A Christmas Tale, Part 3

Bill is awake now, wide awake, trying to remember what the hell he was dreaming about -- a strange dream, full of odd imagery, softball and poker stories and one of his favorite singers making an appearance next to, it seemed like Corbin Bernsen, but that didn't make much sense.  There was a bright shining light and he tried to walk towards the light, but then the shortstop in the softball game lifted his head and the light was gone.  And then he woke.

"Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!"  A figure who looks like Santa Claus enters the room. 

"Who the fuck are you?"  Bill says.  "Get the hell out of my house!"

"I'm old Saint Nick, here to bring you tidings of joy and good will!"

"Really?"

"Yes indeed, Merry Christmas!"

"Do you have an iPhone for me?"

"Umm... no."

"Big screen TV?"

"Not on me, no."

"A new Infiniti.  Mine's got 125,000 miles on it now."

"I thought you were looking at a Prius, because of the whole environment / global warming kick you were on when Al Gore's movie came out."

"Eh, that passed.  I really like my Infiniti."

"Well no, I don't have that but I do have this for you..."

The Santa-man rolls his hand upward in a flourish and the room turns dark, darker than the deepest night, and Bill cannot see a thing as his bed begins to spin and then the room begins to spin and then the world begins to spin and Santa-man disappears.  Bill closes his eyes and awakens again, somewhere, in the future, it seems, at a Barnes & Noble, with the Santa-man by his side.

Bill:  What the fuck is going on?

Santa-man:  I'm the Ghost of Christmas Future.

Bill:  Shit.  I thought that was over.  Why the Santa suit?

Santa-man:  Ah, my Death costume has been at the cleaners since Halloween.  Damn bastards can't get the pumpkin pie stain off the front.

Bill:  What? 

Santa-man:  Do you know how unintimidating a guy in a Death costume covered in pumpkin looks?

Bill:  No.

Santa-man:  Not very.

Bill:  And the Santa suit?

Santa-man:  It's festive.

Bill:  It's not very scary.

Santa-man:  Oh come on, a strange man in a bright red suit sneaks into your house through your chimney and takes your milk and cookies.  That's not scary?

Bill:  But he leaves you presents.

Santa-man:  Your parents buy the damn presents.  He just takes the cookies.  And sometimes he takes a dump in your bathroom.

Bill:  Eww...

Santa-man:  It's a long flight from the North Pole.

Bill:  What does this have to do with my future?  And why are we at a bookstore?

Santa-man:  Observe...

A crowd has formed, a long line of patrons waiting for an author in a suit to sign his bestseller for them.  The author is in his late 40s but surprisingly handsome and witty, at least as far as the readers are concerned.  And he's wearing a Syracuse hat.  Despite the suit.

Author:  Thank you, everyone, for coming to celebrate my best selling sequel to my Pulitzer Prize winning first novel.   You will all get a chance to meet me as I sign my book for you, so no pushing please.  And ladies, I'm sorry, as you know I am not available.  But Brad Pitt, who will be playing me in the upcoming Showtime movie about my life, is, now that Ms. Jolie has left him after he cautioned against their adopting a 26th baby.

The author's agent calls the first customer up for an autograph.

Jill:  Hey, how are you?

Author:   Hi.  Do I know you?

Jill:  Yes, it's Jill, you know, you used to be friends with my husband Larry.

Author:  Not wringing a bell.

Jill:  Larry?  You sometimes called him Lenny.

Author:  (shakes his head)  Sorry.

Jill:  LegFu?

Author:  Listen, ma'am I'm sorry, but it's a long line, let me just sign this and go.  What was your name again?

Jill:  It's Jill.  I used to come to your softball games -- most of the time I was your team's only fan!

Author:  I'm sorry, I knew a lot of people back then.  But I moved on.

The agent ushers Jill aside and the author cycles through several adoring fans, signing and signing until his arm is about to fall off.  Then a large man with a white beard and a cane steps up to the podium.

Author:  Hello, old man, glad to see you could make it.

Switsky:  It's me, you idiot.

Author:  Grandpa?

Switsky:  No, Switsky.  I'm only like 5 years older than you, you fuck.  Don't tell me you don't recognize me.

Author:  The name sounds familiar, but it's been a long time.  Were you one of my professors at NYU?

Switsky:  NYU?  I thought you went to Rutgers.  Or Rowan.  Or Syracuse.

Author:  Ah no, I just wear the Syracuse hat to support my good friend Jim Boeheim and all the work he does for cancer victims.  But NYU is where I got my MFA and finished my first masterpiece.

Switsky:  Well, I'm Switsky.  We used to email all day long and make fun of Jan and Lenny and Rudnick. 

Author:  Lenny?  Hmm... that's the second time I've heard that name today.  Odd name. 

Switsky:  He and Jill got married finally.  She told him she didn't even need him to buy a ring because she figured he was just being too jew-y to spring for a diamond, so he popped the question.  And she was right.  No ring.

Author:  That must have been upsetting for her.

Switsky:  Eh.  She seems happy.  Haven't seen Lenny though.  I hear she banned wrestling from the television and he's going through withdrawal.  Keeps trying to jump off the couch cushions in the middle of Jeopardy! 

Author:  That's a shame.

Switsky:  It happens.  My wife and kids are fine by the way, thanks for asking.

Author:  I still don't know who you are.

Switsky:  Tyler just graduated from Harvard Law, Mason is at Princeton, and Jackson, well, he got accepted into Yale.  Of course, the lawsuit from when my wife got burned by a faulty heating blanket from Target is paying for all their educations.  Too bad she can't drive anymore.  I have to go out and get her donuts and coffee every morning.

Author:  That's a shame.  But somehow I have a sense you're used to that.

Switsky:  Good point.  Have you heard from Rudnick?

Author:   Who?

Switsky:  I haven't either.  Ever since the NFL contracted the Seahawks back in '13, no one has heard from him.  Not even Howie.

Author:  Howie?  Mandel?  Good guy.  Germ-o-phobe, but he works with me and Boeheim on our cancer charities.

Switsky:  Okay, I have to go now. 

Author:  Don't you want me to sign your book?

Switsky:  Asshole.

Author:  How rude.

The author yells at the agent to be more careful about who he lets in line, but continues signing books.  At some point, a family enters the queue and waits patiently to get to the front of the line.  The author smiles when he sees them.

Author:  Hey guys!  How are you?  It's been too long.

Family:  I know.  You're always off traveling the world, curing cancer, winning Pulitzer prizes.  We never get to see you.

Author:  Well I'm glad I can see you today.  We have to go out afterwards and have a drink.

Family:  Jacob's got school tomorrow, but maybe we can have one drink.

Author:  That would be great!

Switsky comes storming back into the scene.

Switsky:  Wait a second, wait a second, hold on here.  

Author:  Yes?  And you are?

Switsky:  It's Switsky you fuck!  You're telling me you remember the Ricans and not me or Rudnick or Lenny or Jan or Howie?

Author:  I'm sorry I don't know who you're referring to.

Tanya:  Wait, I think I know this guy.  Aren't you Tyler's father?

Switsky:  Yes, see, even your Rican friends remember me. 

Husband:  That's pretty racist buddy.

Tanya:  And I don't really remember you.  But Tyler gives me free legal advice through Facebook.

Author:  That's nice.

Switsky:  Oh, fuck all of you.

Switsky leaves and the Puerto Rican family follows.  The author continues signing for several more hours until the line dwindles and the only one left is a 10-year-old boy. 

Agent:  I'm sorry, young man, but it's too late, the author really needs to go.

Author:  No, no, let him in, he's been waiting all day.

The boy walks up, shaking, the book in his hand.

Author:  Would you like me to sign?

Boy:  Yes, sir, 'tis a wonderful tale you've told.

Author:  I do what I can.  I am but a humble servant to my muse.

Agent:  Please hurry, the esteemed author has to leave.

Boy:  I'm sorry.

Author:  It's okay.  Now, what is your name?  Who shall I make this out to?

Boy:  My name's Aaron.  But I don't want you to make it out to me.  Please make it out to my father.  I think it would be good for him.  He always looked up to you.

Author:  He did?  And what is his name?

Boy:  You knew him as Rudnick.  He was a good man... before the incident.

Author:  Incident?

Boy:  Sadly, when the President forced the NFL to contract two teams in order to solve the labor dispute that wiped out the '12 season, my father's favorite team was removed from the game.

Author:  Really?  Hmm... I remember the dispute, but I didn't really follow football at the time so I don't know the particulars.  What team was contracted?

Boy:  The Seahawks.  Seattle Seahawks.

Author:  Hmmm... I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with them.

Boy:  They never won a Super Bowl.  Never did anything significant really.  They were easily forgotten.  But my father took it hard.

Author:  And what happened to him?

Boy:  He's been in an insane asylum ever since.  He won't eat, he won't speak, at least not in actual sentences.  The only thing he does is mutter "F Jeter" over and over and over again.

Author:  President Jeter?

Boy:  Yes.  He really hates him.  Sometimes, when I'm visiting alone, he does speak softly to me, saying that Jeter can't go to his left, but I don't know what it means.  Do you?

Author:  I'm sorry, son.  I wish I could help.

Boy:  Well if you could sign this for him, I think that would help lift his spirits a little.  Mom and Grandma Beth are just so broken up by the whole situation.

Author:  No problem, son. 

The author signs the book.  The boy, a tear in his eye, turns around.

Boy:  Thank you, sir.

The author nearly cries himself, but then realizes that he's rich and famous and is about to go drinking and forgets all about the boy and that team he was talking about... what was it called? 

Bill and the Santa-man return to his house, where it isn't so dark anymore, it's almost light, but still cold.

Bill:  Wow, Jonathan went crazy, huh?

Santa:  Yeah, everyone pretty much saw that one coming.

Bill:  At least Lenny finally popped the question.  Jill must have been happy.

Santa:  Eh.

Bill:  But I don't get it.  How come that author didn't remember them?  Who was he?

Santa:  That author... was you!

Bill:  What!

Santa:  Yes, that was you!

Bill:  Yeah, no shit.  That was pretty obvious.  I mean, wow, I must have had some work done because I looked so good, but come on, who else could it have been?  The story wouldn't make sense any other way.

Santa:  Damn.  We were going for a little M. Night Shyamalan thing.

Bill:  I guess.  If you're talking about The Happening.  But you're a little short of the whole Sixth Sense thing.

Santa:  Even with the boy at the end and the whole ghost theme?

Bill:  (shakes his head)

Santa:  Well anyway, the point is, that the future is supposed to scare you into changing your ways.

Bill:  How?

Santa:  Because you've become a rich snob who's forgotten all his friends.

Bill:  Not all of them.  I remembered the good ones.

Santa:  But not the ones who read your blog.  Not the ones who make you laugh by making fun of your other friends.  Not the ones who used to give you all their money in fantasy leagues until you started losing and started acting like you were too important for fantasy sports.

Bill:  But I was rich.  And famous.  Brad Pitt was playing me in a freakin' movie!

Santa:  It was only for Showtime.

Bill:  But still --

Santa:  But does that really matter, if you've forgotten the people who were there with you from the start?

Bill:  Umm...

Santa:  Listen, it's almost light out and if I don't return this Santa suit by 7 am I have to pay for another full rental day.  Can you just say you've learned your lesson and let's move on?

Bill:  I don't know, I guess so.

Santa:  And what's the lesson?

Bill:  Don't smoke in bed?

Santa:  No, come on...

Bill:  Do I have to say it?

Santa:  Well, some of your readers are pretty dense.  Say it like you're talking to Switsky, so you have to explain it to him.

Bill:  Okay.  Fine.  Thank you for another year of reading my blog.  I hope you enjoyed A Christmas Tale.  And I hope when I get rich and famous and win my first Pulitzer, I will remember the days when most of my writing was simply making fun of my friends.

Happy holidays.

Comments

[LegFuJohnson]

You campaigned for President Jeter.

[switsky]

How come Muller is never mentioned in these things

[jill]

excellent 3 parter. only thing that's wrong is the longer larry waits the bigger the diamond

[Aaron's Dad]

I didn't find any of that stuff about contracting the Seahawks funny at all.