An Exerpt from the short story collection, Grandpa Alfred's Christmas Tales, now on Amazon Kindle...
Decorations brightened the entire house. Strings of reflective tinsel spiraled around the banisters and railings. Colored lights, like the ones meticulously wrapped around the pine tree, brightened the entire living room. Outside, red and green lights adorned the roof. The lights outshined the stars at night. All the world joined in the celebration of Christ’s birth by cluttering their yards and gardens with bright recreations of Santa Claus and the virgin birth and of elves and toys and baby Jesus.
Greg turned his back on the shimmering Christmas tree and gazed toward the decorations that adorned the ledge between the living room and the kitchen, his gaze settling on one in particular. Past the miniature Christmas tree and the elves and the nutcracker was a two-tiered slate leaning on the wall. On the top half was a depiction of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus in the manger, and on the bottom a horned Satan and two smaller demons writhed in a fiery inferno.
“What?” Sandi said as she walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, just the same thing as every year: I hate that stupid plaque. It’s unsettling.”
The oven released a burst of sweet aroma as Sandi opened it to retrieve the gingerbread cookies. “I just don’t get it. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s showing the triumph of Jesus’ birth over the defeat of the devil.”
“Yeah, but look at their faces.” Greg leaned closer to the picture to view the contorted, red demons. “They’re supposed to be in torment, but the devil kinda looks like he’s smiling. It’s like he’s secretly happy about it.”
Sandi stopped. “You’re being ridiculous.”
DING-DONG! The doorbell sounded, triggering a reminder that he never did get that bell that played the melody of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” for Sandi. Maybe next year. “Well, that’s Dad. I’ll let him in.”
“Wait!” She followed him down the hall and to the door. “You have to make sure he’s appropriate this year. Last year was out of hand.”
Greg turned to her. “C’mon Sandi. He’ll be okay.” The doorbell rang again, and he opened the door, allowing in a blast of cold air. “Hi, Dad!”
“Hey, sonny!” Grandpa Alfred, who was wearing a red sweater that read “NAUGHTY” in white cursive, shuffled in and hugged Greg. “I brought eggnog,” he said with a wink, holding up his bag. “The fun kind.”
“Oh, boy,” Sandi said.
“Sandi!” Grandpa hugged her too. “You know you can have some eggnog with us.”
“Grandpa Alfred!” Sam and Simon rushed thunderously down the stairs.
He bent down and embraced them both. “Little munchkins. I haven’t seen you in . . . well I don’t know how long! Look how tall you’ve both gotten.”
Sam pulled away. “Grandpa, you said that yesterday.”
“Just because I make an observation twice, doesn’t make it any less true, young lady. Now who’s ready for a Christmas story?”
“Meeeee!” The kids cried in unison before running to the living room. Grandpa Alfred started after them.
Sandi cast a long glance at Greg. “As long as it’s Rated PG.”
Grandpa called back, “I wouldn’t dream of anything more.”
The family gathered in the fireplace-lit living room, the kids on the floor before Grandpa in the rocking chair, and Greg on the couch, his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Bespectacled, Grandpa Alfred pulled a thick, burgundy book from his bag. “I think I’ve got a story you little ones haven’t heard before . . .”
Black Thursday
One cold Thanksgiving evening, there was a lowly retail employee—let’s call him Tom. Now, the world was such an evil and crooked place that, instead of spending Thanksgiving with his girlfriend, Tom was forced to go to work and serve the hordes of greedy customers lined up outside of his store. She said it was okay, that she could just go to a friend's, but Tom knew that she was really disappointed. Black Thursday night began at 5, and people were excited. Countless customers were lined up all the way down the block. Many had even set up tents in the parking lot—all to get the best deal on a flat screen TV or a cell phone or some other electronic.
So, understandably, Tom was mad. Just thinking about the fact that he had to be missing quality family time working for these greedy, greedy people was enough to make his teeth grind. But, like many people in his position, he kept quiet and did his job and hoped the paycheck at the end of the week was big enough. Speaking of which, he did not receive time-and-a-half for working on the holiday.
“I’m so pissed I’m here right now,” he said to his friend, Courtney.
Courtney was also pissed, but chronically so. Tom supposed it was from being given a girl’s name. “Yeah,” Courtney said, nearly yelling to project over the absurdly loud Christmas music. “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna start fights. As soon as the door opens, I’ll just throw a punch here, a kick there. No one’s gonna know it’s me.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Tom replied offhandedly as he stared out the sets of sliding double doors at the crowd of people smashed up against them. They were pounding against the glass, shouting, peering in with angry faces that looked like the masks of ghouls.
All the employees turned around when the boss walked in. “Alright,” he said. “Who’s opening the doors?” No one made eye contact. “Thomas!”
He cursed under his breath as the boss threw the keys to him.
“Take your positions everybody. Doors open in thirty seconds! And no screw-ups. I will fire you!”
Several employees lined up behind him as he approached the doors. Past the wreaths and tinsel and the banner that read Black Thursday Extravaganza, he walked, each step filled with dread and loathing. The banging and screaming intensified as he approached the door, so much so that Tom couldn't even hear the music. He gulped, took a deep breath, and pushed the key into the door. BOOM! Tom jumped back, heart pounding. On the other side of the door, at eye level, a crazed man slammed his face against the glass. As he slid toward the ground, he left a smear of spit. This incited a frenzy amongst the crowd who redoubled their assault on the glass doors. The noise. He just wanted it to stop.
"What the hell are you waiting for?" Tom heard the boss holler. "Open the damn doors already!"
With a gulp, Tom turned the key in the latch. Before he could even move to activate the automatic doors, the horde flung them open and stampeded in. Tom spun desperately to flee, but, alas, was knocked to and fro by the savage shoppers until he finally lost his balance and toppled to the ground. Paying no mind, the crowd earnestly stomped on and around him, a minor sacrifice, of course, for the greater prize. All Tom could do was cover his head and pray that something out there would rescue him from this wretched nightmare before Christmas.
After a few minutes, all the clamor had passed. Tom listened around and glanced about and slowly collected himself, taking a moment to inspect his wounds. Both of his hands had been crushed, his swollen lip throbbed, and pain radiated from various bodily wounds.
"It's the most wonderful season of all!" the singer on the intercom proclaimed gaily.
Tom stumbled to his feet and limped into the mess of moving shopping cart traffic, anger stewing inside his heart. In that instant, blindingly bright lights shone behind him. He shielded his eyes and turned around to face them. The glare was so dazzling he couldn't rest his eyes upon it, the heat so intense, he broke into an instant sweat. Suddenly, the lights died out, leaving only splotches of orange in his vision. The cool rushed in through the open doors. Squinting, Tom could make out a huge, red work truck. All of the doors swung open in unison, and several Hispanic men unloaded from the inside with several more leaping from the truck bed. A man Tom assumed to be the one in charge strode up to him.
"Hello," he greeted with a thick Spanish accent as he extended his hand. "My name is Jesús, and we are here to fix your problems."
Tom's heart sank. "What problems?"
Jesús unfolded a pink slip from his pocket and glanced at it. "Eh, your plumbing, heating, electricity, and drywall."
"Uhhhh," Tom started to turn around. "Hold on, let me get my boss."
With that, Tom bound into the throng of wildly weaving shoppers, dodging, ducking, dipping, diving, and dodging with surprising agility given the plethora of injuries previously mentioned. He hurried toward the back of the store until he came upon a large group of people in an all-out brawl. They were throwing fists and items at each other with abandon, grappling, groping, biting, and backstabbing. They fell over carts with cries and grasped items with grunts, shrieking and scratching. Tom was going to have to find another route. He took a step back and bumped into a body.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Courtney said, rubbing his hands together slowly.
"You did this?" Tom asked.
"No, of course not. They're obviously the ones doing it."
"Okay, whatever, where's the boss?"
Courtney shrugged. "Probably in the back with the new girl. As usual. Dirty bastard."
Tom rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated puff as he made the detour around the brawl. The intercom blared “What Child Is This?" at deafening volumes. Coupled with the din of shoppers, the clamor was unbearable. Tom actually breathed a sigh of relief when he finally made it into the back offices, amid the company of grey, lifeless walls. Wincing in pain, he knocked on the boss' door.
"Just a minute!" the boss yelled from the other side. He heard rustling and a belt buckle and, sure enough, a woman's chuckle. Tom ground his teeth and tapped his foot as he waited. Finally, the boss cracked open the office door. "What is it?"
"Just some guys here to fix stuff. The plumbing . . ."
"Shit! That's today?!" The boss barrelled past him, leaving the door to slowly swing open.
Tom's jaw dropped when he saw who was in that office. "Veronica?"
His girlfriend quickly covered herself with her blouse. "Tom, it's not what it looks like," she cried with desperation hanging in her voice.
Pressure rose to Tom's face. "It's not? Because it looks like you two were in here fu—"
"AH, AH, AH, U-UH, U-UH!" Greg interjected, waving his hands. "Hey, Dad, why don't we just skip this part of the story?" He glanced over at Sandi, who responded with an icy death glare.
Grandpa Alfred looked up from the storybook. "Aw, but this is the juicy part."
"Yeah," Sam chimed in. "This is the juicy part, Daddy."
"Well, I'm not really a fan of juice after all. I prefer water. Let's . . . tone it down."
Tom stormed out of the office with tears brimming in his eyes. The pressure pounded in his head and blinded his judgment like the water blinded his sight. He tore from the back rooms, ready to rip the boss apart. He was going to kill him! He was going to knock him out . . . He was . . . on second thought, that wasn't such a great idea. Tom clenched his fists and ground his teeth. He really needed this job.
He arrived at the front of the store just in time to hear Jesús through the din of the checkout line and holiday shoppers. "We will start on the pluming first and then do the heating and electrical work, okay?"
"No, it's not okay!” the boss cried. "This is the busiest day of the year! You can't just come in and tear up the whole place!"
"Buddy," Jesús said, "it’s not my fault you scheduled us for today. We're busy people too. Maybe you should manage your store better instead of screwing around when nobody's watching."
The color drained from the boss' face as Jesús and his crew brushed past him. He turned around and glowered at Tom. "Don't you have work to do?"
Tom ducked his head and turned into one of the aisles. The shelves were a wreck. The ones that weren't stripped bare were ransacked. Items lay torn from their packages, some completely missing. Toys littered the floor and had been smashed underfoot by the insatiable horde. He got to work, removing the defective product and pulling what little remained to the front. Soon, the repetitive work allowed Tom's mind to rest—to fall into that sleepy complacency that so often accompanies manual labor.
"Hey, mister?" A child's voice shattered the calm, and the clamor came rushing back. The voice came from a little boy who oddly resembled that kid from Home Alone. "Where's the water fountain?"
"It's . . ." Tom started to point, then reconsidered. "Follow me, I'll show you."
He led the little boy through the aisles, passing shoppers stuffing their carts, clawing over items, and screaming at each other. A commercial blared over the intercom: "What better way to spread holiday cheer than to get the perfect gift here at . . ." He glanced behind him to make sure the kid was still there. Finally, they arrived at the water fountain by restrooms in the far corner of the store, but when the little boy took a sip, he spat it out with a cry.
"Ew," he said. "This water tastes like metal!"
"What?" Tom pushed the fountain, and sure enough, red, rusty water poured forth from the spout. "Welp, sorry dude. You'll have to get your mom to buy you some."
The boy looked down at his shoes and quietly said, "Actually, I don't know where my mommy is."
Tom rolled his eyes and told the kid to follow him to the customer service desk. As he passed the front of the store he found Jesús and his crew walking the opposite direction as him—the opposite direction of shopper traffic—causing patrons to swerve to avoid them and further congesting the walkway. Jesús gestured toward him as he approached.
"Hey, guy, where is your boss?"
In that instant, the rage Tom felt earlier that night rushed to the forefront. Suddenly, the blood pounded in his head, and he choked out, "I don't know."
"Well, tell him we're done with the plumbing, and we are going to start on the AC."
Before Jesús and his crew continued past, Tom stopped them. "Hey, you guys did the plumbing? There's rust in the water."
"Yeah, just run the water and that will clear out," Jesús said.
"Are you sure? That's never happened before."
Jesús started walking away. "Don't doubt me. I can do my job."
So, Tom continued to the service desk thinking what an ass that guy was. He dropped the kid off with the new service desk girl all the while fantasizing about how he could get back at his boss. On the one hand, he needed the money, and he was a pretty loyal guy, but on the other hand, this job had taken more than he was willing to offer. His outside life, his girlfriend . . . Veronica. Right then, something broke. Finally, the emotion welling within spilled over into action, and Tom marched diagonally through the crowd back to the service desk.
The new girl announced over the intercom, "Braden Wilson's mom, he is waiting for you at the service desk. Braden Wilson's mom, he's here at the service desk."
Before New Girl could put the phone down, Tom snatched it and said, "Also, Veronica, I hate you, and I was going to break up with you anyway!" He looked around at the mildly interested faces, already regretting making such a rash decision. Well, it was too late now. Feedback screeched on the intercom as he put the phone back up to his mouth. "Have fun with fatso. I don't care. This is my last shift!" He dropped the phone on the counter, and the thud from the speakers pierced his ears and made everyone wince.
With that, Tom held his head high and fought the crowd to get to the electronics section. The teeming of bodies caused the air to stifle and the temperature to skyrocket. It actually seemed to get hotter the further back into the store he traveled. Soon, sweat flowed from his pores, and his throat was parched. When Tom made it back, the brawl was even bigger than before. The sweaty fighters used sales items as weapons, bashing each other with signs and posts, ramming others in the ankles with carts and allowing the mob to converge on them as they fell. To his right, three customers tugged a TV, their red fingers and faces a testament to their determination. Suddenly, a fourth guy jumped and elbow-slammed the TV, smashing the screen through the box. Tom pushed past sticky bodies to find Courtney reveling in the violence.
"Hey, Tom," he said with a crazed grin on his face. "Isn't this great?"
"Yeah," Tom laughed. "Did you hear my announcement?"
Courtney frowned, "Nope. Hey, man, it's kind of hot in here." He pulled on his sweat-soaked work shirt.
"Yeah, some guys are working on the AC."
"Oh." Courtney turned away to watch the show.
Tom spoke into his ear over the noise, "Well, I caught my girlfriend cheating on me with the boss."
"That bastard!"
"So, I'm quitting after tonight."
"Yeah, that's how it is? We should get him! Make him pay."
"What are you going to do?" Tom asked. "You're still going to be working here."
"The hell I am!" Courtney said.
Right then, the boss emerged from the crowd. "Where the hell is that Jesus guy?" He shouted, pronouncing the name in English. "Do you know how many complaints I've gotten about this heat? Thomas, go find him!"
Heat rose to Tom's face. He wanted to say so many things. He wanted to tell the boss to piss off. He wanted to punch him in the face. Instead, he ate his words and turned to complete the errand, courage depleted. It really was hot in the store. The hectic movements of the shoppers devolved into a slow drag as the sweltering heat sapped their energy. There! Tom spotted one of Jesús' crew. He jogged up to him, panting after traveling the short distance.
"Hey, where's Jesús?"
The worker gave him a blank stare and started, "No . . . No espeak English."
"Jesús?" Tom spoke louder, as if that would cause him to understand.
"No," the man said. "Me llamo Pedro."
"No." Tom shook his head and spoke even louder. "No, donde Jesús? Where is Jesús?"
"No . . . no sé . . ."
Tom walked past him, annoyed at the useless energy expenditure. Amazingly, the back rooms were even hotter than the rest of the store. He braced himself on the wall when he entered, resting to pant for a little while. Then, he continued down the corridor. Eventually, he found Jesús and part of his crew tinkering with the air conditioning system.
Tom gasped, "Hey . . . Jesús . . . it's so hot."
Jesús turned from his work. "What?"
The crew looked perfectly fine. Not a bead of sweat hung from any of their faces. Tom wiped his forehead. "Jesús, when are you going to finish? We're all dying out here."
"We're almost done here. I've got guys on the walls and electricity."
The intercom squawked overhead, causing all of them to look up. Courtney’s voice came on. "I'm sick of working here, so I'm quitting! Anyone who's sick and tired of being abused and not making enough to pay rent, come join me in the electronics department and express your frustration!" The intercom clicked.
Jesús stood up and wiped his hands, staring Tom straight in the eye. "If you know what's good for you, you wouldn't go over there." He pointed at him. "You got a pure heart."
Tom turned away. "You don't know about me."
When he stepped back onto the sales floor, the customers were running amok. Only a few workers remained at their posts—the others ran around toppling shopping carts and throwing merchandise from shelves. Tom headed to the electronics department where a ring of employees surrounded the everlasting brawl. Courtney led them in a chant: "We want fair wages, we want fair treatment!"
Filled with awe, Tom stared at the spectacle. There was so much chaos that, for that moment, it seemed like the world was coming to an end.
And then it was pitch black.
Everyone in the store drew in a collective gasp. Then someone screamed, "Take everything!"
The calm blanket of darkness instantly transformed into a into a veil of madness. People ran left and right, bumping Tom forward and backward. So he joined in. He ran blind, arms outstretched whacking anything and everything in his path. Aimlessly, he tumbled down the aisles knocking items off the shelves, euphoria masking the pain in his hands. He reveled in the rebellion, the most he'd ever experienced in his life. He ran at such a rapid pace that he didn't notice the ground begin to shake. A deafening rumble crashed on his left, followed by a blast of dust. The euphoria Tom had experienced quickly evaporated as he realized what was happening. A section of the store had collapsed. Screams of those trapped floated from the black rubble.
The rest of the store sprung into a panic, and the bodies shoving past Tom now all fled the same direction—to the front doors. Tom spun around in the darkness. "There's people trapped!" he shouted. "Someone help!" No one paid any attention to him, and no one saw as he waved his arms. Another rumble erupted, this time from the other end of the store. The ceiling crashed down in a wave of flames. A lump caught in Tom's throat as panic set in. He turned away from the screams and ran toward the front.
"Boss! Boss!" Tom heard in the distance. He turned around to see Courtney with his legs trapped under debris. The boss slowed to a halt. He was holding Veronica's hand. "Boss," he strained, stretching out his bleeding arm. "Help me. Please."
The boss cast his gaze down upon Courtney's fallen form. He let Veronica's hand go and grasped Courtney's as he crouched down to look him in the eye. "Courtney . . ." he started, "you're fired." The boss stood up and walked away.
Veronica screeched, "You're not going to help him?"
Black smoke hung in the air, scorching their lungs. "C'mon," Tom said as he rushed over to Courtney. He and Veronica tried to lift the slab of concrete, but no matter how hard they pulled and strained, it wouldn't budge. Another section of the ceiling collapsed, and the debris slid forward, crushing Courtney's lower torso.
He coughed up blood and wheezed, "Just . . . go . . ."
The smoke stung Tom's eyes. "No, man, we're going to get you out of here."
"Go!" Courtney insisted. "You'll die too."
"Let's go," Veronica said, pulling Tom's hand. Tom stood and ran hand-in-hand with Veronica, hot tears streaming down his face. Unfortunately, between them and the front door was a flaming stack of rubble. They slowed to a stop as they realized the inevitability of their impending doom. Standing before the flames was the boss. He turned around to face them, glancing down at their clasped hands and back up to their faces. Together, they contemplated in silence until the building collapsed upon them as well.
As Tom lay dying, body pinned mercilessly under concrete and rebar, he saw Jesús and his crew on the outside of the building. In Jesús' arms was the little boy from the water fountain. Smoke clouded his view as he watched them all pile into the work truck, but the headlights burned through in a blaze of glory. And just as quickly as they'd arrived, they disappeared.
Grandpa Alfred set the book down on his lap. The family sat in silence, listening to the cracking and popping of the fireplace.
"Wow," Sandi was the first to speak up. "How is that even a Christmas story? All that was in the book?"
"Well," Grandpa chuckled, "I ad-libbed a little bit."
Greg glanced down at the storybook and noticed that Grandpa was holding it upside-down.
“Wow, that was the best story ever!” Sam exclaimed. “Can you tell us another one? Pleeeease?”
“Yeah,” Simon echoed, barely able to pronounce the words. “That story was reawy, reawy . . . reawy reawy . . . the best story eva!”
Greg refused to meet Sandi’s eyes, saying, “Only if Grandpa promises it’ll be more tame.”
Grandpa peered over his reading glasses, eyes shifting between Sandi and Greg. “You know, I don’t like making promises I can’t keep.”
Sandi glowered. “We’re not asking you to.”
He raised his eyebrows and flipped a few pages in the storybook. “Okay . . . something tame. Oh! I’ve got just the one . . .”Want to read more? Get Grandpa Alfred's Christmas Tales on Kindle today!
