Collections - 10. Chapter 10 -- 1970

1970

The Annual Christmas Message

(Brought to you by Xerox, the most redundant name in advertising)

'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS... No, I'm lying.

'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE THE TWENTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER... Unpoetic, but, nonetheless, what it 'twere.

'TWAS THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER TWENTIETH...

"Where were you on the night of December Twentieth?"

"I was home merrily typing a letter full of cheer and optimism to my friends."

"They read this crap?"

"They have to---they're my friends."

'TWAS TWELVE-TWENTY-SEVENTY, AND ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE... Whew! Made it!

NOT A CREATURE WAS STIRRING... False. My brothers are playing touch football in the living room. My sister's entertaining two guys in her bedroom (I have to have a little talk with my sister). And my parents are doing laundry in the basement.

'TWAS... HELL, YOU KNOW WHEN IT WAS, AND ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE, EVERYONE'S BUSY, INCLUDING THE MOUSE... Untrue again. We did have a mouse in the kitchen last month---for the first time in seventeen years, my mother insists (Mom's the usual cleanliness freak). But she and my father conspired (while dreamin' by the drier) to kill the poor little tyke. I mean, if they can't live in peaceful co-existence with one teeny widdle mouse, how do they expect to end a war? (That's another story.) For those interested, by the way, the presently unindicted co-conspirators lured the gnawing little innocent to his noxious death with a slab of imported Italian cheese (how bourgeois).

WELL, YOU KNOW WHEN IT WAS, AND YOU KNOW THE WHOLE HOUSE,

AND YOU'VE NOW HEARD THE STORY ABOUT THE DEAD MOUSE... It rhymes!

THE STOCKINGS ARE HUNG... Actually, the stocking are dripping wet and whirling in the washer. About the only thing hung is my father, who's probably down in the laundry room sniffing spray starch.

THE WET SOCKS WERE WHIRLIN' AROUND IN THE DRIER... I moved them along a bit (just be happy I didn't say they were 'dancin' in the drier'---or 'waltzin' in the wringer'.) We're a bit beyond wringers (Thurber ain't ghosting this letter); in fact, we don't even have a fireplace we could hang anything on, with care, or even anxiety. And with the fuel strike threatening New York, our oil burner isn't even running up to par (whatever par might be for a 1952 oil burner).

AND DOWN IN THE BASEMENT DAD GROPED FOR HIS PLIERS... (There's no such thing as one 'plier,' Keats be damned.) Actually, Dad reached for Mom and missed, getting dangerously close to a handful of hot steam iron. The reason he did eventually need his plier(s) was the drier(s?)---circa 1957, and hardly a Maytag---began unseasonally wobbling, threatening to leave us with seventeen pounds of linty socks (lot of men in this house) and my sister's dainty unmentionables, which---fortunately---she wasn't using at the moment.

MY BROTHERS WERE NOW DOING DOPE ON THE PORCH,

WHEN OUT ON THE BUSHES THEY HEARD A COP COUGH... Bear with me.

AND WHAT TO THEIR GLASSY-EYED EYES DID APPEAR,

BUT A JOLLY OLD NARC, WITH EIGHT MORE AT HIS REAR. Here, I have to interrupt. For one thing, we don't have a porch; we have a patio---two of them, actually ---and a side door cement kinda thing we call a 'stoop.' For another thing, my brothers are 10 and 13, a tad young for any drugs besides streptomycin. Finally, there's no possible way I'm gonna accept the near sight rhyme of 'porch' and 'cough,' even on a typewriter with a misaligned key.

TORE OPEN THE SHUTTER... We don't have shutters on the picture window (goes along with the patios---not to be confused with patois, or even oasis). What the jolly old narc did was stick his jolly old right (it had to be) foot through the snow-crested pane of glass.

...AND THREW UP THE SASH... That damn lead paint gets 'em every time. (What was he doin' chewin' on the sash to start with? There was an (apple, of course) pie in the oven, and my dad would've gladly passed the dry cleaning fluid.

WHIPPED OUT HIS PISTOL, AND GRABBED AT THE HASH... Isn't it convenient how 'sash' rhymes with 'hash?' Offhand, can you think of anything that rhymes with 'marijuana?' (even Cole Porter would be shamed). Do you understand now, class, why the poet (!) chose not to use 'marijuana?' (Yeah, and Shelley never did drugs, neither.) Tricky thing, this writing biz.

THE MOON... This part is absolutely ludicrous. Even on the least smoggy, smoggy night, no one's seen a moon over New York since the Great Exposition of 1889, and that was in Chicago. (What?) (Too many Marx Brothers movies.)

THE COP CAR'S RED FLASHER... That's more realistic; though---technically---the flashers are amber and blue (except my Uncle Danny on a winter's night).

...GLEAMED ON THE NEW-FALLEN BLACK SNOW... Don't want to eat that stuff--- light you up like Guy Fawkes day, it 'twill.

WHILE MOMMA AND POPPA... If I ever called my parents that, they'd: 1) throw up 2) throw me out 3) the distance between Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

WHILE MOMMA AND POPPA... Who'd been whirling their own laundry in the basement.

WHILE MOMMA AND POPPA... The handicaps we writers face under the dictates of iambic pentameter.

WHILE YOU-KNOW-WHO AND WHAT'S-HER-NAME RUSHED UP FROM BELOW... Below the first floor of the house, see---that's where a basement is. No hellish imagery imagined here---'cept our basement is kind of a mess. Hasn't been cleaned since Hector was a pup, and Hector--long gone to an SPCA-approved doggy crematorium---was continually a pup all over the basement floor.

AND I IN MY BROWN TWEED, AND SIS IN HER CAPS... That's about all she had on. Gotta talk to that girl.

...LEAPED FROM A WINDOW LEST WE TAKE THE RAP(S)... See above: plier(s). Actually, there was no window-leaping (or even maids-a-milkin'); we simply walked out the back door---cops are easily distracted in New York. 'Sides, one of them was interested in my nude-descending-the-stoop sister.

BUT WHAT TO MY NEAR-SIGHTED EYES DID APPEAR... (This relates to a problem I've had since fourth grade, when I couldn't read a filmstrip in Mrs. Mandiberg's class, and they---i.e. civilization---penalized my by pretending the rest of the world sees clearly all the time, and my "vision" (talk to Van Gogh about iconoclasts) would be improved by constantly balancing these funky plastic things o' top o' my nose.

BUT MY UNCLE---A LAWYER---AND EIGHT OF HIS PEER(S)... There's such a thing as pushing a weak joke too far, despite the rule of three's. Still, now that we have eight cops, eight lawyers, and a naked chick running around, we probably have enough material for a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. (Swell.) (Or 'Swerr' as Andy Tsubaki---one of my early emigre scene design teachers---used to say.)

THEY BUSIED THE COPS IN SOME LEGAL RED TAPE... What would 'illegal' red tape be?

WHILE MY SISTER'S FRIENDS (NUDE) MADE A WONDROUS ESCAPE... They shimmied down the air conditioner cord.

AND THE COPS IN THEIR ANGER, AND POP (LAUNDRY IN TOTE)... Something doesn't quite scan in there.

ALL SCREAMED AT MY BROTHERS, AND HERE I SHALL QUOTE... But not footnote---I never could tell my ibid from an ob. cit.

"NO COCAINE! NO REEFERS! NO 'BIG H!' NO JOINTS!..." Thank God for the Dictionary of Modern Slang. (You don't think I've ever done these drugs, do you?)

"...SHALL MY BROTHERS, HEREAFTER, THEIR BODIES ANOINT!..." Cops don't speak so plain, and my dad has a Master's in Physical Therapy, which explains his problem.

AND LAYING MY SISTER... Cops may be dumb, but they're quick like rattlers.

...ASIDE, SO TO SPEAK... She likes it that way.

...THE FUZZ FLED IN THEIR CAR... Notice the resonance between 'fuzz' and 'fled.' This is why I have a Master's degree.

...WHICH TOOK NEARLY A WEEK... They couldn't decide who would ride shotgun.

BUT I HEARD THEM EXPLAIN... No one could explain this---it's an unnatural disaster.

(Hoarse whisper from the still small editor: "'EXCLAIM!' you beanhead!') (Oh,)

BUT I HEARD THEM EXCLAIM... There are always words in songs I don't get.

AS THEY LEFT WITH A SHOUT... They nearly took my sister, too. We had quite a little tug of war---I'd say 'fracas' but that always sounds like something you'd order in a Chinese restaurant.

"WHO IS THIS GUY EISBROUCH?..." Of course, they pronounced it wrong: It's 'Ice-Brook.' Like 'Frozen-River.'

"...HE'S REALLY FLIPPED OUT!" Truly.

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QUESTIONS

1. Who is "This guy Eisbrouch?" Does he sound evil? Merely sinister? Do you think he has a secret identity?

2. Is the poem (!) a modern allegory? Can you name a modern allegory? Can you even guess what 'allegory' means?

3. Why are the cops never referred to as 'Pigs?' Explain.

4. Trace the word 'Fuzz' to its Latin root. Do you care that it has a Latin root?

5. Is the mouse's death symbolic of America's seemingly futile struggle to remain a world power in this Age of Nuclear Combustion? Is there a connection between the 'Imported Italian cheese' and the Mafia?

6. What is par for a 1952 oil burner? Where would you go in a library to find this information?

7. Who is the mysterious 'Iambic Pentameter' who dictates things? Could this be Eisbrouch's alter ego? Don't you think he already has enough ego?

8. Does 'Iambic Pentameter' strike you as a good pen name? Would you let your sister date him? If she were desperate?

9. Is it odd that other members of his family pronounce their name 'Eyes-Brook?' Does it concern his wearing glasses? Do you believe there are other members of his family?

10. Discuss hubris without coughing.