The Christmas Trust
M. Matheson
Copyright 2014 Michael Matheson
ISBN: 9781310917219
The Christmas Trust
Monday, December 1st
Well, it’s finally here, the very long slow slide into Christmas Day. Whoopee! Can you see my apathetic index finger twirling circles in the air?
I scoop last-minute items from my desk into my briefcase, preparing for the drive home, when my phone buzzes to signal a new text message:
Today 4:57 PM
Hey Hon! Christmas is finally here!
(Like I couldn’t smell it coming.
I can picture her squirming and grinning as she types. God love her.)
Help keep our tradition alive, would ya, and
bring home a big load of Choco-Santas?
Thanks Luv Ya SMOOCH
Did you note the time? She knows exactly what she is doing, making double sure to catch me before I left work. What a sweetheart... Choco-Santas it is. Honestly, I’m not exactly sure what it is about this errand that irritates me so much: The framing of a demand as a request, THE SMOOCH, or the banging of the gun that starts the twenty-five day run up to bloody Christmas? It’s not the Choco-Santas; I love those. As much of a scrooge as I am, I love the Christmassy look, the color-printed foil wrapped around marshmallow-filled chocolate Santa sarcophagi. Dead Santa treats. It’s our tradition from the old days.
The gargantuan corporation that owns this gaudy emporium of overpriced junk has a lot of nerve calling it a drugstore. It’s packed to the rafters with crap you see on TV late at night: zit cream, batteries that last forever, and cheap pre-broken $5.95 headphones with AWESOME bass sound just like being there. But wait – there’s more! Mixed in with all that useless junk is stuff you really need sold at twice the price of TARGET, which is either closed or farther than you care to drive.
Where else would you find Choco-Santas?
The parking lot is a hive of activity; a whole gaggle of homeless predators expand and contract around innocent, cringing patrons every time the entryway doors slide open or closed. No doubt the bums have learned to capitalize on the Christmas spirit, but I cleared their grimy gauntlet without giving up so much as one dollar. Yes! (I high-five the air.)
My last test before I am proven man enough to pop through the rectum of this...store is a woman thirty years younger than she appears, likely through the courtesy of methamphetamine; one hand is held out in a pathetic wordless plea as the other tugs at the arm of a tangle-haired blonde girl about five years old, yanking her around so hard it makes me wince. My feelings slip from sympathy to a strong desire to slap some sense into that mother.
Inside the store, I’m bushwhacked by yet three more panhandlers – first in the candy aisle and then at the refrigerator while I search for caffeine-laced energy drinks. Should I expect some kind of peaceful sanctuary inside the store? I thought to complain about these creeps, but complaining about homeless people during the high holy holiday month of Christmas is sure to put me on Santa's naughty list, so I zip my lip.
It’s the final stretch to the register and I’ve moved from thirty-third to third in line in something like twenty minutes. One last scruffy deadbeat zooms in on me like a turkey vulture after a dead rat, and I'm thinking I might just punch him in the mouth before he opens his, but oddly, this one's better dressed, in a matched suit no less. His once-expensive clothes are torn at the knees and split someplace along every seam, not to mention the ground-in soot and grime. I decide to pardon him, since his skills at the con are bumbling compared to the rest. Give him another month on the streets and he’ll be a pro. Then I’ll punch him, when it’s not Christmas.
"Hey, Mac! Hey, Mac! Can you spare a buck or two so I can get something to eat?" He just stands there with this forlorn look like the world has dealt him the world’s crappiest hand.
"First off—the name’s not Mac!” I snap back hot and sharp. “It's MARVIN," at which he flinches like I have drawn back to hit him. Something familiar about this guy sets bells, chimes, and flags waving in my head, but for all that noise and fanfare, I can’t place it.
“Did you say Marvin?” he asks, and then his face screws up in a knot as his words trail off like cold, sleepy drool and his countenance falls even closer to the floor.
“Yeah, buddy. So what?”
"Sorry, Mac! Sorry, Mac!"
At that, he turns on his heels and takes off like he's seen a ghost. If the cops are after him, fat chance he'll ever get away; as he runs, his legs spray out to all sides like a cock-eyed windmill, and another tic of familiarity digs away like a worm at the front of my brain.
“Hey, Mister, you gonna buy those?” My mouth hangs open, and there’s a gap the size of the Red Sea between the checker and me. His New York accent is thick, and he points his scanner towards my load of Choco-Santas. “C’mon, man! There are people behind you.”
His arms are crossed and his foot is tapping. I shoot him my best I-am-your-boss look.
"Hey, pal, who's the customer here? Go back to New York if you wanna get away with that kind of lip." I plop my slowly softening load on the counter.
“Thirty-six dollars and seventy-eight cents.”
Why didn’t I follow my intuition and double bag? The handle on one sack breaks even before I step through the automatic doors, into the seething night. The murky windows are smeared with grime, but I can still see the pinwheel panhandler trying to make it across the parking lot.
Is it Christmas...Really?