Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  And what, the old man asked himself, will the morning bring for me? Immediately the answer presented itself, courtesy of his wife's disembodied voice, which he cherished and abhorred in equal measures, depending on the wisdom it proffered at any given time. You get the satisfaction of bringing joy to so many children.

  "And how do I do that?" he asked aloud, his breath forming ghosts around his face. At the head of the reindeer, Rudolph, his muzzle badly scarred around the faintly luminous bulb of his nose, glanced back over his shoulder, as if he thought he had been addressed. The old man looked at him and felt a twinge of sadness. Of them all, of everyone on earth, this poor dumb animal was probably the closest he had to a friend. It had sacrificed much to stay by his side, enduring the bullying of its brethren, the life-draining effect of the genetic anomaly that made its nose seem to glow in sympathy with the moon, the Arctic hunters and their desperate plight to return home with him as their trophy.

  "It's okay boy," he told the animal, and it watched him for another moment, doubt in its watery eyes, before joining the others in grazing.

  They need you, Nick, now more than ever, his wife said, and he frowned. More and more these days she spouted Hallmark sentiments designed to allay the doubt that grew worse each passing day. Once, she'd been right, but he suspected even she didn't believe her words anymore. They had seen and endured too much over the centuries, had witnessed too many changes for the worse. He didn't however, greet her remarks with hostility, at least not in her presence, for he feared what might happen if he disabused her of what little festive spirit still lingered within her. She might lose her smile, and with it, all remaining hope that things would ever again be like they used to be. There was already enough distance between them, committed as she was to supporting a pursuit he no longer believed in.

  Prancer snuffled and shook his head, rattling his bridle. The old man chose to think of it as coincidence, and not agreement, or denial of his thoughts. He looked down at his hands, their deterioration visible through the rents in the material. The fingers were thin and spindly. For a long time he had not aged, the clock stopping at sixty-one, but it seemed now that he was being punished for his cynicism and ennui. Immortality was apparently a privilege that could be revoked if he failed to fully immerse himself in the role assigned him.

  But he was tired. So very tired.

  And though the world continued to celebrate the seasons and the days marked for joy, he saw little joy on their faces. Instead he saw billboards and commercials instructing exhausted parents where and when to spend money they didn't have on extravagant toys that would be forgotten or broken in six months. He saw the transient delight on the children's faces, a facade that hid their disappointment at not receiving something bigger, better, and more expensive. He saw the parents, broke and on the verge of divorce, drinking too much to avoid confronting the reality of their situation, and each other, or arguing silently while their children grew bored and flipped idly though channels on the TV, hardly seeing anything at all. And on every channel, between commercials designed to inflame the greed of the child and make them rue their choice of gifts, were visual representations of the old man, ho-ho-ho'ing his way down chimneys far too small to accommodate him, or rescuing some wretched waif from heartbreak and loneliness.

  But who, he wondered, will rescue me?

  Ultimately he realized that he was, despite the centuries of dedication, little more than a commercial himself, an ancient billboard with an unchanging message. He represented expense, often exacerbating the pressure on people ill prepared to handle it. Inadvertently, he had sent more people to their deaths than he had saved. Like those commercials, he reminded parents of their obligations and children of their entitlements, then watched from afar as it all came apart. He never entered the houses, and this was a good thing, particularly in the current climate, for he would no doubt be arrested, or shot at. Contrary to the myth, he did not ride a sleigh laden with enough presents for every child in the world. He had no presents at all, for that was not his job. He rode a sleigh empty but for intangible promises.

  In the old days, he had yearned to live up to the world's interpretation of him, even going so far as to sell most of the belongings from his mortal life, now classified as priceless antiques, so that he could afford to buy presents for at least a thousand children. Even then, even after his overjoyed wife fashioned a large red sack from old bed sheets, he was faced with the problem of distribution. Remarkable flying reindeer or no, there were still laws, and he could not just insinuate his way into people's houses. So he left them in the mailboxes of the impoverished, only to have a third of them destroyed or stolen. Another third had been lost after he failed to consider the impact the weight of so many presents would have on the sleigh, and the poor beasts tasked with pulling it. Consequently, on Christmas Eve in 1965, roughly three hundred packages rained down on the Sahara desert, where they lay broken and useless until the sand erased them forever. Even the presents that made it to their intended recipients left him feeling curiously apathetic. He supposed it was because, unlike the iconic figure he'd inspired, he could not see the reactions of the children who received them, could not see their elation, or disappointment. He suspected despite their poverty, there were more of the latter than the former. After all, it would be sheer coincidence if any of the gifts he gave them were the things they had asked for.

  Despite the enthusiasm that marked his departure from home that year, sleigh loaded with presents, it was the last time he attempted to fit the world's image of him. There were simply too many variables, too many obstacles, with no way of knowing at the end of it all if it had been worth it. And unlike the jolly fat man in the red suit, he was an emaciated figure, drained of spirit. His suit was tattered and torn and more mottled maroon than red. His boots had holes in the soles, and his jolly red hat had long since blown away, exposing a bald head threaded by the scars earned in those first clumsy days when he'd had to learn quickly how to fly a vehicle designed to travel on the ground.

  So every year, he inspected his sleigh, promising he would give it a much-needed lick of paint, or repair the buckled running boards, knowing he would not. He would ease himself into the seat with its ineffective threadbare cushion, and let the reindeer take him on yet another tour of the nightworld. All the while thoughts of the children in those houses beneath the chipped and splintered wood of his sleigh plagued him. He could not help but picture the starving children down there, the dirt-smeared faces of the suffering, the young ones hiding behind the rubble as shells exploded mere feet away, the dying, the diseased, the kids locked in cellars by parents or perverts... It made him feel like a cold-hearted observer flying over hell.

  This, he feared, was closer to the truth than he cared to admit.

  And though his wife stridently objected to such theories, she was never able to convince him that it wasn't what she herself believed.

  The horrible reality of it was this: He existed to turn the minds of children away from the true meaning of Christmas, away from God, by appealing to their greed. To appease the greed, the parents suffered. And yet no one ever thought of the old man as anything but benevolent. How shocked they would be if they knew he thought himself closer to an emissary of the devil.

  He had flown through wars, concealed by smoke, dodging artillery not meant for him, coughing through muddy fields occupied by shifting specters of mustard gas and littered with bodies. He had watched cities burn and drown and crumble. He had watched and wept from afar as children were led to gas chambers. He had seen them murdered by the hundred at the hands of monsters.

  And he, their alleged patron saint, had done nothing.

  Disgusted, he whipped the reins, ignoring the caustic look from Dasher as the reindeer ceased their feeding and tugged the sleigh along the hill, headed for the edge and the air beyond.

  People had seen him, he knew. If there was one joy he could claim, it was that. Over the years there had been people on the street, young
and old alike, who had glanced up and caught sight of him sailing through the air. The children had screamed and pointed and danced with delight. The adults had stared, stricken, unable to reconcile what they were seeing with the remembered devastation at the hands of their own parents, who had told them in earnest, that there was no such thing. And on such occasions, the old man had grinned and waved and yelled "Merrrrrry Christmaaaaas!" at the top of his lungs. It had excited him, however briefly, had restored for a while the jubilation he'd once felt knowing that, for some, it didn't matter that he wasn't the Santa Claus they grew up believing in, or had been programmed to believe in. For some, he simply represented hope, and dreams made real. Proof that there was sometimes more to life than the grind, the pressure, the struggle. Proof of magic.

  It had been a long time since he'd been seen, but tonight, that would change.

  As he angled the sleigh toward the moon, the reindeer huffing, he did not look down at the streets sweeping beneath him. There was no need. These days children did not stay up late watching for him. They did not sneak out into the cold and stare up at the sky, hoping for a glimpse, for confirmation that what the other kids were telling them at school wasn't true. Nowadays, they stayed inside, eyes wide and glassy as they watched lies on their computer and television screens, where sincere-sounding reporters stood red-faced and shivering beside a graphic insert that showed a fictional Santa's flight-path in real time. No expense was spared on perpetuating the myth, while elsewhere other children died of exposure or starvation, or abuse, and still others crumbled as their parents gave them the truth they'd prayed was not there and therefore dealt a final, killing blow to the wonderful world of fantasy and magic. Santa Claus is not real.

  To the old man currently riding upward into the night sky, the cold wind biting his sallow cheeks, the moon looming large before him, he hated that the truth those parents so callously shared was the ultimate and indisputable one. He was real. But Santa Claus was not, and never had been.

  Tomorrow, the evidence of the lie would be laid out for all to see, and perhaps it would instigate a change for the better, an embracing of magic one last time. Perhaps it would do the opposite, forcing people who had once believed to become bitter and critical of anything they could not see for themselves. Perhaps it would turn them further away from God. Or, perhaps it would mean nothing at all.

  Nick, don't, said his wife. It doesn't have to be over.

  There was, as always, little conviction in her voice. She knew as well as he did that they had reached the end of whatever path they'd been instructed to follow. He had once read a line about every species being able to sense its own extinction. He thought there might be something to that.

  "Everything has to end eventually," he said, the wind of his passage whipping the words from his mouth.

  One final ride, he thought, cracking the reins. The reindeer, their hooves pounding nothing but the air, quickened the pace. Rudolph looked back, the light in his nose brightening the closer they got to the moon. There was a knowing sadness in his dark eyes. The old man nodded at him and smiled, an acknowledgement of their friendship, of their eternity spent together in service to some unknown force.

  As the sleigh crested an invisible wave, the reindeer dipped its head and twisted sharply around, turning the sleigh upside down. The other reindeer, forced to follow its lead, kicked and protested, but it was too late.

  The old man fell from the sleigh, smiling as he plummeted toward the earth. The wind snapped at his clothes, tore free his gloves. A boot slid off and was lost to the night. Overhead, the reindeer carried on, led by a small blue star, their sleigh bells ringing like the chiming of a clock counting off the moments before the end. They were headed for the moon and whatever resting place would have them.

  The lights of the city rushed up to meet the old man, an ugly sulfuric glow that made him think of the poisonous air ghosting its way across those European battlefields.

  Time marches on, he thought, seconds before the impact. And we are soon forgot.

  There were no faces in the windows, watching.

  Patrick Wensink

  CHRISTMAS STORY HOUSE

  RIGHT NOW, OUTSIDE of downtown Cleveland, a lamp is glowing. This lamp is in the window of a modest two-story home. Heck, snow is probably falling as we speak. This lamp is shaped like a leg and covered in a fishnet stocking. This lamp is, most likely, the most famous lamp in movie history and this sexy appendage has somehow come to represent wholesome Christmas fun. This lamp belongs to the A Christmas Story House.

  But now I wonder, is Ted Turner trying to stuff this leg down my throat?

  A Christmas Story is based on the comedic memoir by Jean Shepherd, and is a hazy warm tribute to Christmas, 1940. It follows the escapades of young, moon-faced Ralphie’s attempts to convince his family he needs a B.B. gun from Santa. In between, tongues are frozen to flagpoles, the word “fudge” takes on a new meaning, and a host of other misfortunes fall upon Ralph and the rest of the Parker family.

  A while back I heard you could tour the Cleveland home where the movie was shot and I’d been looking forward to seeing this holiday attraction for the last few years. Finally, an opportunity arrived when I went to visit friends in Northern Ohio. I am drawn to this site much like little Ralphie was drawn to the power of a Red Rider B.B. gun. I have a sense of urgency, thinking, “I’ve got to check this out, it’s too weird to stay in business for very long. I mean, are there really more people than me who care enough about A Christmas Story? Enough to drive into one of America’s fastest-dying cities, just to see a house from what should be considered, at best, a cult film?”

  And so we track down the home in the scruffy Tremont neighborhood, just a few miles from downtown. People in Tremont don’t have couches on their porches and cars on cement blocks in the yard. Not because the residents are above that, but, hey this is Cleveland, it’s too cold eleven months out of the year to sit on the porch and who’s going to clear all that snow from the yard to put the car up on blocks in the first place?

  There are no signs off the road advertising A Christmas Story House. While all the neighboring homes are a little gray and sagging, the main attraction is the same mustard yellow with green trim made memorable in the film. And there is that lamp—that high-kicking, seductively glowing lamp— in the window. There is also a steep drop-off behind the home, leading to the Cuyahoga River (you may remember it as the body of water that caught fire once in the 60s) with a view of several factory smokestacks.

  These elements fight my urge to enjoy the Christmas magic of this sacred spot, but I don’t let it get me down. This is a special place. It’s where the mastermind who directed Porky’s, Baby Geniuses and Black Christmas created one of the most treasured holiday films in history. You can keep Jimmy Stewart and It’s a Wonderful Life, give me a bright lamp with a hint of ass cheek below the shade.

  You can have Rudolph and his nuclear nose, give me a boy shooting his eye out with a B.B. gun.

  You can have Santa eating cookies and milk, I want Ralphie’s mom stuffng a bar of Lifebuoy soap in his mouth.

  The movie was shot in 1983 and the house fell into disrepair until a few years ago when some investor from California bought the iconic home on eBay. Inexplicably, this gentleman turned it into a tourist attraction. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Ted Turner—deep within his dark, stone castle in Atlanta—was brainwashing the planet.

  A Christmas Story, as the tour guide points out, was a flop. Nobody paid to see it and critics apparently hated it too. But, by some holiday gingerbread-scented miracle, I discovered it and fell in love. And apparently, according to the guide, so did 100,000 others who have made the pilgrimage.

  “One-hundred thousand?” I think. “But I’m the only one who loves this movie. It’s my little secret.

  How is that possible? Maybe they were lost and stopped for directions.”

  This question sits on the backburner as the tour begins. We enter the home and it looks just l
ike the movie. There’s a rough-looking Christmas tree, a B.B. gun hiding in the corner, oddly patterned wallpaper, a turkey waiting to be eaten by the Bumpus’ dog in the kitchen, Ralphie’s bedroom and a Little Orphan Annie Decoder ring in the bathroom. It is like entering a time warp, some miracle of shrink-wrapping technology, nothing has changed since 1983…except for the very sad-looking gentleman in a paperboy hat standing by the fireplace (more on him in a second).

  “So, this is where they shot the bunny suit scene?” one woman asks as we mull around the living room, pointing to the stairs.

  “Aw, that’s where the mom broke the leg lamp,” another says pointing to the living room window.

  “Hey, is that the kitchen cabinet Randy hid in? ‘Dad’s gonna kill Ralphie.’”

  “No, actually,” the guide says in a very rehearsed way. The way General Electric switchboard operators probably respond to the question of whether their refrigerators are running twenty-dozen times a day. “Most of the film was actually shot on a soundstage in Toronto. The interior of the house didn’t look like this at all. The crew actually only shot a small portion of the exterior shots and the backyard sequence with Black Bart’s gang and Ralphie shooting his eye out.”

  Before this comment, there was a sweet helium in the air. A sparkly dash of wonderment. But now I can see something in everyone else’s eyes: “Eight bucks for a phony house? Let’s just go upstairs, see the bedrooms and get back on the road.”

  We diligently complete our tour, but kind of shrug things off. There’s a little giggle about the bathroom actually having Lifebuoy and wondering where they got that soap—it hasn’t existed for decades, right? In the backyard, with the view of some mammoth brown smokestack and the dense gray clouds, we peek into the shed that played such a big role in the movie. Give the House credit, it pays attention to a lot of detail, so we guess the shed will be filled with Black Bart’s gang, eyes X-ed out. Instead, it is a clearing house for legs. It looks like Jeffrey Dahmer’s linen closet. At least five busted legs in black fishnets are piled up, collecting dust and grit.