It could be just me, but does anyone really know what the Who’s down in Whoville are singing on Christmas day??
The Day After…
Day two of my Christmas present to you all. Enjoy the read. This is titled, The Day After…
It is what it is. Just another day to most, but for those who have little to nothing, Boxing Day was Christmas, Easter and Birthdays all rolled up into one. For me it just means junk, trash, garbage, all out by the road and waiting for me to pick up. I try to wait until later in the day so those less fortunate can pick through the stuff the wealthy no longer want. It also helps me extend the day on into evening when my delivery is to be made.
I see them in the streets, their heavy rags like blankets, their bodies bent. They always take care to pay attention to their surroundings—some of the rich play pranks on the homeless or run them away from their precious leftovers, as if even their trash is too good for the downtrodden. I hate them the most and they are my targets.
Today it’s Mr. Barnheardt, the older gentleman with the perfect silver hair and tan skin, who doesn’t look or act his near seventy years of age. He puts nice stuff out beside the road—a tease for the wayward souls who have nothing. When they come snooping he chases them off with a cane or when he is feeling especially vile, his shotgun. Today he’s using the gun. I guess the homeless have figured out he’s older than he looks and no longer fear the cane. Looks like he may have figured this out as well.
I pull up in my van, no longer waiting for the vagrants to visit him. I get out and start rummaging through the goods. And they are indeed good. A nice lamp, a cushioned chair, a silver cigar case, a couple of Cubans still inside, nice shirts and clothes, even a pair of leather wingtips.
He sees me and comes out of his house. Yeah, he has the shotgun in hand. I act like I don’t see him, hoping he doesn’t take aim and pull the trigger. I don’t think the gun is loaded, but I’m not all that certain it’s not.
He’s yelling at me. I glance at him. His tanned face is reddening and he hurries down the steps of his porch. I pick up the lamp and gaze at it a moment before throwing it in the road. It shatters, bits and pieces of crystal skitter about the black top.
That does it for Barnheardt. He’s marching this way, his shotgun held in both hands. He stops ten feet from me and yells something about getting off his property or he will shoot me, put the damn gun to my head and pull the damn trigger. I nod and pick up the cigar case. I open it, take out one of the cigars and tuck it between my lips.
“You gotta light?” I ask.
He yells more, his voice rising and steps a little closer. I guess he doesn’t have a light after all and I search myself for a match. I know I don’t have one, but I do have something else in my coat pocket. I turn around, reach in and pull it out. I flip it on and turn around to see Barnheardt approaching me. He sticks the barrel in my stomach and sneers at me.
I taze him.
Barnheardt jitterbugs and screams. Spittle flies from his old mouth. I step forward and kick him in the head twice. Two teeth pop out and blood spills from his nose and mouth.
“Shut up.”
I look around. No one in their right mind is going to say anything. Then again, you never know what people are capable of doing. I lift him over my shoulder and carry him to the van. I take the cigars with me.
Night creeps up and I drive along a country road that’s not much more than a dirt path with deep ruts. The van vibrates so hard I think it’s going to fall apart before I get the goods delivered.
The house is beyond creepy, its windows boarded up, the porch planks rotted away, the steps are crumbling cement. The door hangs on by one hinge, the blackness beyond it not inviting at all. Weeds and dead plants dot the yard.
I get out the van and hurry to the side door. Barnheardt is still dazed and not sure of where he is. I tie his hands and feet and roll him onto his side. I duct tape his mouth shut. I lift him over my shoulder and carry him across the yard. My feet sink into the soft dirt and my skin crawls.
At the edge of the house I set him down. I lift his hands set them in a spike, securing him to the porch so he can’t escape. He’s fully awake now and making all sorts of screaming noises. Thank goodness for the tape. I yank it off and put my hands to his lips.
“You want to be quiet right now, buddy,” I say.
“Don’t tell me what I want—” he starts.
I punch him hard in the nose. It breaks and blood spills down his face and the front of his shirt. Barnheardt cries and moans and cusses.
“I’m telling you, you want to be quiet right about now.”
He ignores me. What am I to do? I shrug and walk back to my van. I lock the doors and turn the vehicle around. From where I sit I can see them rising, the corpses of the family I used to be a part of it. My wife is the first from her hole, her blond hair hanging in clumps from her skull. She’s still beautiful even with her face sunken in and her breasts sagging and maggot eaten.
The kids follow her lead and stumble their way to the porch, to Barnheardt. He screams as they approach him, gets louder as they take their first bites. I smile. It’s nice seeing the family eat together again.
“Happy Boxing Day,” I say and drive off.
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Not Like It Used To Be…
Since Christmas is just a few days away, I thought I would entertain you all with a few Christmas stories, kind of like a gift from me to you. Enjoy them. Leave comments if you will. Oh, and Merry Christmas…
Not Like It Used To Be
By AJ Brown
Families line the streets, kids bundled in coats, hats, gloves and blankets. Adults stand or sit in folding chairs, hands in pockets or laps, their excitement matching the children’s. A chill hugs each person tight. Teeth clatter, legs shake and dance; people trying to stay warm. Hot chocolate and coffee work for a while but fade, leaving shivers along spines.
“How much longer, Momma?” they asks, young eyes and hearts waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elf or reindeer or even Santa Clause. Maybe some candy will get tossed their way.
“Not much longer,” mothers and fathers announce, some happily, others with a chagrin that sits in their stomachs like heavy rocks. Christmas isn’t like it was when they were kids, back when December meant presents and eggnog and feasts, parties and family get-togethers, Christmas lights and holiday specials on television. Snow-filled streets meant sledding and snowmen, snow angels and snow ball fights.
There’s no snow this year; streets are covered in dust and dirt, debris from crumbling buildings, worn by time, weather and the passing wars. Few trees have stood the test of bombs and bullets. Fewer windows remain intact.
A breeze blows along Main Street, lifting grit and trash into the air. Many cover their faces, kids cry out from the sting of sand in eyes; some adults shake their heads and wonder why others choose not to wear protective goggles.
“Here they come,” a kid shouts, others echo his words. Eyes open wide in anticipation and little ones squirm in their seats; blankets come off as they stomp their feet, kicking up clouds of dust.
Down the street a truck appears, adorned in reds and greens, its lights shining. The driver honks and waves a meaty hand as he passes through the crowd of onlookers. Three fingers are missing. A pinky and thumb form an odd L shape. “Merry Christmas,” he bellows. It comes out “Mare-wee Cwis-moss.”
The next vehicle inches along, yellow and orange lights cling to its exterior. The top of the car is missing, shorn off pieces of metal still jut out where the top use to be. A real beauty sits on the trunk, her feet inside the car. Her blond hair is singed at the ends, her once youthful face scarred on one side, an eye drooping, the eyebrow gone. A rusty crown sits atop her head. An unraveling sash across her faded blue dress reads “Miss WW III 2038.” She smiles; her teeth are missing.
A marching band follows, horribly out of sync, no rhythm, none of them marching in unison with the ones in front, behind or beside them. Damaged horns squeak and squeal, bells clatter, hollow drums are rapped on with broken sticks from fallen trees, all forming a cacophony of noise that no amount of rehearsing could fix. Some of them are missing limbs, a foot here, an arm there, both legs over there, being pulled along in a wheel chair by a man with no arms and a limp. Distorted faces and twisted torsos make the rag tag orchestra a crowd favorite. Several other bands would follow, strategically placed along the length of the parade, but none quite like this one.
A semi pulling a trailer creeps up the street. Women dressed in red and white striped bathing suits dance along poles to ancient Christmas Carols that few of the children have ever heard. Adults sing along to Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer and Holly Jolly Christmas. Few even notice the women. The new wave of freaks stare out at nothing as they dance, cringing with fear at those gawking at them. Tears fill their crystal blue, green and brown eyes.
Cars proclaiming the holiday season inch along, large men behind the wheels, motorcycle riders doing wheelies and criss-crossing figure eights careen about, almost going into the crowds, but pulling back at the last moment, much to the dismay of the thousands of onlookers. It is rumored that once a year a bike goes off course, taking out several spectators to the delight of those who are fortunate enough to take in the carnage. Smoke billows from rusty mufflers, engines growl, spit and sputter during turns but none of the bikes slide out of control, maiming or killing folks along the streets. Children poke out their lips. The pain would be worth not being like the freaks dancing on poles for men and women alike to ogle and insult, to abuse as they see fit when the parade is over.
The first hour pushes well into the second one. As the end draws near a burnt orange fire truck looms in the distance, its tires dirty, ladder crusted in grime and rust. A wooden chair sits at the back, elevated. A large man with blush red cheeks and flowing white and gray hair, a beard down to his stomach and a red jump suit sits on the throne. A hole is in one knee, no black belt at the waist. His black boots are scuffed and his red cap is missing the dangly white ball that should be attached to its tip. At his feet sit several packages and bags, wrapped in newsprint and tied with twine.
The children scream, “It’s Santa Clause.” They laugh and cheer and clap; some of the adults cry. Santa didn’t look like this when they were kids. He wasn’t a scraggly old man whose rosy cheeks came from drinking a pint of illegal liquor before the Christmas parade. He wasn’t a man with a sack not full of goodies, but something much worse. He wasn’t this vision of insanity that the younger people know and love—the only thing they know and love about Christmas these days.
The fire truck stops. Santa stands, reaches behind his throne, hefting a gray bag onto his shoulders. He waves a black glove at the crowd as he turns in a circle, a toothless smile noticeable even with the thick tufts of gray and white that cover most of his face from ears down. His eyes fall on a group of people huddling around a metal barrel, flames licking up from it. They warm their hands and roast marshmallows; the perfect picture of happiness.
Santa points. “Onward, Rudolph.”
The fire truck veers to the left as the driver mashes the gas. The engine revs, the truck lurches forward, black smoke spills from the exhaust. Bodies scatter as the grill and bumper strikes the crowd. A brilliant flash of orange, yellow and red emits from Santa Clause’s bag of gifts. The explosion follows, ripping the back of the fire truck apart. Santa evaporates in a spray of metal, flesh and fake presents. The front of the truck smashes into a dilapidated building. It collapses, brick, metal and glass tumbling to the ground, taking with it several more people and kicking up a large dust cloud. Fire engulfs the truck, the building and many onlookers, others scramble about, searching for body parts, tossing pieces aside, frantically looking for…
“I found it,” a woman yells and lifts Santa’s head from a pile of rubble. His jaw is missing, along with one ear. An eye dangles from an empty socket. Her family and friends pat her on the back, congratulating her, some grudgingly, others with the genuine sincerity only offered by loved ones.
A collective groan emits from those seeking the Christmas prize. People gather their blankets and meager belongings. Kids shuffle with parents back to their cold homes, devoid of windows and heat, misery greeting them at their doorways.
A green car pulls alongside the woman, the back door opens but no one gets out. The woman hugs her family, tears streaming from her eyes.
“I’ll miss you all,” she says and steps toward the car.
“We love you, Mommy,” one little girl says and hugs her leg tight. She lets go, steps back. “You’ll be the best Santa ever.”
“You bet I will,” she says and lifts Santa’s head high in the air before stepping into the car. It speeds off, leaving the family waving. The little girl bends down, picks up Santa’s stocking cap, turns it over in her hands, places it on her head.
“Daddy, do you think I’ll ever be Santa Clause?”
Her dad kneels, puts both hands on her shoulders. “Anything’s possible, sweetheart. Anything’s possible.”
The family leaves, father and daughter holding hands. They chatter about the parade, the fireworks and wonder about the body count. Still, some parents, some adults stand, shocked, dismayed by the events. Christmas wasn’t like this when they were kids . . .
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A Trip To Clemson and A Great Show
I live in a state dominated by Gamecocks. No, not the rooster these birds are named after, but University of South Carolina Gamecocks. This is, in and of itself, sometimes irritating. Sometimes these fans can be overly obnoxious, but really aren’t all fans of sports teams that way from time to time? I’ve often found it interesting that in a state where we’re often last in a lot of important categories, that the state namesake university generally isn’t all that good in succeeding in the arena of sports.
Until this year when expectations were exceeded tremendously. The USC baseball team won the College World Series. The soccer team lost in the quarterfinals to Michigan (GO BLUE!) and the football squad won nine games and made their first ever trip to the SEC Championship game. At this time, we will refrain from discussing the results of that game…
I would like to also note that South Carolina is the only state where a woman can wear the word COCK on her shirt or shorts and it not be considered sexual harassment. Any other state and those little ladies go to jail. Just saying. Lots of crude jokes could be made here, but I will refrain. Just the other day I was in a store and I saw a rather round woman with the word between her ample breasts. Literally—right in the middle… This is not a vision I wished to have seen. Please have some common sense about where you wear your cocks, okay? Well, it looks like I didn’t refrain very well.
Just down the road a bit—about 130 miles or so—is another big college by the name of Clemson. There are fewer Clemson Tiger fans here in weird weathered South Carolina, but not by much. They wear their orange and purple with pride.
The two schools are significantly different from one another (and I won’t get into how here), but one thing is for certain: their fans hate the rival teams.
I am neither a Clemson nor a Gamecock fan so my allegiances go to neither school.
However…
This past Monday (December 13th), a group of kids from my daughter’s school loaded up on a charter bus, along with around six teachers and they took a trip to Clemson. Picture this brief scene if you can:
It’s cold, the wind is kicking at around 15-20 miles an hour. The sun is still tucked away in his bed. Along the side of the school, which sits smack dab in the middle of a quiet neighborhood, is a charter bus, its lights on, engine running. Adults are carrying snacks and ice onto this bus while the 24 kids that make up the Arts Unlimited group, pile on, find seats and chitter chatter in excitement. The bus pulls away from the school, stops momentarily, giving the parents in the cars following a slight minute of worry. Did the bus break down? Did they forget something? Oh, wait, they just need to pick up the principal. Whew… and off they go…
This was the scene Monday as the trip to Clemson University began on a cold, blustery morning. Half a school year’s worth of anticipation had finally arrived and the trip had begun. My wife, Catherine, and I followed behind the bus, our 11 year-old Nissan Sentra doing a nice job of keeping up with the bus driver and the other vehicles in our mini convoy. Insert Convoy music here, if you like… If not, read on…
We thought it was cold in Gamecock Country. Upon arriving in Clemson, the cold air bit into our bones. My knees, ankles and back still hurt and its days later. We thawed out while sitting in the Brooks Center waiting for the 10:30 a.m. performance in front of 500 children to begin. The Arts Unlimited group appeared on stage, did their routine flawlessly. They smiled, they sang, they held up their hand-made signs and waved to the cheering crowd as they exited stage right. I believe we parents cheered the loudest.
Let me stop here for a second and give an explanation of things. The original plan was for Arts Unlimited to do the 10:30 performance and go on a tour of the campus and then head home, probably arriving back at the school around six or seven that night. Ah, but wait. The plan—as they always do—changed.
It turns out that they were actually opening for Natalie MacMaster, an award winning and Grammy nominated fiddle player from a little town called Cape Breton in Nova Scotia. If you know not where that is, then, as she told the children, have your teachers help you find it on the map. If you don’t have a teacher, well, look it up on the Internet—it’s a lot closer than you may think.
(For Natalie MacMaster’s website, go here: Natalie MacMaster )
After the morning performance, the campus tour began. Again, let me stop here for one second. Clemson, for lack of a better term, is a giant wind tunnel. It was around 28 degrees at about 11:30 that morning. With the wind gusts, it made it feel like oh, maybe, 2 degrees. So, to say it was cold is an understatement. I am very hot natured, so the summer and I sometimes are not good companions. However, I’m usually best buds with Ma Winter. So, if I say it was cold, then it was cold. Actually, it was fre… free…. freez… it was so cold my words froze up.
Now that you know how cold it was, you must also know that the tour of the campus was supposed to be by bus, which would have been terrific.
Yeah…
The walking tour lasted about an hour and a half to two hours. We were all peepsicles by the time we were finished. But, it was well worth the frozen digits and aching bones. The campus is beautiful, Tillman Hall is grand and Memorial Stadium (better known as Death Valley) is really nice. It’s not as big as I thought, but it is a very nice stadium. It sits at the bottom of a hill—a valley, if you will. We entered the stadium at the East end zone and walked across to where Howard’s Rock sits. There is significant history to Howard’s Rock, but really, all you need to know at the moment is that the Clemson Tiger football players rub it for good luck before they run onto the field. It’s been said that Frank Howard told the players something like, “If you’re going to give 110 percent, you can rub my rock. If you’re not, keep your filthy hands off of it.” (This is according to longtime sports information director, Bob Bradley).
Howard’s rock sits on a granite pedestal and is enclosed in what I am guessing is a Plexiglas box, held closed by a lock. Come a little closer. Yeah, a little more. Guess what happened? An official for Clemson University came to the field, unlocked the rock and let us… rub Howard’s Rock. (Oh, just get your mind out of the gutter) The significance of this was lost on the eight, nine and ten year olds, but for the adults, this was huge. This was tradition. Rubbing the rock has been mentioned as the most exciting thirty seconds in college football (at least to Clemson fans). I had seen this many times, having watched quite a few Clemson games in my lifetime and just thinking about touching the rock gave me goose bumps (that and the wind trying to knock me down the hill).
Another little side note: Later that day, as the kids were resting, the parents had two to three hours that they could pretty much do as they wanted. Catherine and I went out to eat and then drove around the campus to get some nighttime pictures. We drove toward the stadium, got turned around and came across the entrance to a cemetery. First off, Catherine and I love cemeteries—morbid, I know. Second, this cemetery is right outside the stadium, literally. There are entrances to the stadium no more than fifty yards from the cemetery. I kind of laughed when I saw this. I turned to Catherine and said, “I guess this is why they call it Death Valley.”
Who knew?
Back to the story.
From the stadium we made our way toward Tillman Hall and the Clemson University Memorial Carillon. The Carillon consist of 47 handcrafted bells and sits atop Tillman Hall. It is an elevator ride up to the fourth floor and then three flights of steps to the room where the controls to the Carillon are. This may not seem like a big deal to some, but considering only about 10 students a year since 1999 get to ring the bells, our group of West Columbians were treated to the opportunity to do just that: ring the Carillon bells. It was one of the highlights of the day, including when the principal rang out Mary Had A Little Lamb.
During lunch in one of the Clemson food courts one of the workers at the Papa John’s Pizza entertained several of the kids by acting like a mime behind the Plexiglas wall between him and the dining section. I was surprised to hear three of the six boys in the group sitting at a table practicing their songs and not paying attention to Mr. Clownaround. There’s dedication for you. The three boys sounded really good, even if they were trying to keep their voices down.
After lunch we made our way over to the Brooks Center and was given a tour of the building and it’s many rooms, including the dance studio, changing rooms, a computer lab and the costume room where shoes lined shelves along the walls. One of the boys chimed out, “Look at those Lady GaGa shoes.” You mean they actually noticed her shoes?
Our tour guides, Glenn and Sally, also took us to a room painted completely black. They call it The Black Box.
“What’s it for?” one student asked.
“It’s where we torture people,” Glenn said.
“Which people?”
“Fourth and fifth graders.”
I’ve never seen kids scatter so quickly…
Actually, the room is like an empty rehearsal room used so people can create a scene the way they need to before recreating it on stage.
The tour ended there for the parents, as the kids did a sound check and then went for a brief rest before supper. For the next three hours we were on our own in the blustery cold.
When it came time for the show, we arrived about an hour early, found another couple from our group and chatted for a while. The doors opened, and like a bunch of sheep to the slaughter, we hurried in, found our seats and sat… and sat… and sat… Understand something: It was almost eight o’clock and most of us had been up since around five that morning. We had hustled and bustled and not slowed down all day long. Here it was fifteen hours later and we finally had a chance to take a load off. A half an hour of sitting and waiting was not a good thing. Eyes started drooping, heads started nodding…
And then the show began. Natalie MacMaster and her band opened up with a slow piece that, at any other time would have been great, but with us tired parents in the balcony and the lights off, it was a recipe for sleep induction. Then the tempo picked up and we were wide awake for the rest of the show.
A quick note: Not only is Natalie MacMaster an awesome fiddle player, but she’s funny as well. At the time of the show she was pregnant and due in mid-January, less than five weeks away. She wore a glittery red shirt. At one point, she talked of her unborn child and how her belly looked like a disco ball. The band struck up a few disco chords as she slowly spun in a circle, letting the spotlight shimmer off her clothes, much like… well, a disco ball.
Intermission came and went and our kids eventually appeared on stage. They sang… and you could hear dead silence from the audience. From the opening chords of Silent Night to the last bit of Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer the children sounded like an angelic choir. As they left the stage, the place erupted, again with us parents cheering the loudest. You would never have known these 24 kids didn’t actually practice with the band up to that point. They had the one sound check and that was all.
It was amazing.
I’ve attempted to put into words how great the day was, how terrific we were treated and I don’t think I did such a good job of it. As my daughter said on the way home that night, “It was flabbergasting.”
Yes, Chloe, flabbergasted may be as good a term as any. Though I don’t think the meaning is the same, I know what she meant.
To Sally and Glenn, our wonderful guides, thank you for the great day you provided us. Thank you for getting down on the level of these fourth and fifth graders; for being patient with them; for making them laugh at your jokes and keeping them completely interested in what you had to say and show them. And to Clemson University, you guys are awesome, in every way, shape and form. I think you guys may have garnered some new fans in many of these kids. I know you have in at least two parents…
Thank you for reading. For now, I’m AJ and I’m out.
Oh and Merry Christmas…
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A Day In the Life
“What do you think we’ll get for Christmas this year?”
It was on every kid’s mind—always is, it seems, in early December, when the young children are thinking of Santa Clause and the older ones know better. Still, whether believing or not, there were hopes of presents under trees and no school for two weeks. Christmas break was still two weeks away and the temperatures had dipped a little toward the end of 1980.
Jimmy and I made our way down Evans Street, having turned off of our road a couple of blocks earlier. At the end of Evans was a store appropriately named after the area—Broadacres. It was where we went before or after school, depending no how much money we had for lunch, or even if we ate lunch on any particular day.
The parking lot was crumbled concrete dotted with plenty of pebbles that crunched under foot. The building itself was a block structure, painted light yellow with a green awning that stretched along its front side. One door lead in and out. A bell jingled every time it was opened.
We were just outside the parking lot, still on the black top of Evans Street when I asked Jimmy that question. He shrugged, his denim jacket moving up and down with his shoulders. “I don’t know. Mom said money’s tight so who knows?’
“What about Santa Clause? Do you think money is tight for him, too?”
He stopped, looked at me for a minute, then smiled. “I doubt it—Santa has all those elves that make the toys anyway, so maybe we’ll get something good this year.”
This year? Jimmy had reached the beginning stages of branching out, becoming his own person. He had become less of a jovial prankster and more of a brooding pre-teen waiting for childhood to be over. We had grown apart—from being the Dynamic Duo to just being brothers, me the pest who wanted to tag along with the brother I worshipped and him wishing I would just leave him alone. Or, at the very least, have Mom tell me to leave him alone instead of her constantly on him about keeping up with me. Those words said so much more than he thought they did. In the end, he hadn’t dashed my hopes of there still being a Santa Clause, of joyful ignorance on Christmas day.
I’ll always have that…
We rounded the corner and went into Broadacres, the bell jingle-jangled as the door opened and closed. The place smelled like old people—at least what we associated with the elderly at the time: dusty, musty and stale. Mr. Haggarty sat behind the counter, his eyes like glass, his massive bulk hanging over the sides of the stool he was on. We went straight to the candy aisle, started picking out boxes of lemonheads and packs of Hubba Bubba bubblegum.
“What about grape?” I asked.
“Hush, Dwight,” Jimmy said, put his hand up. He was staring at Mr. Haggerty. I peeked past Jimmy’s shoulder toward the front counter, which was more of a boxed in square where Mr. Haggerty rang up the customers and doled out cigarettes to talking buddies.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Be quiet,” Jimmy responded, walked toward the counter.
Jimmy and Mr. Haggerty’s eyes met. I could see the heavy pull of Mr. Haggerty’s lips, how they stretched into a frown that made his entire face look as if it were crying. He reached over, turned the radio up so Jimmy and I could hear. The announcer’s voice was soft, filled with tears as he spoke words I’ll never forget.
Again, John Lennon, formerly of the Beatles, is dead…
I didn’t realize the gravity of those words. I was ten. It was 1980, when kids were still kids at that age and not little adults of unforeseen futures. I knew what dead was—my great grandfather had died a couple of years earlier. I had been sad for days after that. But, then life went on, I went on and his absence grew less and less painful. But, Lennon dead meant little to me. I knew who the Beatles were—Mom and Dad had several of their albums, but Lennon… Lennon didn’t ring a bell.
Jimmy knew who he was.
I stood, quietly, waiting for Jimmy to say I could talk again, waiting to purchase my candies so I could get on to school.
Mr. Haggerty shook his head. “It’s a shame,” he said and wiped tears from his eyes.
A moment later the announcer became quiet and a song began to play. I knew the first chords immediately. Before the lyrics could start, Jimmy ducked out of the store.
“Hey, wait up,” I said and took off after him. By the time I rounded the corner he had left the parking lot and was walking fast. I yelled for him to wait up, but instead he started to run, his book bag bouncing from side to side on his back. I ran after him, trying to get him to slow down, yelling that school was in the other direction, that we would be late if he didn’t stop and turn around.
He reached home long before I did. We were in trouble and I knew it—the tardy bell would have rung by then and there was no way we could get there and not miss most of first period. Out of breath I stumbled through the front door and dropped my pack to the floor.
Jimmy stood in the hall at the record cabinet. He had switched on the turntable and placed the needle on the record. The opening chords to the song from the radio at Broadacres began.
Jimmy sang along, tears in his words.
I read the news today o boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
I just had to laugh…
I saw the photograph
He blew his mind out in a car
He didn’t notice that the lights had changed
A crowd of people stood and stared
They’d seen his face before…
“Jimmy?” I approached him carefully. He held the vinyl’s cover in both arms, clutched tight to his chest. “Jimmy, what’s wrong?”
He lifted the needle from the record and shook his head. He sniffled, turned to me. His face was red and streaked with tears. “John Lennon’s dead.”
“Who’s John Lennon?”
Jimmy said nothing. Instead, he put the needle back on the record, picking up Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band in mid-song. “It’s him. It’s all of them.”
“But, that’s the Beatles.”
“He was the Beatles.”
Jimmy lifted the needle, put it back on the original song, A Day In the Life. He sang with the Beatles, with the now deceased John Lennon. He cried. I cried. Not because Lennon had meant something to me. I was ten, remember? I cried because he cried and if Jimmy was sad, it had to be bad.
It was December ninth—Lennon had been killed the night before—and Christmas was just around the corner. That year Santa Clause was good to us, especially Jimmy, who had listened to the Beatles nonstop since Lennon’s death. In a flat box, wrapped in red was the special gift left by the jolly guy himself. Jimmy peeled away the wrapper and stared at the album. It was Lennon’s ‘Imagine.’
For me there was no special package to soothe whatever ailed me. There were only generic packages with toys in them. It was then I realized the truth about Christmas; it was then that my childhood fantasies were shattered.
That afternoon I peeked into Jimmy’s room. He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling while John Lennon sang “I Don’t Wanna Be A Soldier Momma.”
“Jimmy?”
He looked at me, one eye closed as if he had been sleeping. “Yeah?”
“There’s no such thing as Santa Clause is there?”
He frowned, shrugged that goofy shrug of his. “No. I guess not.”
I gave a nod. My heart was broken then, just as his was. “Can I come in? Maybe listen to John Lennon?”
Another shrug and then, “Yeah, sure.”
For the next few hours, we sat in silence, Jimmy on his bed and staring at the ceiling and me on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around them. Every once in a while Jimmy would flip the album over and go back to lying quietly on his bed, his thoughts a million miles away. It was the last time he and I shared more than ten minutes in a room together without arguing or fighting. It was the end of the innocence of my childhood.
I sit back now, some thirty years later, remembering that cold winter and another song comes to mind. Yeah, it’s a Beatles tune—when you grew up to them, they’re kind of special to you. I played the song before leaving the house this morning, intent on ending a long cold spell, spanning three decades. Maybe Lennon knew something when he sang about people living life in peace. But, maybe he knew even more when the Beatles sang of the sun coming after a long lonely winter.
Here comes the sun, Jimmy. Here comes the sun, and I say… It’s all right…
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The Christmas Season and Pink is My Favorite Crayon
The holiday season is upon us…
(Herbie: Whoa, whoa, whoa… Hold on there, big fellah. Holiday season? Seriously? Have you become like the rest of the world and have chosen to go all generic with the way you view this time of year? Shame on you…)
Okay, okay. Let me back up and start this over.
The CHRISTMAS season is upon us. Better?
(Herbie: Much.)
For anyone I may have offended with my use of the word Christmas: Oh well. I don’t know when Christmas stopped being Christmas and started being the ‘Holidays’ but for me, it will always be Christmas. I’m not going to be politically incorrect and say Happy Holidays to folks. If anyone chooses to correct me, I will, in turn, correct them. In America, it is Christmas. Has been for years and years and years.
I know this country is a melting pot of many religions and nationalities and I ‘get’ the point to saying Happy Holidays. No one wants to be offended. I get that. But, you know, maybe hearing Happy Holidays instead of Merry Christmas is… oh, I don’t know… offensive to me, to how I was raised. Have any of you politically incorrect people thought about that? Maybe… just maybe… those of us who were raised with Christmas don’t like hearing that day relegated to a Happy Holiday.
Christmas is on the 25th of December. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. Kwanzaa falls on the 26th. Hanukkah falls from December 1st through the 9th of this year—as Adam Sandler sings, it’s eight crazy nights. So, the argument can be made that from Thanksgiving through January 1st, it is the Holiday Season.
As Lee Corso puts it, ‘Not so fast.’ My argument to all of this is, since this country is such an expansive melting pot, why isn’t all year considered the ‘Holiday Season?’ Go through the calendar. If you take every nationality and religion that is held within the borders of America in to account, every other day is practically a holiday. I’m sure atheists have a holiday akin to Christmas. I don’t know what it is, but there is one, isn’t there? And those happy folks, the Satanists, they have holidays, right? I tend to think Black Friday had to be one of theirs and they’re probably pissed off that realtors around the world have stolen it for the ‘biggest shopping day of the year.’ There are millions of people out there who believe the day after the Super Bowl is a holiday.
Let’s be honest here. Doesn’t the Holiday Season really start around the second week of October? Isn’t that when we start seeing colors of red and green and gold begin popping up? Isn’t that around the time that stores start advertising their holiday specials? Isn’t that when finding stuff for Halloween becomes more and more difficult as each year passes? Pretty soon, we really will have Christmas in July.
I get it. Happy Holidays and all that. I really do. But, for me, it is Merry Christmas. For me it will always be Merry Christmas. So, don’t correct me. You say Happy Holidays if you like. I will continue to say Merry Christmas. After all, Christmas is supposed to be the celebration of the birth of Jesus. It’s not supposed to be a holiday where people exchange gifts, sing about Santa Clause, watch football and take time off from work. It’s supposed to be a birthday and whether you believe in Jesus or not, most folks do take time to celebrate the superficial on that day—sadly, not the individual the day is supposed to be about.
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Now that I am off of my soapbox, let’s continue on.
One of my favorite websites is Tales of the Zombie War. If you like the undead walking about, being shot by survivors of the apocalypse, then this is the place for you. Some really great stories, including a couple of mine.
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Staying with the zombie theme for a second here, I was fortunate enough to sit down with Eric S. Brown a couple of weeks ago and chat about the goings on in his life. We discussed zombies and bigfoot—yeah, I know, a great combination. Check it out. Leave a comment or ten, if you will.
Eric S Brown Talks Zombies and Bigfoot
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Now showing on a computer screen near you is my story, Passing Eternity, at SNM Horror Magazine. It placed 2nd, in their every-other month contest. It is the sixth story I have placed at SNM Horror Magazine over the last couple of years. Passing Eternity will also appear in Bonded by Blood III later this month.
Read Passing Eternitys here:
Also, you can still catch my story, The Long Walk, which appeared in the November issue of SNM Horror Magazine.
Read The Long Walk here:
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A few weeks ago I lamented about the real difference between men and women: it’s all in how they stab you. A couple of weeks later I gave an example of this in relaying my thoughts about the Dixie Chicks’ song Goodbye Earl. This week, I further my evidence in this case with Pink’s Please, Don’t Leave Me.
First off, let’s get the fact out the way that Pink is a fairly hot chick. That’s part of the package. Most of the psycho women out there are hot. Pretty simple. Pink falls into this category quite nicely. Watch the video, you’ll see what I mean.
The video starts with a contradiction of sorts. There is Pink in her robe, her love interest trying to gather his belongings and make a get away. She is trying to keep him there by grabbing some of his clothes, yet she sings: “I don’t know if I can yell in louder. How many times have I kicked you out of here or said something insulting?”
At this point, you get the picture that Pink is just a little off in the head—at least according to the video. She’s trying to get him to stay, yet she’s kicked him out multiple times. Make up your wishy washy mind, okay? She follows the man to the stairs, talking about how crazy she can be, how mean she can get when her… heart is broken? Okay…
First off, if a woman tells me she can be mean when she wants to be and she’s capable of really anything, it would make me worry. She actually says, “I can cut you into pieces.” What? I’m sure that guy had to be imagining her cutting him to tiny little bits, maybe tossing him to the piranha that is probably in her swimming pool. I can understand him wanting to get out of there. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t do it while she was sleeping instead of while she was awake.
Caveat #1: Women, just because you are pretty, sexy or both, doesn’t mean you can be psycho and expect to keep your man.
The guy looks at her like she’s lost her mind (which I’m sure she probably had at that point) and backs away. Whoops. There just happens to be marbles on the landing at the top of the stairs. How did those get there? I wonder…
Humpty Dumpty fell to the floor.
Humpty Dumpty didn’t make it to the door.
What I find funny about that portion of the video is that the man had his golf clubs with him. Seriously? You grab your golf clubs when you’re tying to get away from a head case chick and you don’t use them to protect yourself? Moron.
When Pink cocks her head to the side, quizzical expression on her face there is no doubt that she has flown over the nest.
Fast forward slightly to the scene where he comes to and she is sewing up his arm. First off, OUCH! Then she does that sexy little dance.
Caveat #2: Women, us men like it when you dance all sexy-like in those cute little outfits. However, if you are holding a golf clue (which is ironic in and of itself) and saying ‘the one who wins will be the one who hits the hardest,’ it’s not so sexy after all.
Has anyone seen the movie Misery with Kathy Bates and James Caan? You know that scene where Kathy talks about this thing called Hobbling? Oh, you know what I’m talking about. I’m sure Pink has seen this movie after watching her wield that golf club with such precise accuracy.
The next part where she chops up the food (could she be cutting her former lover into pieces here) and the dog attacks the guy really doesn’t say that much to me about her, but more about him. He’s clearly an idiot. You make your break for it when she is not around or asleep. Hello? It’s not like she tied you down or anything. Not at that point, at least.
Onward to the part where she is putting make-up on the guy and she is wearing that frilly little outfit. The guy is in a wheelchair, strapped in for good measure. (See, if he would have left while she slept, this wouldn’t have happened) This is where Pink strikes me as creepy crazy, not just normal crazy. She spins him in circles and pushes him into her audience: a group of dolls set up to watch her insanity play out.
Caveat #3: Men, if you meet a woman who has a bunch of creepy looking baby dolls and/or stuffed animals, run… Don’t walk. Don’t jog. Run. As fast as you can. Move to another state. If you can afford to, move to another country. Change your name, your hair color, your profession. Learn a new language and adapt it as your native tongue. If you can really afford to, go ahead and have that sex change.
The man finally gets smart and runs for his ever loving life. Yet, here comes Pink, conveniently changed from frilly outfit to something that seems to fit the nuts-o state she is in at that point. I guess that’s her killing outfit. However, instead of making his way to the exit, he runs to the bathroom. I’m sorry, but I’m not running to a bathroom and cornering myself for her. If my bladder is full at that point, it just going to have to run down my legs and soak the front of my pants.
Next, Pink does her best “Here’s Johnny” impersonation and, well, the guy finally manages to save himself. If you don’t know what I mean, I’m referring to probably one of the greatest scenes in horror film history:
As the video ends, Pink is still begging him not to leave her. This is nuts in and of itself, since she appears to be dying from the long fall over the banister and to the floor.
I have stated my case fairly well up to this point. Like in the Goodbye Earl song, there is something really funny in this video, besides the obvious intent on being funny. It’s right at the end when the EMS workers have the man strapped on the gurney. One of them sets the bag on the man’s legs. Umm… hello? Victim here, legs are hurt, dude. Do you mind moving your &^%$#** bag?
Now, I would like asks you, the ladies and gentlemen of the jury: do you know of any other warning signs that a woman could be just a little off in the head? If so, would you mind sharing them with us?
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I leave you now for a while. But, I leave you with a link to my story, Mother Weeps, nominated for a Pushcart Award. The story is at a website named, Pow Fast Flash Fiction. Enjoy the read.
Until next time, I’m AJ and I’m out…
Type AJ Negative 