Steve Forester despised his floral patterned, living room glider rocker as well as its accompanying gliding ottoman. It was a gift from his mother-in-law, but no one sat in the awkward contraption but the family cat. Even the cat would have preferred a recliner. Still, the rocker was the first piece of furniture to greet visitors as they entered the Forester household. It sat near the front door as a memorial to his mother-in-law, to be removed unceremoniously at her death.
On the day of Steve’s holiday breakdown, he chose to sit in this unpopular oscillating rocker to gain a clearer perspective of the crisis at hand. Mr. Forester had entered the Christmas season with high hopes and grandiose plans. From the get go, he had resolved not to succumb to the prevailing commercial corruption of Christmas.
This resolve was strengthened when Steve received a homemade fruitcake from an elderly, widowed neighbor. Even though Steve hated fruitcake, Mildred Lurvy’s handmade potent pastry had inspired him to create his own homespun Christmas. Consequently, he spent the larger part of December making gifts for his family as well as trying to find someone who actually liked the taste of grandma Lurvy’s fruitcake.
Up to this point, two days before Christmas, nothing had gone as planned. First, Steve had been entirely unsuccessful at pawning off Mrs. Lurvy’s fruitcake. For the most part, individuals treated the offer for fruitcake similar to a contagion. Like a bad flu they either had already been infected by a fruitcake or had no desire to catch one.
Occasionally, someone would politely bluff and feign interest in the pastry. When these cases arrived, Steve made it clear that he was going to stick around to actually see the individual consume the well-preserved loaf. The excuses would soon follow. “You know I better not take it; I’m sure someone else would enjoy this more than I would.” Translation: “Why don’t you find your own garbage can!”
Along with his fruitcake woes, Steve’s handmade gift idea had taken a drastic turn for the worse. Steve’s youngest daughter interpreted the mandate to make Christmas gifts as a sign the family had reached financial ruin. Consequently, without Steve’s foreknowledge, she had contacted numerous holiday help agencies throughout the community. By the time Cynthia’s requisition plan was discovered, the Forester family was being inundated with holiday goodwill.
This came in the form of a pile of donated presents and a $1,000 gift card from the local Christian radio station. Unable to find the necessary words to explain such a misunderstanding, Steve received the gifts with stunned silence.
While gliding rhythmically to and fro in his cat’s glider rocker, Steve tried to find an answer to the problems that were literally pilling up before him. In the opposite corner of the room stood a large mound of unopened Christmas presents. Equidistance between Steve and the mound sat a lone fruitcake upon a barren coffee table.
Steve fixed his eyes intently on the neatly wrapped cake. As Steve narrowed his vision and anger towards the pastry, the rest of the room began to blur. Unable to find a solution that would leave his pride intact, Steve began to focus his rage on the all too resilient fruitcake.
“You’ve had it out for me from the beginning,” Steve spoke to the defiant fruit bread in spaghetti Western tones. “You think you’re so, so clever.” The fruitcake remained silent, “But, I got you figured out. You’re not going to break me. . . Every problem has a solution. This one just requires a fair amount of cre-a-tiv-it-ty.” Steve enunciated each syllable to drive home his point.
“That’s the difference between you and me. I’m the creative one. . . You’re just a pastry pawn.” Before Steve could continue, the doorbell rang. This time it was the paperboy.
“Mr. Forester. I think you might want to read this.” Steve murmured the front page headline aloud: “Local Man Feigns Poverty for Christmas Loot: Bah Humbug Mr. Forester!” Steve read on while shutting the door on the somewhat perplexed paperboy. The front page article was full of flattering fare such as, “Mr. Forester used his youngest child to prey upon the sympathies of generous holiday well wishers.” The expose continued with an unsubstantiated inference that “the Forester home may also be a make-shift meth lab.”
Steve read the article within earshot of the fruitcake. As he reached the end of the allegations, Steve was overcome with an eerie calm. He paused, looked towards the still stoic fruitcake and finished his previous conversation.
“We’re going to fix this. And you’re coming with me.” Five minutes later Steve was driving his Accord towards the Village Mall. His recently acquired stack of presents was crammed in the back seat, while Mrs. Lurvy’s fruitcake rode shotgun. Steve looked over at the fruitcake securely buckled in the passenger seat.
“Are you excited? We’re going to see Santa!”
(Part Six 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.