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FRESH
YARN PRESENTS:
Off
the Charts in Tears
By Timber Masterson
PAGE
TWO
 This
Dickensian death camp will soon be over, I reassure myself, but
I am still on the battlefield, (minefield?) left to my own unpoetic
devices: dodging floats; freak show countesses; easily swayed crowds;
surreal scenarios; children with sickening festive agendas and their
puppet idolatries -- with me off the charts in tears, as I miss
everyone this time of year.
Luckily, I'm able to momentarily escape and take a breather. I make
my way down a tailored walkway with freshly fallen snow, where I
come across another fumbly father-child equation (so many of them)
having a snowball fight in their front yard… or they're trespassing.
If I could muster up the energy, I'd flag down a cop and report
the man for child abuse. I decide to let the whole thing slide,
for fear that I, in turn, would somehow get nailed for 'Snowball
Possession', a crime that carries the heavy sentence of being forced
to watch ghostly videos of past Christmas parades on extra slow-mo-speed.
Fortunately, they are in the giving spirit and donate some of their
pre-made snowball artillery to my cause. I pack them down good and
tight in my trousers, just in case I really needed to fight the
Parade people back with wintery weapons.
Also, moistening in my pocket is a registered reminder of my start
time in the yearly Company Winter Olympics. I've applied to take
part in the Luge event. Must get that going. Where to practice?
And just how am I going to look in my hand-sewn Luge outfit for
the event? Hey, this might work out after all. I mean, these kids'll
eventually have to abandon those catastrophically useless costumes
from the parade, and since I must somehow acquire material - no,
that would be sacrilicious...how many sins would that cover?
I hunt down a Black Market sinister mushroom-man with fake blotter-acid
who fesses up and divulges the secret location where this whole
travesty ends. I hike across town and wait for parade participants
back at the starting point: an icy auditorium, scalding hot chocolate,
weary parents discussing when they think their crazy children will
be arriving back on their shoddy floats, and me lurking in back
rooms conversing with profoundly marshmallow-laden costume ladies
with too many stories:
"It was New York, the year 1958, a much younger, trimmer Ed
Asner was lookin' for a dresser, so I told my parents to go to hell
and that I'm cutting this dyke-school-scene to break into showbiz,
so then..." I endure Grizelda's bizarre nostalgia in order
to procure colorful fabrics, cloths, textiles needed for my uniform
in an upcoming sporty project (not to mention some pretty darn funny
comedic material).
I end up being arrested and held without bail for trying to lure
youngsters away from their costumes with alfalfa salt licks, carrot
noses and a half-eaten box of After Eights.
"It's not the kids, I only want their costumes! I'm not some
pervert, I just need the material; they don't need it anymore. Unhand
me!"
"Tell it down at the station, Gramps."
The arresting officers said I was nothing more than a sour, judgmental
presence, but for the life of me I couldn't see it. Nor did I see
how such behavior could be considered criminal. I told them calmly
that this day somehow reminded me of finely chiseled crystal coffins
whizzing down an Arctic icy racecourse. Sour, maybe. Judgmental,
never.
They transported me to a cold, damp igloo of a hollow-minded police
station; the snowballs not confiscated in the arrest are melting
down my trousers. I try to make a game out of it, but it's all turned
awfully unfunny; thoroughly-iced-genetalia going numb with the rest
of me, hungry corrupt constables staring at me, eager to cross examine,
to extract 'the truth' from my mind's eye. I'm melting and starving,
just having missed the once-a-day snack allowance. Pockets deep
with regret, like snowmen who've gotten off at the wrong stop and
forgotten their extremely odd-shaped-underwear not prepped properly
for the all-too-humid and airy aroma of an early thaw.
Where DO crafty snowmen go in springtime? Oh, they have places,
you just have to look.
All this I had scribbled down on a notepad, scrunched somewhere
in my back pants pocket, now lost or stolen. I bet it was one of
those Goddamn cherubic-float-riding kiddies just back from eating
entire cotton-candy-floats, who gobbled up my Life Notes, testing
to see what's edible and what isn't at their after-party: appetites
insatiable, unquenchable thirsts. Never satisfied.
Okay, maybe I have done that. But I'm not like them. I'm
not like anyone.
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