I’m Clarence the Angel and I’m here to help you.
“I’ll show you such things as you’ve never seen.
Like how life would go on if you’d never been.”
I replied, “What’s the point of this gift you’d bestow?”
That confused him…he whispered, “I don’t really know.”
The Ghost then decided to enter the fray.
To Clarence he said, “You must share my dismay.
I’ve attempted to get this man back to the past
But he just won’t do anything that I have asked.”
Clarence stared at the Ghost, his head gave a sharp jerk:
“You’re the Christmas Past Ghost? I’m a fan of your work!”
They dove into shop talk, like old friends at ease,
Till I jumped in, exclaiming, “Hark, gentlemen, PLEASE!
“We three don’t belong in the same Christmas tale,
Our three different stories don’t really dovetail.
Yet somehow at this point we’ve all intersected,
I’m baffled, I’m beat—tell me how we’re connected!”
The Ghost said, “I’ll show you what’s really at stake.”
The angel said, “I’ll show the difference you make.”
“Both are good lessons,” said I…sighed and paused.
“I’m in a fluff piece about Santa Claus.”
“Come with me,” Clarence said, “I’ll prove and you’ll see,
How sad without you your friends’ lives would be.”
“No, it’s me you should come with,” the Christmas Ghost bade,
“To see how miserable you are from choices you’ve made.”
“Go get lost, Casper !” Clarence swung at the Ghost.
“This guy’s coming with me. Back off or you’re toast.”
The Ghost grew quite angry and kneed a connection
With part of poor Clarence that had no protection.
Clarence bent double; the Ghost jumped on his back.
They fell to the floor—each renewed his attack.
With rolling and brawling, and fighting for glory—
It beat the crap out of a nice Christmas story!
The shocks of the evening had stricken me dumb,
When a small boy appeared; he was sucking his thumb.
My head started throbbing, right up through my sinus.
He snuggled his blanket, said, “Hi, my name’s Linus.
“You look quite perplexed, mind all in a whir.
The meaning of Christmas I’ll tell you, dear sir.
Lights, please,” he ordered—like setting the scene—
Then he quoted Luke 2: verses eight to fourteen.
And then things went crazy, they just wouldn’t stop—
The house filled with people from bottom to top.
A young boy with glasses…with Red Ryder gun!
“You’ll shoot your eye out—be…be careful there, son.”
Everywhere that I looked was a sight to behold:
A smartly dressed snowman sang “Silver and Gold.”
And more were appearing, I saw with frustration,
Some were cartoons, and others claymation.
Small misfit toys climbed up on my shelf.
A runaway reindeer, a blonde dentist elf.
A small drummer boy beat his drum without pause,
Tim Allen in fat suit did his best Santa Claus.
Bing Crosby was singing, a song about dreaming,
And towel-clad M. Culkin kept screaming and screaming.
And there was Bruce Willis, not looking his best,
Yelling, “Yippee ki-yay”—I couldn’t make out the rest.
There were birds, there were rings, there were ten lords a-leaping.
With such a loud racket, how on earth’s my wife sleeping?
I was puzzled and dazed from my head to my socks,
When my living room filled with a blue police box.
Out jumped a tall man with both arms upraised.
“Calm down, take a breath, no need to be crazed!
Things will change back to the way they once were,
That would be best, I’m sure you concur.
“With the help of this gizmo I have in my hand,
I, Doctor Who, will right wrongs, understand?”
“I hate you,” said a green man, whose shoes seemed to pinch.
“I’m not that kind of Who, you idiot Grinch.”
“What the hell happened?” I asked Doctor Who,
“To cause this confusion, this giant to-do?”
“Can’t really explain,” he said sheepishly.
“It’s too convoluted. Yes, even for me.
“But don’t worry, I’ll fix it in just half a mo.”
He pushed a small button that started to glow.
The Grinch and Bing Crosby and all who’d appeared
Spun around, shrunk right down, and then disappeared!
My home was transformed to what it had been:
I was back in my nightshirt, and all was pristine.
So relieved was I then, I burst into applause,
When I saw by our tree the REAL Santa Claus.
He stood there unsteadily, stroking his beard.
He looked at me blinking and said, “That was weird.
So what should we do, after all that’s transpired?”
I said, “Finish up here—I’m really quite tired.”
Santa entered the fireplace, climbed up brick by brick,
Shouted back, “Aren’t you old to believe in St. Nick?”
“Maybe so,” I replied after thinking a bit.
“What I truly believe: I’m too old for this shit.”
Santa was shocked. “Why, that was obscene!
It’s too bad things are back to the way they had been.
From ‘Egad!’ and ‘Good golly,’ you’ve broadened your scope,
If I’d time I’d be washing out your mouth with soap.”
Santa got in his sleigh, saying, “Be a good boy.
Clean up your language—earn next year’s e-toy.”
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
The Grateful Gatsby
INSPIRED BY F. SCOTT FITZGERALD’S
THE GREAT GATSBY
“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”
Eckersley looked at Lord Gatsby expectantly. “And what words might those be, sir?”
“‘No matter how dire your predicament, no matter how worrisome your troubles, never be without a shoehorn.’”
Eckersley’s brow furrowed. “Please excuse me, sir, but I’m not quite sure I follow.”
“I know exactly what you mean. I have no idea what he was on about. But Father did say it whilst on his deathbed and I thought it most impolite to get him to illuminate. It seemed best that he concentrate full bore on the act of dying.”
“I believe that was the correct course of action, sir.”
“Perhaps it was the correct course.” Lord Gatsby sighed. “But was it the prudent one? I sometimes wonder if Father was leaving me a clue as to how to get along in life. You know how fond he was of games. Perhaps it was his last little riddle for me to solve.”
“I am sure your father would have come right out and said it. Yes, he did adore his games, but he was not the type of man who would hide something of import in a cryptic saying.”
“You may be right, Eckersley. It is just that our recent troubles weigh so heavily o
n my mind that I feel like a cart in front of the horse with no legs to stand on … with …”
Eckersley’s eyebrow arched. Lord Gatsby of Beckingham Abbey was a kind and judicious man, but he was not eloquent.
He had just come into the library to see if his lordship had need of anything in particular. In all the years that he had been butler at Beckingham, he could not recall Lord Gatsby spending this much time in the library. Eckersley glanced at the fine writing desk strewn with books on finance and get-rich-quick schemes. Milord is becoming obsessed with his dwindling status, he thought.
The earldom of Gatsby included a title and estate that were the envy of the British Empire. Unfortunately, the last few years had been unkind and the estate was near financial ruin. Gatsby felt a twinge of guilt at the thought that he was glad his dead wife was not here to see this. Although, to be fair, the love of his life, Antoinette LaBoeuferie, was the chief architect of this abattoir of ruin. The beautiful Frenchwoman had an almost obsessive fascination with all things American. She had bought the Brooklyn Bridge no fewer than three times—once when she was in Brussels. Her fascination with fads, expensive fads, soon emptied the Gatsby coffers. But Gatsby could never refuse her anything.
The earl and his bride had enjoyed an unusually happy marriage and over the twenty years of their union had raised a beautiful daughter.
After Antoinette’s death during a faux Fourth of July celebration with spectacularly defective fireworks, the grieving earl went on a spending spree to commemorate her, bringing the family to this horrific precipice of poverty. This seemed to be just the latest in a series of dire events that had Gatsby wondering if the family were cursed in some way. Their misfortunes began five years previously, when his two nephews Jeremy and Tristam died during the sinking of the Titanic.
The oddest thing about that disastrous end was that Jeremy and Tristam weren’t even passengers on the doomed ship. Always an adventurous pair, they had invented a sport that incorporated ski jumping with North Atlantic iceberg exploration on behalf of the Royal Geographical Society. The location they picked for their maiden attempt was, unfortunately, the offending glacial mass that sunk the great vessel. During a downhill run, they gravely misjudged the slipperiness of the ice (which increased their velocity) and the angle of their trajectory. With cries of “Tallyho!” and “Cheerio!” (meant to chase away their well-founded misgivings), they slammed full tilt into the side of the Titanic just as it struck the iceberg. They died instantly. Later, they were counted among the casualties of the sinking by members of the press who thought the true story might bring embarrassment to one of England’s most esteemed scientific societies.
That was followed by Gatsby’s great-uncle losing his fortune to a Hungarian female impersonator, the divorce of his brother from the Carmichael Hair Tonic heiress, and the deaths of two aunts, a grandfather, both parents, and a beloved Collie named Dora Mae. It was time for things to change. And for that to happen, his daughter, Jane, had to step up to the wicket. If she married advantageously and well, that good connection could be the first step in reclaiming the family’s lost stature.
In the last year, Lord Gatsby had considered a number of wealthy suitors for his daughter, but none were, well, suitable.
“I take it Mr. Bentley Fixins-Smythe was not up to snuff?” Eckersley inquired gently.
“Jane thought him a bit of a bore, and rightfully so. He’s dreadfully stuffy,” the earl admitted. “But sometimes, isn’t one bored by the person one loves?”
Eckersley didn’t know what to say, but his silence spoke volumes.
“Of course, you are right, Eckersley. What kind of a marriage is that to arrange for my daughter? If I may be totally forthright with you, she is exceptionally picky when it comes to potential suitors. Sir Clayton Morehouse-Finch-Piper is too short, Archibald St. Crispin is too fey, Rupert Bearnum-Haxton has teeth like a can opener. The list goes on.”
“If I may say, sir, you don’t seem particularly distressed about this latest development in Lady Jane’s affaires de coeur.”
Lord Gatsby looked around, making sure that they were alone. “My spirits have been buoyed, Eckersley. I have discovered, or more correctly rediscovered, an old romantic interest of Jane’s. A chap by the name of Rockefeller Manly. If he proves acceptable, my hope is that he will marry Lady Jane and in so doing, allow us to keep Beckingham Abbey for generations to come.”
“That is good news, sir. I must confess, sir, I don’t remember the young man. I was certain that I knew all of the young miss’s suitors.”
“This was before you took employment here, Eckersley. They were four years old.”
Eckersley’s eyebrows almost rose right off his head.
“Four years old, sir? Does it seem a little optimistic that the spark may still be there? Do you know anything about him?”
“Not a lot, I must say. The last time I saw Rockefeller he was but knee-high to a…clodhopper? You know what I mean. A most agreeable little chap in short pants. Always smiling, full of intelligent questions, but often content to play quietly with his nanny. A thoroughly delightful young man. But over the intervening years, I’m afraid we lost touch with the Manlys.” Gatsby lowered his voice and twisted his moustache. “There was talk of scandal involving his father, a Turkish princess, a Ping-Pong paddle, and a Yorkshire terrier.”
Eckersley raised a scandalized eyebrow. “Shocking!”
“Yes,” Lord Gatsby exclaimed, “most irregular. For they bred Irish wolfhounds! Heaven knows where the elder Manly got that terrier.” He continued. “Rockefeller became an adventurer of sorts, from what I can gather. He seems to have disappeared from public view the last few years. Some say he went to Africa on a goodwill mission, others say India for spiritual guidance. From all accounts, he made a graceful transition from an exceptional child to a remarkable young man. Highly educated, quite handsome, witty, and most important, possibly the savior of Beckingham Abbey.”
Eckersley clucked his tongue appreciatively. “He does sound as though he could be the ticket.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately, there are a few hurdles to clear by jumping over them…so that we can get to the finish…for a ribbon. First, and this may be the most important task, we have to find him. I have dispatched search parties to Abyssinia and Bombay. I am sure we will turn him up in a few months at the latest. Second, Jane must be persuaded to marry this adventurer. And therein lies the bramble bush that…ah…is the…bush? Blast it all! I am dreadfully unschooled in the construction of colorful metaphors!”
“If you wish, sir, I could prepare a list of metaphors appropriate to a range of situations that might arise.”
“Thank you, Eckersley. I have a feeling that we’ll be presented with a very delicate situation when we find Mr. Manly, and I shall be in need of it. And if the list makes no mention of bushes, brambly or otherwise, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“I think that wise, sir.”
Footsteps rang in the hall, and Lord Gatsby’s peace was interrupted by a familiar, grating voice.
“Richard! Richard! Are you in the library?” He turned to see his former governess, Mrs. Topworthy, dowager nanny of Beckingham County, stride elegantly but purposefully towards him. At ninety-four years of age, she was still treating him as one of her charges, a habit that had only increased on the death of his parents. He had to admit he still loved it when she read to him.
The dowager nanny fixed her steel-grey eyes upon Gatsby. “I am concerned with the future of Beckingham Abbey and with the happiness of dear Jane. I believe you have a possible husband in mind for her?”
Lord Gatsby’s face froze. “What? How did you find out? I only thought of Rockefeller Manly yesterday!”
“My dear boy, if anything ever goes on in this house without my knowing about it, then you can be sure that I’m already in my grave. You’re seriously considering Reginald Manly’s son?”
“And why would I not? You, more than anyone, h
ave harped continuously about Jane getting married and as soon as possible.”
“Yes—but married to a proper husband of spotless reputation. Rockefeller Manly has practically become an American! Though I gather he’s made quite a fortune for himself. In women’s apparel, I do believe. Can you imagine? Boots and ‘leggings,’ from what I’m told. They sound shockingly vulgar. I’m afraid he has the taint of the nouveaux riches now.”
“Mrs. Topworthy…”
She pressed a lace handkerchief to her brow. “We shall talk of this later. I’m developing a headache.”
“Mrs. Topworthy, wait! I implore you to keep this news to yourself for the time being. At least until I find the fellow and bring him here.”
“Very well. Richard, do you need a cardigan? It’s getting quite cool.”
“No, I’m fine, Mrs. Topworthy. Thank you.”
“Are you sure? We don’t want you catching cold.”
“Quite.”
“Well, then, I shall be upstairs resting.” She straightened Lord Gatsby’s collar and strode from the room.
Lord Gatsby turned to Eckersley. “She’s like a dead horse, flogged by a… Oh drat! You know what I mean… What is it that I mean?”
“Sir, I believe you were saying, the more cultivated the rose, the sharper the thorns.”
“Very good, Eckersley. Very good indeed.”
“Father!”
Lady Jane, graceful as a swan, slender as a whippet, contained as a turtle, entered the library. Lord Gatsby was always slightly taken aback by his daughter’s beauty. Thank God she took after her mother, he thought. The porcelain skin, the hazel eyes that missed nothing, the silken auburn hair. The sight of her made him ache for his dearly departed wife. The only thing Jane had gotten from her father was her high cheekbones and the upper left side of her forehead.
“Jane! Don’t you look radiant!”
Not QUITE the Classics Page 12
