Not QUITE the Classics (11 page)

“Dr. Feldman… Are you all right?” Billy had a feeling that this was a stupid question.

No answer.

It says a great deal about Billy that at this particular juncture, his main concern was for Feldman's well-being. After all, Billy was in a deeply compromising position. He racked his brain for a way to get help for the doctor. He breathed deeply to calm himself and tried to think clearly. Here were the facts as he saw them:

1) He had an unconscious, possibly concussed, medical doctor firmly attached to his ass.

2) There was no one around to hear his cries for help.

3) There were no working phones to make calls and no working computers to send emails.

4) His cell phone was drying out on his bathroom vanity because he'd dropped it in the toilet that morning.

Billy suddenly remembered that his dentist, Dr. Phillips, had an office on the sixteenth floor of the Waterhouse! Now, granted, this was above and beyond a root canal, but Billy surmised the physics were the same. Anyway, at the very least, Dr. Phillips could get help for the unconscious Dr. Feldman. Billy had to try.

Slowly, Billy rolled back onto his side and inch-wormed off the examination table, trying not to hurt either himself or the doctor. He managed to stand, albeit awkwardly, feet apart with the doctor lying between them. He hoped, self-consciously, that the doctor would not regain consciousness at this moment and look up.

Billy jumped up and down, gently trying to dislodge Feldman's finger, but not surprisingly, had no luck. Then he braced his hands on his knees and squatted, relaxing as much as he could. Again, nothing. They'd have to head to the elevator as one. He looked about the room, and noticed the doctor's chair had wheels. It was height-adjustable, and at its lowest setting would be about a foot off the ground. Billy came up with a plan that MacGyver would have been proud of and grabbed the sheet that covered the examination table.

He wound the sheet into a makeshift rope and hung it around his neck. Putting his arms between his legs and grabbing Feldman's free wrist, he pulled the doctor towards the chair. It was hard work, made much harder with his pants around his ankles and the fit of uncontrollable giggles that racked Billy's body when he thought about what he was doing.

When he reached the chair, he adjusted it to its lowest height. He took the sheet from around his neck and looped it around the chair. He pulled Feldman onto the seat and wrapped the sheet tightly around the doctor's waist, securing him to the chair back. He grabbed the end of the sheet and pulled/wheeled the slumped doctor (still firmly attached to him via his finger) out of the examination room and into the hall.

“Sally?” he called, and then thought better of it. “Sandra?” he called a little louder.

No answer.

A thin film of sweat covered Billy now, making him uncomfortable, though not as uncomfortable as having Feldman's slumped head inches away from his crotch. Billy kept hoping that all of this physical activity would pop out the offending finger. Nope.

The worst is behind me, thought Billy without irony. Slowly pulling the doctor along, he made his way to the elevator, looking like a very odd car ornament. Thank God there's no one around to see this, he thought. Maybe his luck was changing. He pushed the Up arrow. Almost immediately the elevator arrived, its carriage empty. Billy got them both inside and pushed the button for the sixteenth floor.

As the elevator rose, Billy felt good. In fact, he felt more than good. He felt invincible. Every difficulty that had come his way this afternoon had been dealt with. And he was moments away from rescue. What could go wrong? Superstitiously, he tried to stop that thought even as it dawned, but it lodged firmly in his brain.

What could go
wrong
? What did I think
that
for? That's the death knell! I've jinxed it! Lots of things could go wrong! Billy took two deep breaths and forced himself to relax. I've already acknowledged the “what could go wrong,” he thought. Now I'll be fine.

Billy was still thinking positive thoughts as he shuffled out of the elevator and into the press conference.

The city's oldest practicing physician was turning ninety years old today, and there was an enormous civic celebration. Of course, thought Billy—Dr. Phillips's old friend Dr. Hackett! Congratulations were in order, he thought as he spied the old doctor. Then, Billy quickly remembered himself. Thankfully, no one appeared to have seen him yet, and Billy prayed that he could step back into the elevator with the unconscious Dr. Feldman without being noticed.

Ping!

The elevator door closed behind him and pulled on the sheet. Feldman slumped forward onto the floor, his hand raised in mock salute to Billy's ass.

The heads of all the guests and photographers turned towards him. The room fell absolutely silent.

Billy looked plaintively from face to face. Oh, he thought sadly, with his pants around his ankles,
this
is what could go wrong. He managed to speak: “Could someone please give me a hand?”

Some wag from the back shouted, “Looks like someone already did.”

The room exploded into laughter.

Two hours later, Billy left his favorite building in the city, its memory forever tainted. Stepping gingerly onto his bus, he noticed that many of the passengers were looking at him. He looked down in a panic, wondering what evidence of his misfortune remained.

A teenager sitting near the front said, “Hey, you're the YouTube guy!”

“What?” Billy asked weakly.

The boy turned his iPad to show Billy. Someone had shot video of him as he emerged from the elevator, capturing every moment clearly in HD.

As he got off the bus and made his way home, Billy reflected with characteristic optimism that it could have been a lot worse. Dr. Feldman was being held overnight to check for symptoms of a concussion, but aside from that, he was expected to make a full recovery. At least no one had died. At least, not yet. Billy still needed to have the examination. He was fifty, after all, and had a family history.

Up ahead, under a lamppost, Billy spied Tommy One-Bird. Well, Billy said to himself, maybe this day will end on a good note after all.

“Hey, Tommy. I've had a bad day. Really,
really
bad. I could use some cheering up. Could I bother you for a John Wayne?” Billy gave One-Bird a twenty-dollar bill. Tommy's eyes lit up. As his mouth opened, Billy was already smiling in anticipation.

One-Bird said to Billy: “Pilgrim Poo-tee-weet?”

INSPIRED BY CLEMENT MOORE'S

“'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS”

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

When the space–time continuum suffered a tear.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

iPod Touch earbuds attached to their heads.

The wife in her jammies retired with tea

While I shoved all the gifts 'neath our fake Christmas tree.

I took a short rest from the holiday cheer,

Grabbed forty winks—woke up craving a beer.

I walked to the kitchen to fetch the cold brew,

And glanced at the clock: 'twas elev'n fifty-two.

In just a few minutes, 'twould be Christmas Day,

But the whole thing felt wrong, in a temporal way—

And not just wrong time, but wrong age and wrong place!

I broke out in a sweat—my heart started to race.

I didn't belong here, of that I was certain.

I dashed to the window to peer through the curtain.

The new-fallen snow sparkled under the stars

My street seemed so different, with odd-looking cars.

I looked at our Bose gear, our flat-screen TV,

Our Blu-ray, our Xbox, PlayStation and Wii.

I knew all their names, all the functions they had,

Yet they all seemed so modern, newfangled—“Egad!”

I said it out loud, a most old-fashioned word,

And yet as I said it, it seemed not absurd.

In fact, it felt natural, at home on my lips

Like “Good golly!” “My heavens!” and “Oh fiddlesticks!”

Something was warped here, ev'n anachronistic:

I belonged to the past, and a life more simplistic!

With mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,

My brain should be settled for a long winter's nap.

Instead I was wondering what I should do

As a strange glowing light glided into my view.

The light shimmered shapelessly over the floor,

Floating in space, between me and the door.

The light dimmed a moment, and then I divined

The shape of a man! (Was I losing my mind?)

My mouth slowly opened but ere I could ask,

I heard, “I am the Ghost of All Christmases Past.”

I stood there quite stunned, knowing not what to say.

So the Ghost went on blithely since that was his way:

“I will show you your past, where you went wrong in life.

Consumed with your business, ending up with no wife.”

“I'm sure that sounds lovely,” said I cautiously,

“But there's been a small error—I'm sure you'll agree

When you learn my wife's sleeping upstairs in our bed,

Which is where I should be, but I'm down here instead.”

The Ghost looked askance—“Calm down, Ebenezer!”—

Checked a note from his pocket. “Oh, bloody Caesar!

A mistake at Head Office! A grave oversight!

Can they possibly ever get anything right?

I'm not even in London—” as breath he did draw—

I said, “Nope, this is Canada, place called Moose Jaw.

It's cold and remote, with a small population,

But downtown's quite nice, since the ‘revitalization.'”

The Ghost smacked his forehead, then took out a map.

Had a look for some minutes, then muttered, “Oh, drat!

I'm not in the right classic nor epoch of time!

I'm stuck midst a wholly wrong holiday rhyme!

“This is highly unusual, confusing, a mess.

Not sure what to do…at a loss, I confess.

Perhaps we should fly to your past anyway?

Straighten things out? Well, what do you say?”

“
You
visit my past. I know it—it's boring.

I'll stay with my family to greet Christmas morning.”

This Ghost from the past sent my sense of time reeling.

No wonder I'm caught in this awful strange feeling.

Then out in the kitchen arose such a clatter

I quickly ran in to see what was the matter,

Not sure what I'd find there… A reindeer? A sleigh?

A baby surrounded by cows and some hay?

An old man lay sprawled amid bright pots and pans

Flailing this way and that with his feet and his hands.

He said, “Sorry for coming here out of the blue.

I'm Clarence the Angel and I'm here to help you.

“I'll show you such things as you've never seen.

Like how life would go on if you'd never been.”

I replied, “What's the point of this gift you'd bestow?”

That confused him…he whispered, “I don't really know.”

The Ghost then decided to enter the fray.

To Clarence he said, “You must share my dismay.

I've attempted to get this man back to the past

But he just won't do anything that I have asked.”

Clarence stared at the Ghost, his head gave a sharp jerk:

“You're the Christmas Past Ghost? I'm a fan of your work!”

They dove into shop talk, like old friends at ease,

Till I jumped in, exclaiming, “Hark, gentlemen, PLEASE!

“We three don't belong in the same Christmas tale,

Our three different stories don't really dovetail.

Yet somehow at this point we've all intersected,

I'm baffled, I'm beat—tell me how we're connected!”

The Ghost said, “I'll show you what's really at stake.”

The angel said, “I'll show the difference you make.”

“Both are good lessons,” said I…sighed and paused.

“I'm in a
fluff
piece about Santa Claus.”

“Come with me,” Clarence said, “I'll prove and you'll see,

How sad without you your friends' lives would be.”

“No, it's me you should come with,” the Christmas Ghost bade,

“To see how miserable you are from choices you've made.”

“Go get lost,
Casper
!” Clarence swung at the Ghost.

“This guy's coming with me. Back off or you're toast.”

The Ghost grew quite angry and kneed a connection

With part of poor Clarence that had no protection.

Clarence bent double; the Ghost jumped on his back.

They fell to the floor—each renewed his attack.

With rolling and brawling, and fighting for glory—

It beat the crap out of a nice Christmas story!

The shocks of the evening had stricken me dumb,

When a small boy appeared; he was sucking his thumb.

My head started throbbing, right up through my sinus.

He snuggled his blanket, said, “Hi, my name's Linus.

“You look quite perplexed, mind all in a whir.

The meaning of Christmas
I'll
tell you, dear sir.

Lights, please,” he ordered—like setting the scene—

Then he quoted Luke 2: verses eight to fourteen.

And then things went crazy, they just wouldn't stop—

The house filled with people from bottom to top.

A young boy with glasses…with Red Ryder gun!

“You'll shoot your eye out—be…be careful there, son.”

Everywhere that I looked was a sight to behold:

A smartly dressed snowman sang “Silver and Gold.”

And more were appearing, I saw with frustration,

Some were cartoons, and others claymation.

Small misfit toys climbed up on my shelf.

A runaway reindeer, a blonde dentist elf.

A small drummer boy beat his drum without pause,

Tim Allen in fat suit did his best Santa Claus.

Bing Crosby was singing, a song about dreaming,

And towel-clad M. Culkin kept screaming and screaming.

And there was Bruce Willis, not looking his best,

Yelling, “Yippee ki-yay”—I couldn't make out the rest.

There were birds, there were rings, there were ten lords a-leaping.

With such a loud racket, how on earth's my wife sleeping?

I was puzzled and dazed from my head to my socks,

When my living room filled with a blue police box.

Out jumped a tall man with both arms upraised.

“Calm down, take a breath, no need to be crazed!

Things will change back to the way they once were,

That would be best, I'm sure you concur.

“With the help of this gizmo I have in my hand,

I, Doctor Who, will right wrongs, understand?”

“I hate you,” said a green man, whose shoes seemed to pinch.

“I'm not that kind of Who, you idiot Grinch.”

“What the hell happened?” I asked Doctor Who,

“To cause this confusion, this giant to-do?”

“Can't really explain,” he said sheepishly.

“It's too convoluted. Yes, even for me.

“But don't worry, I'll fix it in just half a mo.”

He pushed a small button that started to glow.

The Grinch and Bing Crosby and all who'd appeared

Spun around, shrunk right down, and then disappeared!

My home was transformed to what it had been:

I was back in my nightshirt, and all was pristine.

So relieved was I then, I burst into applause,

When I saw by our tree the REAL Santa Claus.

He stood there unsteadily, stroking his beard.

He looked at me blinking and said, “That was weird.

So what should we do, after all that's transpired?”

I said, “Finish up here—I'm really quite tired.”

Santa entered the fireplace, climbed up brick by brick,

Shouted back, “Aren't you old to believe in St. Nick?”

“Maybe so,” I replied after thinking a bit.

“What I truly believe: I'm too old for this shit.”

Santa was shocked. “Why, that was obscene!

It's too bad things are back to the way they had been.

From ‘Egad!' and ‘Good golly,' you've broadened your scope,

If I'd time I'd be washing out
your
mouth with soap.”

Santa got in his sleigh, saying, “Be a good boy.

Clean up your language—earn next year's e-toy.”

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”