| Peace on Earth. I didn’t know what I hated more – the raspy humming of the furnace or watching my breath when it was silent. Three days before Christmas and the K-Mart spirit had yet to visit me. My dog, Lester, stretched out on his stomach with his chin resting on the edge of his empty bowl. His eyes rolled up lazily to look at me when I walked by, and he moved his tail about six inches to the left. I took the gesture as a wag. I heard the door to the mailbox close and saw the top of the mailman’s hat glide past my front window. I stepped outside for the first time in two days and retrieved a handful of mail. It was another banner day for mail: ads and flyers with obnoxious, smiling people reveling amidst presents strewn all over the place with glistening bulbs and way too much tinsel; an envelope stamped in capital letters IMPORTANT INSURANCE INFORMATION ENCLOSED; a bill from the utility company; a bill from the phone company; two letters from the Internal Revenue Service that made me shudder; and four of those familiar bank overdraft notices. My 1974 Mercedes Diesel sat in the gravel driveway next to the house. The oil spot underneath it had grown to the size of a plate. I thought that I had better plug in the engine heater if I planned to go anywhere, but shrugged my shoulders and shuffled back inside the house when I remembered that I had no place to go. The phone had rung off the hook for two weeks before I quit my job as a cop. Ten years of wearing a synthetic uniform, synthetic smile and real bullets. Ten years of hearing the intensely sad stories of peoples’ lives and only having a vague memory of when I actually cared. And there was such a time. At least, I hope so. But all of a sudden – as if there were some kind of conspiracy – the calls stopped. I checked the phone several times a day to see if there was a dial tone. There was. And there would continue to be as long as the phone company was cool with partial payments. Now it was two days before Christmas and no miracles were apparent. I watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” five times in two days. I had not thought it humanly possible to hate Jimmy Stewart, but when the mailman delivered the last mail that I would receive before Christmas – not only did I hate Jimmy, but I hated Donna Reed too. I didn’t hold out much hope that my neighbors would turn up on my doorstep with baskets of money. Christmas Eve and my kids were with their mom. They would come over to my house sometime Christmas afternoon. I didn’t have any problem buying less expensive presents. In fact, as desperate as my situation was, I had had the foresight to buy a few items before my bank account went totally dry. The presents were tucked away in a corner of the basement. I checked daily to make sure they were still there. They were and as long as they were I told myself that I had a chance to re-enter the human race. With the little presents that Janie had purchased, despite my protests, it would turn out to be a decent Christmas. But the absence of a Christmas tree haunted me. The kids had to have one and that’s all there was to it. I checked through all the pockets of my clothes with the hope of turning up an overlooked $20. No such luck. Not even a quarter. Many of my pants pockets were still inside out from my last closet raid. I imagined the tree standing in the corner near the door where our tree had stood the year before. In my mind’s eye I saw the top of the tree adorned with a star as bright and glorious as any displayed in the ShopKo ads. That night, I slept better than I had in a long time. I knew that I would get a tree sometime the next day. The means – I was sure – would be revealed. I woke up and turned the heat way up to 60. After all, it was Christmas. The sun was still asleep behind lazy rows of houses. My children were nestled all snug in their beds just like the kids in “The Night Before Christmas” poem. I stood in the tiny backyard. The stars looked majestic against their ink-blue backdrop, like a fine diamond necklace in a black velvet case. I scanned the serene landscape thinking what a glorious place Earth was before the people got up. The lone arborvitae at the southwest corner of the house caught my attention. It had grown from a bush to a tree without my noticing. The top several feet resembled a Christmas tree. Then it came to me. That’s what I would do. I’d climb the bush and cut off the top five or six feet. Then I was overtaken by a sudden wave of depression as I re- entered the painful awareness of my plight. I did not have a ladder tall enough, nor were the limbs of the arborvitae strong enough to hold my weight. I stormed into the house and grabbed my car keys. I kicked myself for not plugging in the car heater the night before. Diesel engines hate winter. Diesel engines abhor Wisconsin winters. 1974 Mercedes diesels, that are 15 years old, reasonably expect to be tucked away in comfy garages long before the first snow flies. My garage was filled with stuff. Memorabilia from past lives. I never seriously contemplated the notion of putting a car in there. Not even the Mercedes that resented attempts to start her without benefit of nice, warm oil. To my surprise and delight, it obliged me by starting anyway. It only took five tries. I drove through the deserted, snow and ice-covered early morning streets and loved the freedom of it. I cranked up the radio loud and sang along with Mahalia Jackson singing “Silent Night.” Man. Nobody could sing “Silent Night” like Mahalia. It felt good to be on the road, and there was only one thing in the world that I knew for sure: I would not return home without a Christmas tree. I would do whatever I had to do to get one. I was still minus a plan, but I was going to get a tree. I drove towards John Nolen Drive on Proudfit Street. Brittingham Bay glistened in the first rays of sunlight. A police squad car sat in the parking lot by the park shelter. Its parking lights were on. I wondered if I knew the officer inside. I wondered if they were awake or just pretending as I had many a night at this hour. I headed out East Washington Avenue, determined to have a plan before I reached the outer limits of the city. I really didn’t want to wind up in Sun Prairie. It would be more difficult to carry out my plan – whatever it turned out to be – in alien territory. I was attracted to gaudy lights and small triangular flags flapping above a fleet of desperate looking cars that would only be purchased by people who needed transportation as desperately as I needed a tree. But behind the car lot was a corral made of snow fence. And inside were the Christmas trees that nobody wanted. Maybe the needles of some of them were too dry. Some were full in the front with sparse foliage in the back. Others were just plain ugly. They all looked beautiful to me. And to take one – I reasoned – would not be stealing, because who bought Christmas trees on Christmas Day anyway? I hopped over the fence and walked around examining the trees as if I were a legitimate shopper. I picked up the tree that caught my eye and bounced it up and down. A few needles fell off, but there was still plenty of life left in it. I ceremoniously opened the trunk of my old Mercedes, gently laid the tree inside and drove home with the open car trunk door flapping up and down as if to announce the theft that had just been committed. The same squad car was still parked in the same lot by the Brittingham Park shelter. Night had given way to day and I could tell at a distance that the officer was looking down. I imagined that he was finishing reports from the night before. He looked up abruptly. I felt guilty and imagined that the early morning Christmas trees heist had been radioed to every single squad car in the city. Then I assured myself that I had committed the perfect crime like the protagonist in Dostoyevsky’s novel “Crime and Punishment.” I gasped and checked my speedometer because I didn’t want speeding to be the pretense for a traffic stop. I was only going 20 mph and the limit was 30 mph. That’s when my fear of being apprehended for my offense returned: the red and blue lights of the squad car blazed to life accompanied by short bleeps of the siren. I jammed on my brakes and came to a stop in the middle of the street. The cop leaned out of his window. I recognized his face. “Have a Merry Christmas, Kenny,” he shouted through a grin as wide as the front grill of his squad car. “I will, Ben – and you do the same.” HOMEPAGE December 21, 2007 Archives |
| Lang Kenneth Haynes |
| Simple Things: Christmas tree |