SAVAGE CHRISTMAS

By

Jimmy Joe Meeker

First Published in The Wilson County Advocate, Vol. 2, No. 51 (c)December 22, 1992 by Donald W. Gillette

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

The newlyweds looked at each other with sadness dampening their eyes.

To get the money to buy her a comb for her magnificent, long, beautiful hair, he had sold his only valuable possession to an evil pawnbroker--his grandfather's treasured gold watch.

To get enough money to give him a fob for his watch, she had sold her only valuable possession to a wigmaker--her long, beautiful auburn hair.

It was a gloomy Christmas Eve on O'Henry Street.

"You're bald-headed and ugly as a snake!" he yelled, and stabbed her with a rusty knife.

"Your time is up, you dirtbag!" she screamed before she died, and pushed him out of the window.

NAUGHTY AND NICE

Perhaps the first experience of science fiction in life is climbing up into Santa's lap in a department store. Waiting in line to do this is usually a child's initiation into the strange workings of the world.

Little Paul, however, had very little sense of this. He had never seen Santa before, so to him it was simply a curious experience. "Stop fidgeting," said the woman in front of him to her little boy, who was jiggling the red rope that kept them all in line, "or I'll kill you."

Behind him was another little boy. "Let's cut line," this boy said, pulling on his mother's coat.

"Don't be so impatient," she answered him, "or Santa will give you a lump of coal."

Paul didn't fidget or tug. His mother held his sweatshirt.

Now, up ahead, Paul could see Santa sitting in a huge, red chair. Santa would bend down and pick up each youngster and put the child on his knee. The child's mother or father would beam approval on Santa, a sort of last ditch grin, desperate and futile. Santa was evidently some kind of luminary, to be looked upon with favor.

"Paul, I have to go to the ladies room," said his mother. "You're a good boy. You just stay in line."

And Paul was a good boy, too. What is a good boy? A good boy is not a boy who gets A's in math and conduct, plays baseball, and finishes all his broccoli. No, a good boy is a boy who enjoys being a good boy so much that he can enjoy other little boys not being good boys.

Paul laughed when the boy who was behind him again said to his mother, "We're cutting line," but this time from in front of him, where they had indeed cut line. The boy swinging on the rope sulked at the boy who had cut line and he hid his face in his mother's dress. "Behave," she said, "or I'll beat the living crap out of you."

The boy who had cut line also got ahead of the swinging, sulking boy, so he was first to climb onto Santa's lap. He asked for a pair of Rollerblades to get ahead of people on, and a brass trumpet to announce to everyone that that was what he was up to.

The other boy asked for a chemistry set (to fiddle with) and a Batman costume to hide behind.

But when Paul climbed into Santa's lap, no one could hear what he said.

Except Santa. Who first looked surprised. And then smiled.

What Paul got when he came downstairs on Christmas morning was exactly what a good boy would get.

But what the bad boys got when they came downstairs was quite different.

What they found were no presents, no stockings, no toys. In fact, in both cases, there was no tree. What they found was a boy, a very good boy, just their own age, waiting for them.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

Scrooge hated Christmas. He hated most things, but he hated Christmas most of all.

I can still remember him sitting behind his huge, old desk making notations in the ledger while I slaved in the outer office, forced to wear my overcoat and gloves to protect me from the cold. To Ebenezer Scrooge, heat was a precious commodity and he allowed me only two shuttles of coal each week to bring a little warmth into the building, and begrudgingly at that.

And I can still remember his voice quaking when I asked for Christmas day off to be with my dear wife, sons, and daughters--and especially little Tiny Tim; Tim whose legs were bent and shattered, but who always had a smile and a kind word for everyone.

"I suppose you'll be wanting the whole day tomorrow?" Mr. Scrooge bellowed.

"Yes, sir," I said. "If you please, sir. It is Christmas."

"Christmas! Christmas is only an excuse for you to pick my pocket once a year," he answered.

I left the building somewhat shaken and feeling glad to be away, ever for just one day.

Mr. Scrooge locked the office door for the evening at 7:00 PM and began his walk home. I watched while he plodded through the new fallen snow on Chauncey Street, and felt compelled to reach out to him...to teach him the real meaning of Christmas.

But instead, I split his skull wide open with a brick.

And as my little Tim (who is now a gynecologist living in Florida) would say, "God bless us, everyone."

AWAY IN A MANGER

In the little town of Juda, not far from Bethlehem, an event quite similar to Bethlehem's had taken place.

A star shone over the inn yard, and in a stable where the oxen and sheep were stalled, a child had been born.

The shepherds could see the star from the hills as they walked toward the town to see what was going on.

When they entered the humble barn, they saw three kings bowing down, giving gifts of rare things. The father, Bill, looked over at the boxes, as did his wife, Glenda, as each of the kings came forth to present them. First gold. Then frankincense, then myrrh. A light shone about these things, and about the heads of Bill and Glenda. The animals stood around, attentive also, it would seem; and one of them kneeling, an old ox, seemed to have a light shining from it, too.

It was then that the shepherds knew. Oh, if only they had come sooner, for they were country people, and understood about such things.

For, of course, when Glenda and Bill withdrew their admiring eyes from the gifts and looked back at the manger, the child was not there. The ox had eaten him. A perfectly natural thing to occur if you are so foolish as to lay your child away in a manger.

XXX