Critical Mass Christmas  

A surprising multitude of quintessential figures descend upon the author to boost Kirk's Christmas cheer. 

 

 

               It was the fortnight before Christmas, in a study deficient of decorations befitting the Christmas holiday, Kirk sat silently at his laptop staring at a blank page not unlike every other pre-Christmas period. Always struggling to write a unique Christmas short story, Kirk racked his brain to come up with that one special Christmas idea that would make for a memorable yuletide story. Writer’s block seemed to form pretty easily this time of year for Kirk hindering him from writing even a single word.

Recalling the whole gambit of Christmas movies, stories, poems, and animation boggled Kirk’s tired brain. His infliction caused ideas to jump from one well-worn Christmas story to another without resolution. For past Christmas’s, Kirk sometimes came up with something linked with short stories he had recently wrote or he adapted a classic story into an acceptable contemporary Christmas take. In the latter cases, Kirk felt like a hack, deeming he plagiarized, ripped off the original so Kirk would ultimately give up, highlight the whole page and hit delete. So there he sat with head in hands staring at a blank page with a like blank mind.

               Abruptly, a sharp rap sounded at his door snapping his thoughts back into reality. Taking a deep breath, Kirk bitterly considered this a blatant violation of his literary chain of thought even though he had nothing in his mind or on the page. With a yank, he pulled open the door thinking that it might be some irritating festive person or a well-wishing relative dropping off a fruitcake. Surprised by the sight, he assessed his totally unexpected visitors.

With an appearance akin the Monopoly man, an elderly man stood there with shaggy white hair sticking out from the sides of a top hat, and all dressed head to toe in a black suit in the style of the Victorians. He held the hand of a small towheaded boy who smiled crookedly up at Kirk.

               “Good afternoon, my good man,” the old visitor said.

               “Hello,” Kirk hesitantly said, expecting the other shoe to drop not knowing what shoe had dropped in the first place.

               “I’m here to ensure that you embrace Christmas spirit fully, for I, after three visitations, embody the Christmas spirit now that my eyes have been fully opened,” the old man said.

               Kirk stood there awestruck before his eyes wandered down to the boy.

               “God bless us everyone,” the boy said serenely. The old man looked down to nod proudly at the boy. 

               “So you can’t write a suitable Christmas story?” the old man asked. “Perhaps you are famished my good man. Can I buy you a fattened goose or perhaps a stuffed turkey to inspire you?” With a jingle, he shook a small cloth sack of coins up at Kirk.

               “I don’t think food would help, but how do you know I’m trying to write?” said Kirk plainly, wondering what really was going.

               “We have ways of knowing these things. Oh look, Timmy, cookies and punch. May we indulge?” The old man asked.

               Kirk spun around. “Where’d they come from? Ah sure, go ahead.”  Just as he had turned from the old man, a series of rapid knocks came from the door. “Now who is it?”

               Kirk answered the door and before him stood a tall, lanky, middle-aged man wearing a shabby suit styled from the 1930’s. He peeked around Kirk to look inside.

               “I must be in the right place. Life is wonderful out here, but may I come in, sir?”

               Stepping aside, he gestured.  

               “Hello, young man,” greeted the old man. “You are certainly in the correct locale. Say, aren’t you the richest man in town?”

               “Yes, I am because I have many friends with money. Cookies! May I?”

               Kirk nodded his permission.

               Kirk didn’t even have a chance to sit down when “Ding Dong!” the door bell rang.

               The little towheaded boy turned to the old man and said, “Grampy Eb! Every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings.”

               “That’s right. That’s right!” The lanky man exclaimed.

               Kirk just stood there disbelieving while opening the door again. There stood a young boy with a Red Ryder B-B gun strapped over his shoulder. Dressed in 1950’s kid’s clothes, the wide-eyed kid had neatly combed blonde hair and big round-framed glasses.  

               “Don’t say anything, just come on in,” Kirk said.

               Kirk hardly had time to consider his visitors standing around in his living room when the door banged three times very loudly. Kirk took a deep breath not knowing what or who to expect on this strange day when all he wanted to do was to sit down and write a simple but unique Christmas story. Kirk’s breath caught; he swallowed hard when he saw who stood there. A strapping man, all sweaty and naked from the waist up had several cuts that bled on his forehead, cheek and torso. The man gave a Kirk a crooked smile and yelled, “Yippee-ki-yay, M-------F------!”

               The old man and the lanky man froze, appearing shocked and severely scandalized.

               “My good man! There will not be profanity uttered here, there are children present!

               “Well, I know on good authority that that boy,” he pointed at the blonde boy, “used the “F” word himself so don’t you lecture me on my language.”

               The half-naked guy turned to Kirk. “You the writer? Why ain’t you writing? Life is hard out there; a man could die waiting for something to happen so you’d better get writing. But remember, you gotta’ have lots of action and close calls in the story, ya’ know?” On a softer note, he said, “Can I come in?”

               “Er, thanks for the advice. Yeah, of course,” Kirk said, stepping aside to let the sweaty and bloody man in. “Do you need medical attention? A few band-aids? A shirt perhaps.”

“Naw, I’ve had worse days. “Yippee-ki-yay--!

Kirk shouted, “stop that!” Cutting him off just in time. “So do you embody the spirit of Christmas as well?”

“Do I look like it to you? No. It just seems I always get involved to do my best work at Christmas time.”  

“Have a cookie, you look like you could use it.”

Kirk turned around, stuck his head out the door, and scanned both ways to see if anyone else lurked outside. The coast appeared clear, so to speak.  

               The half-naked guy surveyed the current situation in Kirk’s living room to ascertain his next move; he singled out the little blonde kid. “Hey kid, you could shoot your eye out with that B-B gun.” He chuckled; the kid looked thoroughly annoyed.

               Even though Kirk had just checked the perimeter, a bumping came from the door. He recognized this individual more on a personal level than the others. He opened the door and in stepped the Christmas donkey. He still wore the Santa hat than made him look like an a*s.

               Kirk hardly got a chance to turn around when a single heavy knock came from the door. With a deep, deep sigh, Kirk opened the door to let a white-bearded man wearing a space suit inside.

The man bellowed, “Yrrem Samtsirhc! Enoyreve!”

Yeah, Kirk now knew he suffered the deep hallucinating doldrums of Christmas stories. Realizing what seemed to be occurring, he just stood there at the door, waiting. A tiny, very faint tapping sounded from the glass on the door. From the faint glow, he knew who this visitor was.

               He opened the door and in fluttered a pastel pink glowing fairy. She flew over to the old Victorian man and the towheaded boy to check them out. The old man started to flail his arms about trying to shoo the fairy away.

               “Hey! You let in a big bug!” He shouted. “I hate bugs! Bah, go away humbug!”

               “No, Grampy Eb,” said the boy, holding onto the one of the old man’s arms. “She’s a fairy.”

               “Huh, a fairy. Is that so? Where’d you come from fairy girl?”

               “I am Moonchild, Fairy Princess. I sprang to life from the mind of that author, there.” She indicated Kirk.

               “Oh really,” said the old man, squinting while appearing skeptical. “I thought he was just a hack writer without an original idea in his head.”

               Moonchild scanned the room. “He also wrote about the origin of Santa Claus, who that man in the spacesuit depicts. Also, the costumed man coming to the door very soon.

                “Have you embraced the true meaning of Christmas?” Moonchild asked the old man. “I now know it well myself after my special human friend Eleanor explained and demonstrated what Christmas truly means.”

               “Of course, my beautiful but thoroughly uninformed, solitary fairy. I have been fully enlightened on the meaning of Christmas for many a year. And how about you there, dear author?”

               “I’m getting the full gist of it now,” said Kirk, holding the door open.

               A fully bedecked Santa strolled in but grease and grime streaked his snowy white beard and grimy stains soiled his suit at the cuffs, knees and elbows.

               “Hey everyone, Merry Christmas! My sleigh is all repaired and ready to fly again in time for Christmas!”

               “YAY!” An ear-shattering cheer erupted from the occupants that crowded Kirk’s living room. Kirk then let in a young deer that Kirk had to shield his eyes from and then a tall gangly green�"creature that wore a huge grin that stretched from pointed ear to pointed ear.

               “I thought you were mean and rotten to the core,” Kirk said.

               “Not anymore since I met the Whos, who embrace the true meaning of Christmas in its entirely and not the dire consumerism of the holiday.”

               “Who’s the Whos?” Asked Moonchild, hovering while keeping her distance from the green creature.

               “Don’t ask. It’s literally a very long story.”

               Just then, another knock came to the door, but it burst right open by a young, conceited appearing boy.

               With a loud, snotty voice, he declared, “I was left home all by myself and thought that I’d come over here to tell you all about what happened and how I handled the situation.”  He noticed the kid with the B-B gun. “I can handle a gun better than you because you’ll probably shoot you eye out!” He smirked.

The kid with the B-B gun went over and shoved the recent visitor. “Prove it, twerp!”

“Now, now, boys calm down,” said the old man, injecting himself between them.

Astonished, Kirk noticed the cookies and punch seemed to be replenishing themselves as fast as his visitors devoured them. The din of festive voices and celebratory sounds filled the air. Turning about he saw an eight-foot animated snowman duck his head to let himself inside. He smoked a corncob pipe and wore a velvet top hat. The donkey eyed up the snowman’s carrot nose.

Kirk noticed the snowman left a trail of melting water on the floor. Just when he thought the flow of visitors had trickled down and the living room seemed full enough to burst, he suddenly heard the loud rat-a-tat-tat of a drum being tormented. In strode a marching boy playing the drum, if the noise in there wasn’t painful enough for his ears already.

The snowman bent over to get a cookie and the donkey suddenly snatched off his carrot nose and began crunching away.

“Hey, you!” the snowman said, sounding stuffy without his nose.

Just when Kirk thought the influx of visitors had ended, a timid knock came from the door. He peeked out and saw just the top of a round head outside. With a sigh, Kirk opened the door. There stood an animated little round-headed boy wearing a pullover sweater with a zig zag pattern on it. The kid had a pitiful, spindly, needle-falling evergreen tree in tow that wasn’t so green anymore. The boy trooped inside.

“This is the tree I picked out for myself because I knew no one else wanted it, but you sir,” the boy glanced around at the room of people, “you need it more than I do. Please, decorate it with these visitors to celebrate the season and learn the true meaning of Christmas.” He came inside and set the tree up which wasn’t much taller than he. With a shiver, the tree shed some more of its few needles.

Kirk then spied a young couple dressed in well-worn robes standing at the door. The woman carried a baby in her arms.

“Kind sir,” the man asked, with pleading eyes. “Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”

“Ah, well, I’m the owner of this, my home,” said Kirk gesturing. “Come in, please.”

“We are travelers with little money. Do you have somewhere we could spend the night for the baby and my wife needs to rest? A spare room, a stable, perhaps?”  

Temporarily taken aback by the scene and the request, Kirk finally found his tongue, “Well, of course! Come in, come in and warm up. I can put you up as long as you want; my house is yours.”  

“Thank you, dearly,” said the woman. The child let out a whimper, and Kirk thought he saw him wink.

Standing there amongst the merry mob, all of Kirk’s visitors gathered around the small pitiful tree and despite their vast differences they all began singing “O Tannenbaum.” The youngest of the visitors began decorating the tree and before too long the tree looked cheery, bright and beautiful. Kirk stood by taking it all in wondering what this conglomeration of visitors meant to him even though he had recognized them all and what they represented.

 A cheerful glow emanated from the luminous tree even though there were no lights plugged into it. Kirk felt a warmth grow within. The festive singing grew louder and louder. The tree grew brighter and brighter until, suddenly, it shimmered so dazzling that Kirk had to shield his eyes.

With sudden inspiration, Kirk sat at his computer. He took a deep breath; a story sprang to life within his mind, but all of a sudden, his ears detected�"silence. The quietness pulled his attention from the screen without him typing a key; he sprang from his chair. 

All was silent; everyone was gone.

There sat the little tree, though it didn’t seem to glow as when everyone was there singing. There lay the empty tray devoid of cookies and the emptied bowl of punch. A trail of water from the melting snowman encircled the room. Kirk felt empty, so alone.

Despite his waning emotions, Kirk knew he had something to write, whether readers thought he was a hack and believed his story was an utter and unadulterated rip-off or not.   

After witnessing his diverse visitors there all together, interacting, Kirk had learned one thing about Christmas that the holiday’s true meaning came down to one thing, and one thing alone,

Christmas means togetherness.