“Sir, I’m not going to ask you again. Put the fruitcake down and step away from the Santa.” The officer’s voice was measured and deliberate, unaffected by the disconcerting visual before him.
“I can’t do that officer! If I put it down, no one will eat it. I can’t let that happen.” Steve Forester’s left arm tired under the weight of the five pound fruit laden cake. Unwilling to relent, he waved the loaf defiantly before the growing crowd of officers and bewildered holiday shoppers. Steve’s fruit baton gesticulations increased as his frustration intensified.
“This fruitcake’s tired. It’s tired of being passed around. . . person to person. . . season to season. . . never eaten!” The officers slowly inched forward. “This isn’t a decoration. It’s food!” Steve’s voice rose to angry prophet proportions, “Food is meant to be eaten! And I’m not leaving here until someone takes a bite of this. . . this. . . deliciously fruity cake.”
A young boy moved forward to accept the invitation. His mother quickly pulled him back under her wing.
Steve began to cradle the loaf and whisper words of reassurance. “They don’t understand us. They think we’re crazy. But, we’re not crazy. We’re what Christmas is all about. They just need to taste it. . . that’s all. . . they just need to taste it. . . For the love of GOD! Someone please taste this cake!”
Steve’s reverberating plea silenced the mall. Only the faint, distant scream of an over tired toddler could be heard.
Even Steve was caught off guard by the silence. “Fine. . . Fine. . . If no one wants it, I’ll eat it myself.” With one large bite, Steve’s teeth tore into the homemade fruitcake, plastic wrapping and all. With this bite, the police rushed the platform, shoved Santa to the side and tackled Steve to the ground.
Under the weight of a dozen officers, Steve’s assessment was muffled but audible, “This tastes like crap.”
Every breakdown has a beginning. For Steve the beginning started five days before Halloween. His eldest daughter Lystra wanted to be a fork for Halloween. After a few concerted attempts to dissuade her from her cutlery costume, Steve assented to facilitating his 10-year-old daughter’s artistic vision. He was usually unable to resist her gentle but persistent persuasion. Like her mother, Lystra could change Steve’s plans with a prolonged, strategic smile.
Consequently, Steve found himself alone on a Thursday night, wandering the aisles of Home Depot, unsuccessfully searching for fork costume inspiration. As the minutes and aisles passed by, Steve began to lament his inability to open Lystra to the possibility of being a spoon.
For the most part, Steve tried to go with the flow when it came to life’s little hiccups. However, mild anxiety would eventually surface if going with the flow turned into going down the drain. Steve’s “don’t worry” demeanor could quickly turn into a “ship sinking” panic. As he turned the final corner of the well scoured store, Steve confronted the official start of his breakdown.
Rather than finding an aisle of fork costume options, Steve discovered a long row of Christmas decorations. Before him stood a dizzying array of giant blow up Santas, snowmen, and penguins. These oversized inflatable statues were surrounded by an expansive plastic tree forest, replete with numerous, automated white wicker woodland creatures.
As Steve slowly walked through the forest of faux firs, automated reindeer, and air blown holiday mascots, he soon realized everything was either moving or making noise. A life sized, Santa suit wearing, animatronic bear repeatedly waved his paw while whistling, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” A six foot nutcracker chattered holiday wishes across the aisle towards a row of pint size Rock and Roll Santas. The miniature dancing Santas responded to the nutcracker’s good tidings with syncopated pelvic gyrations.
Model trains aplenty chugged and choo-chooed through the polyurethane snow as a myriad of light displays blinked, flashed, and strobed within the trees and along the walls. Steve’s ability to see distinctive parts blurred into a collective whole. Before him was one big fuzzy glow of holiday excess.
When he reached the aisle’s end, a blindingly intense luminescence confronted Steve. His eyes strained to determine the form of the radiance before him. When the glowing spectacle came into focus, Steve realized he was staring at a front yard manger scene. Although half size in stature, the plastic manger figurines radiated such fierce light that Steve was tempted to kneel in honor of the strange glory.
As his pupils adjusted, Steve tried his best to discern the visage of the beaming baby Jesus. When the baby finally came into view, Steve had a clear and simple revelation. “Whatever this is. . . I don’t want it anymore.”
With this simple thought, Steve turned left and headed out the door. Surely, a solution for Lystra’s fork would avail itself on the ride home. However, now was not the time for costume concerns. Rather, Steve’s thoughts turned to a very different quest. From this point on, he would give his best effort to making this the best Christmas ever. No more flash, no more gaudy glare, no more over the top, pre-Halloween excess. This year would be different. This year Steve was determined to celebrate a simple, old-fashioned Christmas. Unfortunately, even the purest of intentions can go terribly wrong.
(Part Two Tomorrow)
Douglas Bursch is the author of Posting Peace: Why Social Media Divides Us and What We Can Do About It. He also hosts The Fairly Spiritual Show podcast.