The Egotist Says "Feliz Navidad!"

By Tom Edwards

Sydney felt it. This year would be different. As he drove up to the Christmas tree stand outside Murphy's grocery store, the tree peddlers spotted him from a mile away with binoculars. They were like vultures wearing sock caps. They may as well have been wearing ski masks. The rookie darted up but the boss man pushed him back into his lawn chair and growled, "This one's mine". He took a hearty snort of eggnog that wasn't the kind grandma used to make. Next thing Sydney knew, his wallet was empty, the kids were screaming 'Feliz Navidad', and he had his stale mittens on a 100% guaranteed, Shyster Bros. and Company certified piece of bald pulpwood. Piles of needles fell into his windshield wipers on the bouncy ride home. He could have always dragged out the dusty fake plastics tree. Yeah, he could have done that, and he could have thrown away his last shreds of dignity and self-respect, as well.

Vaguely wincing as he heard the AM station under the incessant wailing of his and other's babes, Sydney gently pressed the accelerator and ground his teeth. Sydney deciphered snippets from of radio in between the children's ranting, shrieking, and intermittent screaming. "In many respects, convenience equals crap . . .and in the case of Christmas trees this fact is transparent . . . You can't expect to buy a quality tree that has been cut down, bundled with tie, thrown in the back of truck, and left out in a cold, icy parking lot for a month . . .. Flaherty Tree Farms are the best places to get the absolute freshest tree that looks and smells like a tree is supposed to . . .not like a scraggly, dried up Charlie Brown tree. . ."

Sydney quickly flipped the knob on the radio.

As the Pacer wearily pulled into his crunchy driveway with foggy handprints on the windows and the tree dangling pitifully off the corner of the auto, the kids trailed off in varying degrees of their choral procession from hell as they unpeeled from the warm car. The doors were slammed hard and the ensuing silence was more peaceful because of it. The Brambley kid threw a snowball against the driver side window. Sydney sat catatonic, collecting his thoughts alone before entering the home that contained his lovely wife. The children snickered in the background.

A wet crusty sucker crammed in the passenger ashtray caught his eye as he reached back to retrieve his scarf from the back seat floorboard. He wrapped the damp, dirty, slushy piece of flannel around his neck, inhaled deeply, and let the air out slowly as he had been told to do before. A drip of ice water slithered down the small of his back and finally came to rest somewhere in his underwear. Sydney stared straight ahead as a few more pine needles gently slid down his windshield as the fat Peterson kid nailed his back windshield with a resonant, well-placed slush ball. He fixed his eyes on the rearview mirror as the baby elephant did a celebratory dance behind the back bumper.

"Twerp", he muttered to himself, as he gently shifted the car into reverse and slammed his soggy loafer on the gas pedal.