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A X-mas story with winter-themed songs
“And you’ll be careful. You’ll not shoot your eye out?” Mrs. Parker warns Ralphie in The Christmas Story playing on TV before he almost shoots his eye out. That kid never listens.
I wished they’d play other movies at Christmas. I could handle some “Nightmare Before Christmas” — I’m more of a Halloween girl — maybe an Ed Wood movie, or if I’m being honest, even “Santa Claus Conquers the Martians” would be better. Okay, maybe not. But it’s that time of the year and cable stations play the same-old whether you’re in the States or Europe.
“Alexa, turn down the TV and shuffle Suck My Dickens.”
“Sure thing! Shuffling Suck My Dickens for you.”
“I’m Cold” by The Cure starts and I lean out the open window of my new flat to blaze. And sure, I sound like a typical American hipster calling it a flat instead of a bachelorette, but it’s a hundred times better than the reality: a cramped open room with exposed stone — not the cool kind — and creaky worn wooden floors. Thankfully there’s a private bathroom, unlike the flat I looked at in the basement, but the privilege comes with an extra thirty-pound price tag every week, which is doable if I wean off my daily Starbucks fix.
The building itself is an unremarkable five-floor — five-storey tenement at the end of an equally unremarkable street, but it’s in Camden, which slays, and it was cheap, or as cheap as London goes anyway.
The smoke curls from my lips and I exhale out the window to save my flat from smelling like a hotbox. I really should vape, but I like the hit of the smoke at the back of my throat. “Spirit” by Bauhaus kicks in, offering an eerie soundtrack to my own personal anti-holiday.
It’s not that I fully hate on it, but like turkey served up in many English households on Christmas day, it’s all just a little overcooked. I’m not into the fake cheer and endless shopping grind. The only thing I do like is the nearly perpetual state of darkness as the sun sets early, which vibes with me.
Below my second-story window, Christmas lights blink incessantly off garish life-like garden gnomes that I don’t remember seeing when I was moving in a few hours ago. It must be the lights. And actually, when I squint, they look more like Christmas elves mocking me with their ghoulish festive cheer. That must be the weed. Jesus, I can’t wait for this wretched holiday to be over.
A knock at the door startles me and the spliff drops from my fingers. I try to grab it but everything’s in slo-mo as I watch the red heater flicker and tumble down to the snowy courtyard before fizzling in the snow. “Fuck,” there were still a couple of good rips off that. I stand up and feel the rush of euphoria. If I wasn’t so lit, I’d be irritated; this was the third time since seven o’clock that someone interrupted my solitude.
The first uninvited guest was a woman in her 30s with horn-rimmed glasses and a penchant for awkward conversation.
“I’m Apple Sunday!” Her voice was slightly higher in pitch than one might expect. She clutched a bottle of mulled wine, which she thrust toward me as if suddenly remembering it was in her hands, “To warm your cockles!”
“My cockles?” I don’t even know what part of my body that’s supposed to represent, but accepted her gift.
Her gaze fixed on my apartment which was sparse with furnishings and piled with boxes. “Looks like you could use some festive cheer!” Every sentence came with its own enthusiastic exclamation point. “Not mince pies, although mince pies pair perfectly with mulled wine! You need tinsel! Christmas isn’t Christmas without tinsel and I have some in my…”
“I’m not really on the Christmas vibe,” I interrupted. “But thanks for the offer.”
Her shoulders slouched. She seemed disappointed, but then a whirlwind of renewed energy possessed her, “Christmas Carols, then! It’s tradition! There’s nothing like belting out ‘Winter Wonderland’ at the stroke of midnight! I’ll call on you at 11:55!” She said and turned. “11:55!” she said again and disappeared down the hall before I had the chance to decline.
The second disruption came an hour later in the form of a jolly couple in their 70s who insisted their names were Figgy and Topper Snapcrackle. They wore flamboyant sweaters with sequined reindeer, so resplendent in 80s glory that Beverly Goldberg would be jealous. They pushed a fruitcake into my hands — apparently a companion piece to the mulled wine — as if one unwanted Christmas gift wasn’t enough.
“The masterpiece of holiday treats,” Figgy stated. I knew better, and if you’ve ever tasted a Christmas fruit cake, you’d know better too.
“Have you ever seen such a festive beauty? It’s practically a Christmas miracle,” Topper added, grinning as if he’d just revealed the holiday’s best-kept secret.
They were more skilled at small talk than my previous visitor, with significantly fewer exclamation points, but they were a lot more aggressive in their invitation to midnight caroling.
“The Snapcrackles have an offer you can’t refuse,” Figgy proclaimed in the third person, exchanging an animated glance with her husband.
“We’re hitting the streets for a caroling extravaganza at midnight,” Topper’s eyes sparkled. “And you, my dear, are coming with us!”
I managed to shoo them away, but not before Figgy asserted midnight caroling was in my best interest and repeated, “An offer you can’t refuse!” Her tone didn’t suggest I’d find a horsehead in my bed, but you never know what London neighbors are capable of.
High and slightly irritated by yet another knock at my door, I stalk across the creaky floor half expecting to find someone holding a prize turkey. Had I known it was going to be Piccadilly Circus, I’d have waited until the new year to move in.
I pull the door open to find another couple of spirited neighbors, one wearing a red and white Santa hat with a white pom-pom at the tip, and the other an antler headband with flashing red lights.
“I’m Jacob,” Jacob says expressively and pushes through the door. “This is my husband, Marley.”
“You can’t be serious,” I mutter under my breath.
“Sorry, love, didn’t catch that?”
“Nothing,” I sigh, waving the question away. I’m not in the mood for explanations.
Jacob holds up a decorative holiday gift bag, “A little something for you.”
Too small for a Christmas turkey. I’m almost disappointed.
“Got some lovely gingerbread men in here.” Jacob sets it down on the kitchen table.
“From scratch, yeah,” Marley adds, his eyes twinkling as his lips curl into a smile.
Another unwanted addition to my growing collection of holiday treats. The absurdity was almost too much to bear, “You really didn’t have…”
Jacob’s nostrils flare, and he makes a show of sniffing the air. He taps his nose and winks at Marley, who slyly smiles.
“Um, it’s legal,” I quip and add, “Somewhere. Care to partake?” I ask out of politeness, relieved they say no.
Nico’s “Roses in the Snow” begins playing.
“What on earth are you listening to?” Jacob puts his hand over his chest as if he’s going to have a heart attack.
“Holiday music. Sort of,” I say. There are, in fact, a few Christmas songs on Suck My Dickens playlist, “The Snow Miser Song” by 45 Grave and “Stuff the Turkey” by Alien Sex Fiend, but it’s mostly winter-themed 80s Goth, which apparently doesn’t suit him.
“It sounds like a sick cat at a funeral dirge,” he says.
“No thanks,” Marley agrees.
I’m almost offended but bite my tongue, “Well, I’m not a Christmas person,” I begin to explain, although I’m not sure why.
Marley, definitely offended, arches an eyebrow, “What do you mean?” while Jacob taps the smart speaker on the table. “Alexa? This is an Alexa, isn’t it? Alexa play, ‘It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year’ by Andy Williams.”
Alexa — the traitor — complies. “Playing ‘It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year’ by Andy Williams.”
“Listen,” Jacob says turning to face me. His gaze sweeps over my boxes and his expression becomes serious. “We heard you had a decoration problem and we need to get you set up before midnight.”
“Not a minute later,” Marley chimed in, nodding emphatically.
Have I unwittingly moved into a building overflowing with misplaced goodwill? Do they think I need saving?
“I don’t have any,” I answer. “Is this some kind of intervention?”
“We’ll have to make some,” Jacob says and rushes to pick through a box I’ve labeled “pantry”.
“Think of it as an invitation,” says Marley. At least someone hears me. “To embrace the spirit of the season, yeah.”
“You know, I don’t even like Christmas.” As if I hadn’t said it enough in the last three hours.
“Which is why you need our help!” Jacob declares. “You’re missing out on something amazing. Something that will save… change your life.”
“Save?” There it is. “By hanging up some tinsel and singing carols?” They haven’t broached that topic yet, but I feel it coming.
“There’s more to it than that,” Marley insists, a twinkle in his eye. “Connections made, love shared… the magic of Christmas.” He seems to believe every word out of his mouth. I, on the other hand, am about to throw up.
Jacob seems less concerned about whether I believe it and more determined to just get decorations up. He burrows through my boxes searching for any semblance of holiday cheer, as if there was some sort of binding force compelling him to bring yuletide spirit into my flat.
“What is it with Christmas?” I finally acknowledge the elephant in the room, but Jacob cuts me off, desperate to stay on task.
“Popcorn?” he asks, rifling through my ‘dry goods’ box. “You must have popcorn lying around here somewhere.”
“Uh, no,” I reply, uncomfortable with the increasing disarray of my belongings. “I don’t really eat popcorn, either.”
“Never mind!” Marley declares, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I happen to be very crafty.”
Jacob grins, “The MacGyver of crafts.”
As if to prove it, Marley picks up a piece of packing newspaper, and with dexterous fingers, he folds it into a surprisingly intricate origami reindeer. He holds it up, apparently pleased with his handiwork, and sets it on my table before reaching for another piece of newspaper.
“Wait!” A sudden protectiveness surges through me, as though that scrap of newsprint represents the last vestiges of my autonomy.
“Here!” Jacob cries triumphantly, his hands wrapped in a tangle of fairy lights that I don’t even remember owning. “This will do.”
“Wait a minute,” I try again with a hint of bitterness, holding up a hand to halt their decorating frenzy.
“Matilda Snatchcrackett,” Jacob muses. “Now there’s a name worthy of a Dickensian heroine.”
“Gabby,” Marley says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Gabby Snatchcrackett.”
“Mary,” Jacob counters.
“M-e-r-r-y,” Marely spells out as he folds another origami decoration together. “The perfect blend of sweet Christmas and sour attitude, yeah.”
“Whoa, hold up,” I feel my cheeks flushing with indignation. “I already have a name, thank you very much, and it’s Darcy, which neither of you bothered to ask when you first barged in.”
“Oh, but you need a Christmas name.” Jacob’s voice gives off a hint of The Godfather similar to Figgy earlier.
“Everyone in the building has one.”
That explains a lot. I think.
Marley sets another newspaper reindeer on the table, this one with a red nose, which I’m at a loss for words to explain, but impressed yet again.
“Oh, I love this song,” Marley says crafting another decoration. “Alexa, turn up “Winter Wonderland.”
“Turning up ‘Winter Wonderland’ by Bing Crosby.”
“Where can we string these lights?” Jacob asks, untangling them.
If my buzz wasn’t killed already, they’d have killed it. Nevertheless, they’ve moved on to killing my patience. “Look, I’ve been super polite with you guys because I’m just moving in, but honestly, it’s time to go.”
“We can take a hint.” Jacob drapes the fairy lights over my fridge.
“Well, it was a little more than that.”
“Yeah.” Marley sighs with a note of sadness.
The floor creaks as they make their way to the door. Jacob opens it and then turns back toward me with a desperate smile, “The offer remains.”
“Oh God, caroling at midnight.” Oops, I said that out loud.
“No pressure,” Marley says, though Jacob seems to scoff at his remark through a forced smile.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I mumble and close the door as they retreat from my flat.
If not for the red and blue lights blinking outside my window, it would be dark. Jacob or Marley must have hit the lights off on the way out, or maybe I did, rushing to close the door behind them. The echo of Christmas songs feels suddenly drab, sad, and empty.
“Alexa, shuffle Suck My Dickens.”
“Shuffling Suck My Dickens.”
“You shouldn’t have kicked them out,” says a deep voice from the corner of my flat. Jacob and Marley had left. I saw them leave.
“From the shadows, a face emerges.”
A face does emerge, hovering. I jump.
“Not an impenetrable shadow…”
Not impenetrable. Translucent. A shiver runs up my spine.
“…but with a dismal light about it,” the menacing voice continues, “like a bad lobster in a dark cellar.”
From the darkest corner of my flat, a man dressed in a maroon-colored robe steps into view. In one hand, he holds a cup. In the other, a slice of the Snapcrackle’s fruitcake. He takes a bite. “That’s such a weird description, a bad lobster in a dark cellar, but I love it,” he says with his mouth full. “Dickens sure had a way with words.”
I’m frozen. An intruder? A ghost? Why is he eating fruitcake?
“I like this.” He holds up the last bite, before popping it into his mouth. “Homemade. Not like that cardboard shit they sell at the supermarket,” he adds and chugs back the cup of Apple Sunday’s mulled wine. “Mmm. Got a napkin?” He looks around. “Never mind, I don’t have time.” He wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
“Who—” manages to escape my lips, which I quickly and nervously follow with a stunned “What—”
“A ghost,” he hesitates, “The Ghost of Christmas. Obviously.” He continues almost breathlessly: “You know, it’s so funny that just a few hours ago you were saying something, apologies, you were thinking, because I do hear your thoughts and know when you’ve been bad or good, about that kid on the TV, Ralphie, and how he never listens to anyone, and here you are, having just got three invitations from some nice folks, albeit you only got a couple of warnings and, you know, mainly intimidating ones from the Snapcrackles, but that’s a different story, that you aren’t even fuckin’ heeding. Why is that?”
Were there shrooms in that weed? Am I still high?
“No psychedelic fungi in the marijuana. Still high? Questionable. Just try to listen up, I know it’s hard with me being a ghost and shit, because you seem like a good enough kid and while I agree with Jacob and Marley that your taste in seasonal music is also questionable, you still made a winter playlist, which is something, it shows an effort of some kind.” He looks at his watch. “There’s never enough time on Christmas Eve, so many Grinches to deal with, I’m a busy ghost, bottom line is that you know those Christmas elves on the front lawn you were looking at? Well, they’re not really elves, they’re people. Again, questionable…”
Soylent green is people. He likes the word…
“That may very well be true, and yes questionable is my favorite word, but if you’re gonna be a Scrooge, then you’re gonna be an Elf on the front lawn of this god awful building every Christmas ad infinitum, capiche, that’s a statement, not a question, and that’s it, times up, believe me, you’ll have fun, and try the fuckin’ fruitcake. Okay, gotta fly.”
The ghost vanishes. My playlist ends. There’s a knock on the door for the fourth time, but I’m not moaning about it this time. And whether that’s shock from meeting an actual ghost, or fear from a seriously bizarre high, I’ll never know, but I’m not Ralphie and I’m not risking it, no way. I pull on my boots and put on my parka, grab the fairy lights — thankfully battery operated — wrap them around me like a Christmas blanket, and open the door to meet Apple, the Snapcrackles, Jacob and Marley, as well as a few others from the building, and shout in the most joyous tone I can muster, “Merry Snatchcrackett is ready to carol!”
Like this playlist? Click More Than Less Than Zero for a holiday playlist set in Southern California, click Asshole Santa and experience the spikey outer-shell of Christmas, or follow this link to Winter Days if you just want a snowy seasonal playlist.
