kinda great. I have a clean kill behind me and I’ve handled an issue in a damn smart way. In fact, I feel better than great. You can get complacent in the death business, take your skill for granted, get lazy. But not anymore. Now I’m back to enjoying my work.

            I let out this roar, primal. Stupid of me, in fact: I might wake the neighbours from their rustic little cottages, alert them to my slow lumbering presence. Still it feels good, you know? Right.

            Glancing down, I see cracks running back behind my left boot heel. They progress beyond it, spreading some distance behind. I take one look at that damage and think ‘abominable’. Ain’t a word I use lightly. Ain’t a word I normally use at all.

            Still it’s right there in my mind. Abominable, like the Snowman. Perhaps that’s how the story started; a tall man in the cold, dragging heavy feet along, tearing up the snow.

            Even so this Abominable Snowman isn’t far from his car. He has chains to put on his tyres before he disappears into the next flurry. A snowflake touches my nose, tickling it. I slip and crack the snow again. I didn’t know my own strength. I should know by now.

            Still, let it creep them out, I say. Let them believe it was a monster, not a man. Yessir, if there ever was an Abominable Snowman, I’ll be him.

A SEASONAL LYRIC CRITIQUE (a.k.a. Wizzard's I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday is Snow Joke)

When the snowman brings the snow…

Let us unpack this. Sort of reverse engineer the snowball, as it were.

            A snowman is traditionally a humanoid depiction made from fresh snow. Therefore the snowman is snow. The only snow that the snowman can technically 'bring' is the snow of which he is composed.

            However, the snowman also tends to be immobile. So no act of bringing is in fact possible, at least not in the physical sense.

            He might, for the sake of argument, 'summon' the snow. By this I mean will the very substance of life, his life at least, into being. In this particular scenario, the snowman is more of a 'snow sage' or a 'winter wizard' if you will. Suffice to say I have yet to come across such a powerful snowman.

            That leaves us with a conceptual meaning. The snowman’s mere existence brings the thought of snow into the mind of the observer. This is by far the most straightforward explanation. That being said, it is still specious: unless the observer’s view is somehow limited to only the snowman and not the probably large bed of snow underneath. This would require a 'Plato’s Cave' level of logic.

            Nevertheless, I highly doubt that the lyricist strove for that particular degree of realism. Still one would expect more of Roy Wood. If a Christmas song is worth writing then it is worth writing with proper and thoroughgoing attention to detail.

            Incidentally, Merry Christmas Everyday, I suppose…

DAYLIGHT FIREWORKS (a.k.a. Remember, Remember The Sixth of November...)

The fifth of November was yesterday but I'm still out launching fireworks. I don't mind it: my brother forked out a fair bit of dosh towards it so he can work in peace. I'm used to being fobbed off. Personally I prefer it these days.
    My brother's work has taken a funny turn. He keeps odd hours now. Hence sending me to set off fireworks at one o'clock in the afternoon. Daylight fireworks. It's pretty overcast today but still, if you ask me, the pretty colours are being wasted on it. All I can really see is the fluorescent pink of the rocket just gone up, Velvet Flare. I think that's supposed to be a pun.
     Still I suppose it's just as much about the sound effects. The whizzes, the bangs, the crackles. There's something so crisp about it all or maybe that's just the Autumn chill.
     At least we had a bonfire last night, of sorts. My brother stuffed some folders and loose papers among the logs and twigs, even some metal once the fire was really blazing. I daren't ask about it, besides he wouldn't say anything, just grunt at me and slink off straight back to work.
     I think it must be a bad time of year now for him, November. A lot piling up before Christmas. As for New Year? It all just comes round again, he tells me. You should see the look on his face when he says that, grey bags under his eyes and that weeping scar on his chin. You should hear how hollow his sigh has become.
    I wish he'd just pack it all in but then his line of work isn't the kind you can get out of easily. Cleaning up he calls it but I know it's too messy for that.
    Why else would I be standing in the middle of a field at the edge of our estate as a favour to him? Why else would I be lighting touch paper and running? Because of the spectacle. The distraction. While all eyes are on the way I'm popping a dull sky full of holes, he can safely get away with doing similar with smaller, earthbound targets. There must be a few to get through tonight: I am to keep launching fireworks till it's actually late. Then he'll come tap me on the shoulder and we can finally go home.
     While the rest of town are out brightening winter, my brother and I will be back indoors. Well, while he lays down in a darkened room yet again, I'll be by the window looking out for the both of us.