Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction

by Kurt Vonnegut

  “That was real smart,” said Wanda. “You make me spend all year trying to get him to like Santa Claus, and then you pull a stunt like that.”

  “I hadda do something to make him pipe down, didn’t I?” said Bernie. “Okay, okay. Now maybe we can have a little peace and quiet so I can look at the watches. How much is this one with the diamonds for numbers?”

  “Three hundred dollars, sir, including tax,” said the clerk.

  “Does it glow in the dark? It’s gotta glow in the dark.”

  “Yes, sir, the face is luminous.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Bernie.

  “Three hundred bucks!” said Wanda, pained. “Holy smokes, Bernie.”

  “Whaddya mean, holy smokes?” said Bernie. “I’m ashamed to give him a little piece of junk like this. What’s a lousy three-hundred-dollar watch to Big Nick? You kick about this, but I don’t hear you kicking about the way the savings account keeps going up. Big Nick is Santy Claus, whether you like it or not.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Wanda. “And neither does Willy. Look at the poor kid—Christmas is ruined for him.”

  “Aaaaah, now,” said Bernie, “it ain’t that bad. It’s real warmhearted of Big Nick to wanna give a party for the kids. I mean, no matter how it comes out, he’s got the right idea.”

  “Some heart!” said Wanda. “Some idea! He gets dressed up in a Santa Claus suit so all the kids’ll worship him. And he tops that off by makin’ the kids squeal on their parents.”

  Bernie nodded in resignation. “What can I do?”

  “Quit,” said Wanda. “Work for somebody else.”

  “What else I know how to do, Wan? All I ever done was fight, and where else am I gonna make money like what Big Nick pays me? Where?”

  A tall, urbane gentleman with a small mustache came up to the adjoining counter, trailed by a wife in mink and a son. The son was Willy’s age, and was snuffling and peering apprehensively over his shoulder at the front door.

  The clerk excused himself and went to serve the genteel new arrivals.

  “Hey,” said Bernie, “there’s Mr. and Mrs. Pullman. You remember them from last Christmas, Wan.”

  “Big Nick’s accountant?” said Wanda.

  “Naw, his lawyer.” Bernie saluted Pullman with a wave of his hand. “Hi, Mr. Pullman.”

  “Oh, hello,” said Pullman without warmth. “Big Nick’s bodyguard,” he explained to his wife. “You remember him from the last Christmas party.”

  “Doing your Christmas shopping late like everybody else, I see,” said Bernie.

  “Yes,” said Pullman. He looked down at his child, Richard. “Can’t you stop snuffling?”

  “It’s psychosomatic,” said Mrs. Pullman. “He snuffles every time he sees a Santa Claus. You can’t bring a child downtown at Christmastime and not have him see a Santa Claus somewhere. One came out of the cafeteria next door just a minute ago. Scared poor Richard half to death.”

  “I won’t have a snuffling son,” said Pullman. “Richard! Stiff upper lip! Santa Claus is your friend, my friend, everybody’s friend.”

  “I wish he’d stay at the North Pole,” said Richard.

  “And freeze his nose off,” said Willy.

  “And get ate up by a polar bear,” said Richard.

  “Eaten up by a polar bear,” Mrs. Pullman corrected.

  “Are you encouraging the boy to hate Santa Claus?” said Mr. Pullman.

  “Why pretend?” said Mrs. Pullman. “Our Santa Claus is a dirty, vulgar, prying, foulmouthed, ill-smelling fake.”

  The clerk’s eyes rolled.

  “Sometimes, dear,” said Pullman, “I wonder if you remember what we were like before we met that jolly elf. Quite broke.”

  “Give me integrity or give me death,” said Mrs. Pullman.

  “Shame comes along with the money,” said Pullman. “It’s a package deal. And we’re in this thing together.” He addressed the clerk. “I want something terribly overpriced and in the worst possible taste, something, possibly, that glows in the dark and has a barometer in it.” He pressed his thumb and forefinger together in a symbol of delicacy. “Do you sense the sort of thing I’m looking for?”

  “I’m sorry to say you’ve come to the right place,” said the clerk. “We have a model of the Mayflower in chromium, with a red light that shines through the portholes,” he said. “However, that has a clock instead of a barometer. We have a silver statuette of Man o’ War with rubies for eyes, and that’s got a barometer. Ugh.”

  “I wonder,” said Mrs. Pullman, “if we couldn’t have Man o’ War welded to the poop deck of the Mayflower?”

  “You’re on the right track,” said Pullman. “You surprise me. I didn’t think you’d ever get the hang of Big Nick’s personality.” He rubbed his eyes. “Oh Lord, what does he need, what does he need? Any ideas, Bernie?”

  “Nothing,” said Bernie. “He’s got seven of everything. But he says he still likes to get presents, just to remind him of all the friends he’s got.”

  “He would think that was the way to count them,” said Pullman.

  “Friends are important to Big Nick,” said Bernie. “He’s gotta be told a hunnerd times a day everybody loves him, or he starts bustin’ up the furniture an’ the help.”

  Pullman nodded. “Richard,” he said to his son, “do you remember what you are to tell Santa Claus when he asks what Mommy and Daddy think of Big Nick?”

  “Mommy and Daddy love Big Nick,” said Richard. “Mommy and Daddy think he’s a real gentleman.”

  “What’re you gonna say, Willy?” Bernie asked his own son.

  “Mommy and Daddy say they owe an awful lot to Big Nick,” said Willy. “Big Nick is a kind, generous man.”

  “Ev-ry-bo-dy loves Big Nick,” said Wanda.

  “Or they wind up in Lake Michigan with cement overshoes,” said Pullman. He smiled at the clerk, who had just brought him the Mayflower and Man o’ War. “They’re fine as far as they go,” he said. “But do they glow in the dark?”

  Bernie O’Hare was the front-door guard at Big Nick’s house on the day of the party. Now he admitted Mr. and Mrs. Pullman and their son.

  “Ho ho ho,” said Bernie softly.

  “Ho ho ho,” said Pullman.

  “Well, Richard,” said Bernie to young Pullman, “I see you’re all calmed down.”

  “Daddy gave me half a sleeping tablet,” said Richard.

  “Has the master of the house been holding high wassail?” said Mrs. Pullman.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Bernie.

  “Is he drunk?” said Mrs. Pullman.

  “Do fish swim?” said Bernie.

  “Did the sun rise?” said Mr. Pullman.

  A small intercom phone on the wall buzzed. “Yeah. Nick?” said Bernie.

  “They all here yet?” said a truculent voice.

  “Yeah, Nick. The Pullmans just got here. They’re the last. The rest are sitting in the living room.”

  “Do your stuff.” Nick hung up.

  Bernie sighed, took a string of sleighbells from the closet, turned off the alarm system, and stepped outside into the shrubbery.

  He shook the sleighbells and shouted. “Hey! It’s Santy Claus! And Dunder and Blitzen and Dancer and Prancer! Oh, boy! They’re landing on the roof! Now Santy’s coming in through an upstairs bedroom window!”

  He went back inside, hid the bells, bolted and chained the door, reset the alarm system, and went into the living room, where twelve children and eight sets of parents sat silently.

  All the men in the group worked for Nick. Bernie was the only one who looked like a hoodlum. The rest looked like ordinary, respectable businessmen. They labored largely in Big Nick’s headquarters, where brutality was remote. They kept his books and gave him business and legal advice, and applied the most up-to-date management methods to his varied enterprises. They were a fraction of his staff, the ones who had children young enough to believe in Santa Claus.

  “Merry Christmas!” said
Santa Claus harshly, his big black boots clumping down the stairs.

  Willy squirmed away from his mother and ran to Bernie for better protection.

  Santa Claus leaned on the newel post, a cigar jutting from his cotton beard, his beady eyes traveling malevolently from one face to the next. Santa Claus was fat and squat and pasty-faced. He reeked of booze.

  “I just got down from me workshop at the Nort’ Pole,” he said challengingly. “Ain’t nobody gonna say hi to ol’ Saint Nick?”

  All around the room parents nudged children who would not speak.

  “Talk it up!” said Santa. “This ain’t no morgue.” He pointed a blunt finger at Richard Pullman. “You been a good boy, heh?”

  Mr. Pullman squeezed his son like a bagpipe.

  “Yup,” piped Richard.

  “Ya sure?” said Santa suspiciously. “Ain’t been fresh wit’ grown-ups?”

  “Nope,” said Richard.

  “Okay,” said Santa. “Maybe I got a electric train for ya, an’ maybe I don’t.” He rummaged through a pile of parcels under the tree. “Now, where’d I put that stinkin’ train?” He found the parcel with Richard’s name on it. “Want it?”

  “Yup,” said Richard.

  “Well, act like you want it,” said Santa Claus.

  Young Richard could only swallow.

  “Ya know what it cost?” said Santa Claus. “Hunnerd and twenny-four fifty.” He paused dramatically. “Wholesale.” He leaned over Richard. “Lemme hear you say t’anks.”

  Mr. Pullman squeezed Richard.

  “T’anks,” said Richard.

  “T’anks. I guess,” said Santa Claus with heavy irony. “You never got no hunnerd-and-twenny-four-fifty train from your old man, I’ll tell you that. Lemme tell you, kid, he’d still be chasin’ ambulances an’ missin’ payments on his briefcase if it wasn’t for me. An’ don’t nobody forget it.”

  Mr. Pullman whispered something to his son.

  “What was that?” said Santa. “Come on, kid, wha’d your old man say?”

  “He said sticks and stones could break his bones, but words would never hurt him.” Richard seemed embarrassed for his father. So did Mrs. Pullman, who was hyperventilating.

  “Ha!” said Santa Claus. “That’s a hot one. I bet he says that one a hunnerd times a day. What’s he say about Big Nick at home, eh? Come on, Richard, this is Santa Claus you’re talkin’ to, and I keep a book about kids that don’t tell the trut’ up at the Nort’ Pole. What’s he really t’ink of Big Nick?”

  Pullman looked away as though Richard’s reply couldn’t concern him less.

  “Mommy and Daddy say Big Nick is a real gentleman,” recited Richard. “Mommy and Daddy love Big Nick.”

  “Okay, kid,” said Santa, “here’s your train. You’re a good boy.”

  “T’anks,” said Richard.

  “Now I got a big doll for little Gwen Zerbe,” said Santa, taking another parcel from under the tree. “But first come over here, Gwen, so you and me can talk where nobody can hear us, eh?”

  Gwen, propelled by her father, Big Nick’s chief accountant, minced over to Santa Claus. Her father, a short, pudgy man, smiled thinly, strained his ears to hear, and turned green. At the end of the questioning, Zerbe exhaled with relief and got some of his color back. Santa Claus was smiling. Gwen had her doll.

  “Willy O’Hare!” thundered Santa Claus. “Tell Santy the trut’, and ya get a swell boat. What’s your old man and old lady say about Big Nick?”

  “They say they owe him a lot,” said Willy dutifully.

  Santa Claus guffawed. “I guess they do, boy! Willy, you know where your old man’d be if it wasn’t for Big Nick? He’d be dancin’ aroun’ in little circles, talking to hisself, wit’out nuttin’ to his name but a flock of canaries in his head. Here, kid, here’s your boat, an’ Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas to you,” said Willy politely. “Please, could I have a rag?”

  “A rag?” said Santa.

  “Please,” said Willy. “I wanna wipe off the boat.”

  “Willy!” said Bernie and Wanda together.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Santa. “Let the kid talk. Why you wanna wipe it off, Willy?”

  “I want to wipe off the blood and dirt,” said Willy.

  “Blood!” said Santa. “Dirt!”

  “Willy!” cried Bernie.

  “Mama says everything we get from Santa’s got blood on it,” said Willy. He pointed at Mrs. Pullman. “And that lady says he’s dirty.”

  “No I didn’t, no I didn’t,” said Mrs. Pullman.

  “Yes you did,” said Richard. “I heard you.”

  “My father,” said Gwen Zerbe, breaking the dreadful silence, “says kissing Santa Claus isn’t any worse than kissing a dog.”

  “Gwen!” cried her father.

  “I kiss the dog all the time,” said Gwen, determined to complete her thought, “and I never get sick.”

  “I guess we can wash off the blood and dirt when we get home,” said Willy.

  “Why, you fresh little punk!” roared Santa Claus, bringing his hand back to hit Willy.

  Bernie stood quickly and clasped Santa’s wrists. “Please,” he said, “the kid don’t mean nothing.”

  “Take your filt’y hands off me!” roared Santa. “You wanna commit suicide?”

  Bernie let go of Santa.

  “Ain’t you gonna say nuttin’?” said Santa. “I t’ink I got a little apology comin’.”

  “I’m very sorry, Santa Claus,” said Bernie. His big fist smashed Santa’s cigar all over his face. Santa went reeling into the Christmas tree, clawing down ornaments as he fell.

  Childish cheers filled the room. Bernie grinned broadly and clasped his hands over his head, a champ!

  “Shut them kids up!” Santa Claus sputtered. “Shut them up, or you’re all dead!”

  Parents scuffled with their children, trying to muzzle them, and the children twisted free, hooting and jeering and booing Santa Claus.

  “Make him eat his whiskers, Bernie!”

  “Feed him to the reindeers!”

  “You’re all t’rough! You’re all dead!” shouted Santa Claus, still on his back. “I get bums like you knocked off for twenty-five bucks, five for a hunnerd. Get out!”

  The children were so happy! They danced out of the house without their coats, saying things like, “Jingle bells, you old poop,” and “Eat tinsel, Santy,” and so on. They were too innocent to realize that nothing had changed in the economic structure in which their parents were still embedded. In so many movies they’d seen, one punch to the face of a bad guy by a good guy turned hell into an earthly paradise.

  Santa Claus, flailing his arms, drove their parents after them. “I got ways of findin’ you no matter where you go! I been good to you, and this is the thanks I get. Well, you’re gonna get thanks from me, in spades. You bums are all gonna get rubbed out.”

  “My dad knocked Santa on his butt!” crowed Willy.

  “I’m a dead man,” said O’Hare to his wife.

  “I’m a dead woman,” she said, “but it was almost worth it. Look how happy the children are.”

  They could expect to be killed by a hit man, unless they fled to some godforsaken country where the Mafia didn’t have a chapter. So could the Pullmans.

  Saint Nicholas disappeared inside the house, then reappeared with another armload of packages in Christmas wrappings. His white cotton beard was stained red from a nosebleed. He stripped the wrappings from one package, held up a cigarette lighter in the form of a knight in armor. He read the enclosed card aloud: “‘To Big Nick, the one and only. Love you madly.” The signature was that of a famous movie star out in Hollywood.

  Now Saint Nicholas showed off another pretty package. “Here’s one comes all the way from a friend in Italy.” He gave its red ribbon a mighty yank. The explosion not only blew off his bloody beard and fur-trimmed red hat, but removed his chin and nose as well. What a mess! What a terrible thing for
the young to see, one would think, but they wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

  After the police left, and the corpse was carted off to the morgue, dressed like Kris Kringle from the neck down, O’Hare’s wife said this: “I don’t think this is a Christmas the children are going to forget very soon. I know I won’t.”

  Their son Willy had a souvenir that would help him remember. He had found the greeting card that came with the bomb. It was in the shrubbery. It said, “Merry Christmas to the greatest guy in the world.” It was signed “The Family.”

  There would be a rude awakening, of course. The fathers were going to have to find new jobs, ho ho.

  Unpaid Consultant

  Most married women won’t meet an old beau for cocktails, send him a Christmas card, or even look him straight in the eye. But if they happen to need something an old beau sells—anything from an appendectomy to Venetian blinds—they’ll come bouncing back into his life, all pink and smiling, to get it for wholesale or less.

  If a Don Juan were to go into the household appliance business, his former conquests would ruin him inside of a year.

  What I sell is good advice on stocks and bonds. I’m a contact man for an investment counseling firm, and the girls I’ve lost, even by default, never hesitate to bring their investment problems to me.

  I am a bachelor, and in return for my services, which after all cost me nothing, they sometimes offer me that jewel beyond price—the home-cooked meal.

  The largest portfolio I ever examined, in return for nostalgia and chicken, country style, was the portfolio of Celeste Divine. I lost Celeste in high school, and we didn’t exchange a word for seventeen years, until she called me at my office one day to say, “Long time no see.”

  Celeste Divine is a singer. Her hair is black and curly, her eyes large and brown, her lips full and glistening. Painted and spangled and sheathed in gold lamé, Celeste is before the television cameras for one hour each week, making love to all the world. For this public service she gets five thousand dollars a week.

  “I’ve been meaning to have you out for a long time,” said Celeste to me. “What would you say to home-cooked chicken, Idaho potatoes, and strawberry shortcake?”