Boo Humbug

by Rene Gutteridge

  Or bringing Wolfe to a bookstore for a “rare” signing. And that part was true. Getting Wolfe to do signings back in the day was like pulling teeth. Alfred sighed. Back in the day. What a far cry he was from that. He’d gone from life with two secretaries and a corner office in a high-rise building to passing out fliers in … where was he again? This town didn’t even have a sign. And it barely passed for a town. A couple of restaurants, a gas station, a street corner crowded with a few shops, and four empty warehouse buildings summed it up.

  The key was the restaurant. Small-town folk liked to gather at restaurants. Diners, to be exact. It had taken a while, but Alfred had eventually gotten acclimated to their food source. He thought it really ironic. They lived among fields of ripe vegetables and fruit, yet it was remarkable how they could kill nearly every health benefit of any vegetable or fruit.

  Corn, they creamed it. Okra, they fried it. Carrots, they buttered it. Sweet potatoes, they buried in brown sugar and topped with marshmallows. If it was a fruit, it ended up in a pie or a jam. Upon first arriving to Skary many years ago, he’d actually made a trip to the hospital one night after one of these meals, fearing a heart attack. Turned out it was, of all things, indigestion.

  Alfred liked fish, himself. Preferably raw and wrapped in seaweed. He wasn’t a vegetarian, but he didn’t eat much meat, and most of the time just preferred salad. However, since his life had come to a screeching halt when Wolfe decided to go religious on him, Alfred had embraced the amazing phenomenon called comfort food, along with a spare tire around his waist. But he had never known mashed potatoes could be so good.

  Crossing the only paved street in town, Alfred headed for the diner. The smell drifted ahead of him, drawing him in. A large sign boasted a thirty-two-ounce chicken-fried steak, and you got the next one free if you could eat the first one. Then you’d be dead, but at least you’d set a record, which it claimed had yet to be done.

  Swinging the door open, the little bell rang as if you might not be noticed if it didn’t announce you. An impossibility, really. You were always noticed when you walked into a small-town diner. Everyone looked up to see who had arrived. It had taken him some time to get used to that. In New York, nobody looked around, and nobody noticed who came and went from restaurants.

  He drew a special amount of attention since he was not a regular patron of “these parts.” Determined to make this work to his advantage, he focused on the lady with her hair in a net and whose Depends were apparently in a wad too.

  “Help you?” she asked, her fist on her hip and her gum smacking itself to death.

  “Alfred Tennison,” Alfred said, careful to bring out his New York accent and his big city aura. He held out a hand for her to shake, knowing full well that she wouldn’t do any such thing.

  “So?”

  “I’ve come to bring you good news.”

  “Really.” She didn’t say it, but he knew it. He could kiss her grits.

  He pulled out a flier. “Skary is putting on a Christmas production.”

  The restaurant actually quieted. The lady, whose name tag read Betsy, glanced over the flier. “A Very Skary Christmas Carol? So what?”

  “This is actually a theatrical production.” Play sounded too run-of-the-mill. Production insinuated there might be a fog machine. Possibly pyrotechnics.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Christmas. Skary-style.” He liked that. Skary-style. Wasn’t that the truth? Nothing happened anywhere quite like it did in Skary, Indiana.

  “Well, this ain’t Skary.”

  Oh, boy. His errand wasn’t running very smoothly.

  “This is going to be an unprecedented event. It’s based on the book. It’s called A Christmas Carol It’s actually a classi—”

  “I don’t care if it’s called A Christmas Betsy Don’t interest me.”

  Alfred was losing patience. “Ever heard of Scrooge?”

  She crossed her arms. “Yeah. He’s standing here wasting my time.” She grabbed her towel and went off to clean a table.

  Alfred sighed. Maybe he should leave a stack of fliers by the door and move on. Or, better yet, put them on the windshields of the trucks outside. Of course, guys around here didn’t like guys like Alfred touching their trucks, and besides, the trucks were so huge that Alfred wasn’t sure if he could even reach the windshields.

  “You … yes, you …”

  Alfred turned to find an older gentleman by himself in a nearby booth. He beckoned Alfred over with a crippled hand, frozen by arthritis. “Me?”

  “How many ‘yous’ are there in here?” Was that a trick question? The old man smiled. “I know everybody by name in here. Except you.” He stood with a great deal of effort and held out a hand for Alfred to shake.

  “Alfred Tennison.”

  “Say again?”

  “Alfred. Tennison,” Alfred said, stressing each syllable.

  “Obediah Graham.” He sat back down and gestured for Alfred to sit with him. “You can call me Obie. And if you do call me, talk loud because I’m hard of hearing.” Sliding into the booth, Alfred wondered what this man wanted. He looked kind enough. Maybe he just wanted some company. Alfred could relate. “What’s that big stack of papers you got there?”

  “Information on a huge Christmas production … event … that Skary is putting on this year.”

  “Oh, how nice.” And it wasn’t sarcastic, either. He looked genuinely pleased, but Alfred couldn’t assume the man had actually heard what he’d said. Obie leaned toward him. “You know, Alfred, that’s what we’re missing these days. Something like what you’re doing. Brings the whole community together to remember the reason for the season.”

  “Of course. What other reason would there be?”

  “You’re doing the Christmas story?”

  Alfred chuckled. Obie was probably remembering Jean Shepherd, the wonderfully witty satirist who entertained an entire generation of radio listeners and penned the now-classic movie, A Christmas Story. And he supposed everyone in Indiana remembered Shepherd too, since the movie makes several references to the Indiana town of Hammond, where Shepherd grew up.

  “I love Shepherd.”

  “I’m fond of the wise men.”

  “He was a wise man.” Alfred was about to make reference to Shepherd’s book In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash when Obie pointed to the fliers.

  “So what are you doing with those?”

  “Oh, um, I’m going to pass them out.”

  “Come again?”

  “Pass them out. To people. Let them know about the production.”

  “The what?”

  “Play. The play.” Alfred was talking loud enough for people to glance at him. Hey, it wasn’t his fault Obie didn’t like hearing aids.

  “Ah, yes.” His expression went skeptical. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No.”

  Obie lowered his voice and Alfred had to wonder if he could even hear himself speak. “It’s word of mouth around here, buddy boy. I know you big city people like to do it the fancy way, with green and red paper, special, elaborate type on the page.” Skary was big city? That was scary.

  “But the way to get things done around here is to … start spreading the news.” Obie sang the last few words in perfect pitch, then chuckled to himself. Spry old guy. “I think our town needs to hear this message, Alfred. Christmas has become just another day of the year here. Puts people in a bad mood. Makes neighbors gripe at each other. Families can’t stand to be with one another for more than half a day. And it seems to me, it’s just another holiday where they can serve alcohol in the name of festivities.” A sad expression crossed Obie’s face. “They need to understand what it is to give a gift, and what gift has been given to us.”

  Alfred nodded, but the old man had gone nostalgic or something, so Alfred was having a hard time following the conversation, except for the parts about bad moods and alcohol.

  Obie looked intently at the stack of fliers on
the table. He sipped his tea, and with each sip, a growing determination emerged atop his weathered skin. “I’m going to help you.” He set his cup down and lightly slapped the top of the table. “Yesiree. I’m going to help you.”

  “Help me do what?”

  “Spread the good news, what else? We’re going to start talking this thing up, Alfred. Ditch those silly things,” he said, pitching his thumb toward the fliers. “We’re going to start talking, and we’re not going to stop until everyone hears about this.” His eyes grew bright with memories. “Oh, I remember the time, Alfred. I remember it well. We’d do the play every year. It didn’t matter, rain or snow. Sometimes we would even do it outside if we didn’t have a good place to go. People would come from all over to see it. They’d tell their relatives, who would tell their relatives. Huge crowds!” Obie spread his arms wide. “I want to see that again, Alfred. I want a Christmas to remember.”

  “Indeed,” Alfred smiled. “Indeed.”

  “So don’t you worry about a thing. You hear me? You walkin’ around here passing out fliers isn’t gonna do a bit of good. People’ll just be suspicious about you. We’ll get people’s mouths going, and nothing will stop it.”

  This would be an easy way to earn a buck. Alfred pulled out a business card from an inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Obie. “My cell phone number is on there. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Sonny, I have a phone, but I can’t hear it ring. If you need to get ahold of me, call me up here. I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner in this place, seven days a week.”

  Alfred withdrew his card. “Certainly.” He stood, grabbing his stack of fliers. He still wasn’t sure this was the best move. He hardly knew this guy. He could be senile or one to promise things he couldn’t deliver. Alfred would use his help, but not rely on it. He couldn’t take a chance with Obie and his trail of words.

  Obie stuck out his hand. “Nice meetin’ you.”

  “You, too, Obie. Thanks for your help.” Alfred walked outside, the little bell announcing that he had left. It had turned colder now, and a brisk wind hit him, causing him to tuck his face into the collar of his coat. This was the creamed corn of all marketing plans, but maybe, just maybe, it would work.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Mercy!” he said. “Dreadful apparition, why do

  you trouble me?”

  “Man of the worldly mind!” replied the

  Ghost, “do you believe in me or not?”

  “FRED, FRED, FRED, Fred, Fred,” Lois said, waving her arms.

  “It’s Dustin.”

  “I’m addressing you by your characters name. Because you’re supposed to be in character. In other words, don’t be you. Be the opposite of you. That’s what I’m wanting, okay? Dustin, bye-bye. Hello Fred.”

  Dustin ran his fingers through his hair and let out a sigh. “I’m not sure I should be doing this, Lois—”

  “Ms. Stepaphanolopolis to you, Dustin. When you hit thirty or can get a line out without saying ‘like,’ you can call me Lois.”

  “Ms. Stepa … Stephi … Sterpa—”

  Lois sighed. “What’s the question?”

  “When you called me for this part, you didn’t say anything about, like, being exciting.”

  “Fred is not exciting, Dustin. He’s an optimist. Can’t you see it in the text here? Scrooge is beating him down with his own words, yet Fred doesn’t give up on his uncle. Don’t slouch and stick your hands in your pockets, okay? Get that dirty hair out of your face and pretend to be a gentleman. Fred was a gentleman, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “But Scrooge is the victim here, got it? Oliver, from the top.”

  Dustin held up a finger. “But when Scrooge says I should be boiled in my own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through my heart, can I scream and writhe and can we have blood squirting out of my shirt?”

  “Dustin, it’s just rhetoric,” Oliver said. “He’s not actually going to—”

  Lois interrupted. “Oh yes, he is, but none of that is going to matter if Fred isn’t an optimist. Don’t you see? Boiling pudding is symbolic for the death of optimism, and if Fred isn’t optimistic, the entire idea is going to be lost on the audience, no matter how much blood we have squirting around.”

  Oliver sighed. “All this talk of pudding is making me hungry.”

  Lois thought for a moment and then turned to Dustin. “You need to draw inspiration from somewhere.” She paused, rubbing her chin. “I know. I want you to call Ainsley Boone up and ask to follow her around for a full day.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Ainsley is an optimist, Dustin. She’s to Skary what Fred is to Scrooge. She always sees the good in everything. She’s perky, polite, polished. Okay? Do you think you can do that?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure about perky, but I’ll give it shot.”

  “Good. Go on, now. Don’t waste any more time. Marlee, come on up here.”

  Marlee, dressed in a suit that had “modern-day 1884” written all over it, stepped onto stage with three-inch spiked heels and a matching bodice. “Yes, Marlee! That’s the look that I was hoping for! Excellent! It’s a cross between Marie Antoinette and Ivanka Trump. Very good. I’m going to have to add some entrails, but you’re on the right path.” Lois paused. “Now, we’re going to work on the scene with Cobb-Marley and Scrooge. Oliver, sit in that chair. Marlee, stand near the fireplace.” The actors got into place. “Great. Now remember, Oliver, you’re terrified of Jae Cobb-Marley. She was your business partner, and here she is, back from the grave.”

  Oliver gazed at Marlee. “Um … she doesn’t look that terrifying. Is she a feminist?”

  “Believe me, with some makeup adjustments, she’s going to look frightful. And I’m toying with the idea of using that spiked heel in some wicked way. But for now, you’re just going to have to use your imagination.”

  Oliver nodded, took in a deep breath, then gawked at Marlee like he’d seen a ghost. Perfect.

  “Hear me!” Marlee recited. “My time is nearly gone!”

  “I will,” said Oliver, doing his best frightened imitation. “But don’t be hard upon me! Don’t be flowery, Jacob … I mean Jae. Pray!”

  “How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day, in Versace no less.”

  “Now shiver!” Lois exclaimed. “Think quarterly tax payments.”

  Oliver wiggled his body.

  “That is no light part of my penance,” Marlee continued. “I am here tonight to warn you that you have a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer.”

  “You were always a good friend to me.”

  “You will be haunted by three spirits.”

  “Is that the chance and hope you mentioned?”

  “It is.”

  “I think I’d rather not.”

  “Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one.”

  “Couldn’t I take them all at once, and have it over, Jae?”

  “Good Oliver, keep it up,” Lois encouraged. “Imagine … you’ve just moved into a new tax bracket …”

  “Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!”

  Lois ran onto stage. “Good! Good! Now, Marlee, you’re going to back up slowly to the window. That’s right, one step behind the other. Widen your eyes so you look like a zombie. Wider … still wider … Pretend you’re the mayor at a town hall meeting … There you go. That’s the look I want. Glue it to your face. Now, once you’re at the window, beckon Scrooge … Uh, no, not with one finger like you’re a floozy … your whole hand, slowly … Good. Now, Oliver, you’re going to rise, and with great trepidation, walk toward her.”

  Lois watched
the scene play out in front of her. The entire stage sustained silence except the light tap of Oliver’s shoes as he crept toward Marlee, who did her best to look fearsome despite the chignon.

  Finally, Oliver reached Marlee, and just when he was going to turn to ask, “What next?” Lois let out the most frightful scream ever heard from a human being. Which was followed by a scream from Marlee, who crashed backward into the window prop, tipping it over. Oliver shook like he’d just been electrocuted, but not a sound came from his wide-open mouth. He did, however, clutch his chest.

  When Marlee stopped yelping and Oliver’s color returned, Lois smiled. “Terrified?”

  “What was that for?” Oliver demanded.

  “I’m just giving you a taste of what the audience is going to go through during that scene. I want them to see it through Ebenezer’s eyes, how terrifying it must’ve been for him.”

  “To see his old friend as a ghost predicting his doom?”

  “Of course that. But we have to look deeper than the physical realm.”

  “I thought we were in the spiritual realm.”

  “Deeper.”

  Oliver and Marlee glanced at each other.

  “Don’t you see the conspiracy unfolding here? It’s his old partner. Maybe returning for one more paycheck?”

  “But why’d you have to scream like that?” Oliver asked.

  “Because, Oliver, that’s what happens in the book. Ebenezer goes over to the window, the ghost’s hand lifts, and he hears horrifying and ghostly wailings. And I say, why just leave it at wailings? Why not kick it up a notch to bloodcurdling screams?”

  Oliver wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. “Fine. But next time why don’t you let us know ahead of time, okay?”

  CHAPTER 9

  “It is required of every man,” the Ghost returned, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world—oh, woe is me!— and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!”