Living Through Christmas Hell

“We’re ready to go on the record to expose the rusted under-carriage of Christmas.” That was how a group of strangers started their strange tale. I’d received a cryptic text earlier in the day telling me it was time to take off my snow-frosted lenses, along with some directions to a secret rendezvous. That was how I ended up under an overpass just after midnight huddled in the freezing cold. “Everyone thinks they know the truth behind Christmas, but they don’t know the half of it, and if they did, they’d never look at Christmas the same,” said a deep voice rumbling from the depths of a bulbous silhouette.

“Let’s start with your names and your connection to Christmas,” I began, gesturing toward the circular speaker.

“My name is Frosty, Frosty the Snowman, and I’ve been living in Christmas hell as long as I can remember,” he said as he took a drag of his menthcoal cigarette. “What do you call someone who follows you day and night, watching your every move, keeping track of everything you say and do?”

Unsure of where this was going I simply stared into his coal black eyes.

He continued. “364 days a year you call him a psycho, a stalker or a freak, but one day a year, Christmas day, you call him…Santa Claus.”

A soft moan escaped the shadows as he spoke the name, and I could sense the Snowman’s fraying nerves were as taut as piano wire. From the outset it was clear Frosty was the voice for this ragtag bunch of Christmas castaways.

“When Dancer and Prancer came out, the majority of the reindeer community supported them and celebrated the love between two consenting reindeer. But that little right-wing, red-noser incited the rest of the constituency against them. He founded the Reindeer Coalition for Moral Decency and said if they recognized Dancer and Prancer’s relationship; soon reindeer would be in relationships with elves, pixies and dwarves. He opened a wound that hasn’t healed to this day.”

At that moment the moon emerged from a blanket of clouds and behind the Snowman’s bulbous silhouette I saw two burly reindeer standing hock to hock with a quiet familiarity.

“That was just the start,” said someone behind me, ‘tell him about the carol ban.”

“Yeah, that was harsh,” Frosty muttered, “the fat man and his Reindeer Coalition started to take issue with many of our sacred songs; you’d know them as Christmas carols. Old red nose went to the Claus and said wide sweeping societal shifts had profoundly changed the citizenry’s cultural interpretation. He claimed ‘a corncob pipe, a button nose and two eyes made out of coal’ would send the message I was pulling on a bong, doing lines of coke and Black China. Anyway, the Claus fell for it and authorized the creation of the Christmas Security Department. My name went on a list, and the last time I tried to take the sleigh I was held up in customs while they searched my drifts.”

Just then a small slender shape detached itself from the shadows and came forward to stand in the moonlight. I found myself looking into the earnest face of a kindly elf as she began to tell her tale. “A few years back Santa out-sourced the manufacturing of toys to some of the most displaced areas of the Pole, where many disenfranchised elves live in cheerless poverty. He only paid them a pittance of the holiday cheer he was paying the original elves, banning singing, clapping and dancing in the factories. Those cheerless, under-appreciated elves tried to unionize, but Santa and the Reindeer Coalition raised tariffs and imposed trade sanctions on their workshops…most of them have gone under.” She paused before continuing, “Now there’s a serious shortage of Christmas spirit, and a systemic lack of elfish appreciation and widespread low elfish-esteem.”

Someone else stepped into the light. “Claus instituted new rules, making it virtually impossible to obtain a license for an open fire, so the chestnut farmers have fallen on hard times. The farmers lobbied for an independent inquiry into the Chestnut Board’s North Pole monopoly, but the corruption goes to the highest levels, making it virtually impossible to get to the truth.”

“Jack,” someone shouted, ‘tell him about Jack.”

Frosty grimaced at the name. “We call it Black Thursday, the day Jack Frost was wrongfully accused of conduct unfitting a Christmas character. The fat man had a friend sitting on the bench who allowed the prosecution’s interpretation that ‘nipping at your nose’ was a blatant infringement of civil liberties and evidence of overactive hormones. The judge said the streets weren’t safe with ‘Jack the Nipper’ on the loose. Thankfully Jack’s sentencing got bogged down in appropriations, but the point wasn’t lost on the Christmas constituency.”

I looked up and saw that as I’d been taking notes, the motley assembly of Christmas characters had been moving closer, as if their confessions had drawn all of us closer together. In those once-cheerful faces ringed with garlands of holly and cloves I saw desperation mixed with a quiet resolution, and I knew that these giants of Christmas cheer would not go quietly into the night. They would fight while the spirit of Christmas ran hot in their icy veins.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Let the people know,” said one.

“Shine your compact fluorescent light bulbs in the darkness” yelled another.

“Demand fair cheer toys!”

“Throw parties, lots of parties, with lots of treats so that people will eat, drink and be merry.”

“Raise your glasses and toast the elves, build monuments of snow in Frosty’s name. Mobilize the population one fireplace at a time and roast buckets of chestnuts.”

At that very moment it started to snow, big fluffy cotton ball flakes falling in stately procession. A beautiful baritone voice broke the silence as Prancer started to sing, ‘don we know our gay apparel.” as the rest of us echoed, “fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.”

Merry Christmas!

Image Credits

Images from the Microsoft Office Clipart Collection

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