The Christmas Special That Almost Wasn't
“The Holiday Special That Almost Wasn’t”
The CEO of the Cuddle-Me-Brite Teddy Bear Company had a stranglehold on the neck of his counterpart from SazzyDollz Inc., who in turn was attempting to stab his assailant in the back with the lethal point of an extremely rare but conveniently accessible lawn dart. He had grabbed it from a festive centerpiece on the boardroom table where it had nestled among other similarly-banned playthings. “Listen, you purveyor of cheap junk,” the weapon-wielder choked, “the original patent to the line of SazzySlutz Dollz is my intellectual property!”
Having abandoned the prudence of neutrality, the various vice-presidents and lower-level executives of both corporations had quickly construed this developing skirmish as a test of company loyalty. Hence they had formed offensive phalanxes on either side of the boardroom table, which served as a kind of no-man’s-land in this battle du jour in the War Between the Toy Makers. They grabbed makeshift weapons – in the form of doughnuts, Danishes, fresh fruit – and hurled them like grenades toward the respective enemies. Styrofoam coffee cups likewise flew through the air, their still-scalding contents staining many a designer suit jacket. (To their surprise, the targets discovered that decaf coffee stings just as acutely as espresso.)
Meanwhile, the legal representation for both sides did not participate in the melee; the attorneys shielded their faces with their personal leather-bound briefcases, while contemplating safe conduct out of the corporate headquarters to the airport and eventually to a tropic clime where the turf of the fairways was perpetually soft and the putting greens free of ice and snow.
Suddenly, the energy-saving fluorescent overheads began to flicker, followed by a loud pop. At first it was thought that a piece of improvised shrapnel had been overthrown by an overly-ambitious exec. who secretly harbored belated boyhood dreams of headlining a big league rotation. Instantly the board room went pitch-dark and stayed dark.
“Oh, #&@%!” exclaimed a voice. “Not another #&@%ing blackout!”
“Whatsamatter, Cratchlow? Times so tough you can’t pay the Con Ed bill?”
“Oh, is that right, Broadporn? I hear over at your place they do their spreadsheets by candlelight!”
Next came the sound not of thunder but of tinkling music, not immediately recognizable but eerily familiar, like the Ghost of the Themes from Sitcoms Past. The ceiling began to brighten, not all at once, but gradually with little Christmastree lights in diverse shades of yellow, red, green, and blue, each little bulb twinkling on one by one. Soon the entire boardroom was bathed in rainbow rays, spreading outward like a peacock opening up his multi-colored wings. And from a golden beam a small moving figure slid downward toward the group. Evidently something paranormal was happening, and true to the human custom when a phenomenon veers so strangely from the status quo, more than a few of the gathering became sore afraid. One mid-level corporate manager hadn’t been so scared since the last time he checked the balance on his 401k.
Having completed her descent, the uninvited guest made herself at home right in the center of the table. “Whew!” she sighed. “Those lights are gosh-darned hot! A gal’s gotta be careful when she’s a claymation figure.” The little creature may have been fashioned out of pliable material, but each man in the assembly shared the thought that she had been shaped from one heck of a mold. Aside from height, her physical frame -- had it been adorned with a minimalist bikini -- would have qualified her cheesecake photo for the pages of any British tabloid. Instead she was wearing a evening gown of gold lame, the brilliance of which was outshone by her perfect tiny teeth. Atop her flawlessly-styled platinum hair a silver tiara gleamed. For a nanosecond her luminous smile slightly dimmed, as her rose-colored lips momentarily folded into a pout, albeit an adorable one. “Goodness! Where are my manners? I forgot my intro!”
The sparkling smile returned as she extended her arms a la the hostess of a variety show from the late 50s. “I am Pixel, the Spirit of the Holiday Special, at your service. Tune in any time between Thanksgiving through Dec. 24, and you’ll find me. Whenever there is an animated character with self-esteem issues, I’m there. Whenever a live-action person struggles with the generosity of the season, I’m there, too, not to mention saving the day when there’s a question of whether Christm- er, the holiday will actually arrive. And– gentlemen, rest assured, I show viewers the True Meaning of Christmas within the space of 26 or 51 minutes, give or take commercial interruptions. So, remember the name -- Pixel, your spirit of holiday entertainment enjoyment!”
By now the emotional spectrum of the board members had vacillated from fear tooutright bemusement. The general reaction was
“What the---?”
The sprite continued with her speech. “I’ve been present at the creation of seasonal skinflints, family men who wish they’d never been born, misfit angels, elves, and reindeer, confused shepherds, overwhelmed shopgirls, lonely widowers, widows, and spinsters, disenfranchised relatives of Santa Claus, general disbelievers, cynics, and dogs at the manger. There’s been no crisis, issue, or dilemma needin’ fixin that I can’t fix. So– I’ll tell ya, gentlemen, tonight I’m here to help you.”
“Help us? Why?”
“Yeah. We don’t need ‘fixin’.”
Pixel tilted back her head and roared a jolly sound that would have made the most realistic-sounding canned laughter sound like canned tuna. “Oooh, I beg to differ with you guys, but – the holiday shopping season is upon us, and both of your companies will miss out on the fun. So what’s keeping your merchandise off the shelves? Not a
shortage of raw materials, not a labor dispute, not the economy, even though it’s down in the dumps.” (The last four words she pronounced through a pout as if she were channeling Shirley Temple from some70-year-old movie.) Oh, no – nothin’ wike that. You’re both gonna miss out on the howidays cuz of a widdle patent disagweement! You boys aren’t nice – you’re naughty!”
The sprite jumped off the table, stood between Cratchlow and Broadporn, and like a lovely assistant on a syndicated game show, she took the arm of each man. “Come on, guys,” she chirped. “We’re gonna watch us some specials!” On the way to the board room door, she stopped at the end of the table where the lawyers were sitting. “Tell me, Counselor,” she asked one of them. “Should Santy Claus sue the Jolly Green Giant or vice versa?”
Speechless, the attorney shrugged. “Either way, it’s a tough row to ho-ho-ho!” Perhaps the board members were still in shock, for they did not react to the joke. To put it mildly, not a creature was stirring. But after a long pause, Pixel burst in to uproarious hilarity. “Good one, huh? A Harvard grad wrote that line.”
She waved her magic wand, which was half of an old rabbit ear antenna, and a hologram-like blue cloud materialized. “Pretty good for an analog device that’s gonna be obsolete come February, huh? Actually, it’s just a prop. Come on, touch my remote.”
Before they knew it, Cratchlow and Broadporn found themselves in a suburban shopping mall, all done up for the holiday shopping season, and though the decor had been in place since the day after Halloween, the festoons were none the worsefor wear. Both CEOS began to edge themselves more closely to the food court, but Pixiepulled both men back with a display of strength astonishing for an ethereal being. “Look!” she commanded, and they looked.
In front of a toy store called Git Yer Sumpin Sumpin Here, a little girl was weeping, wailing, and gnashing her expensive orthodontic work. “Why? Why can’t I get a SazzySlutz doll? Why?”
A woman, presumably the distraught tot’s mother, herself visibly stressed and more than a little miffed, nonetheless tried to reason with the child and coax her into listening to reason. “I’m sorry, honey, but I’m afraid Santa ran out of Sazzy dolls and didn’t have time to make more. Let’s go back inside and pick out something else you’d like to find under the tree.”
“No! I put SazzySlutz and Cuddle-Me-Brite on my list and that’s what I want! If I don’t get ‘em, then my Christmas is ruined! I hate Santa Claus!”
Pixel raised a painstakingly-crafted clay eyebrow and clicked her tongue. “Tsk, tsk. Strong words from such a little one, right, guys? Come on, let’s go take a peek.”
Despite the nanosecond to arrive there, the threesome waited in the store’s checkout line which moved much more slowly than the lightning pace with which Greenland’s glaciers have been melting. Before them were customers of various dispositions, the few exuding holiday cheer far outnumbered by those consumed by irritation, compounded by cases involving expired gift certificates, invalid coupons, and rejected credit cards. Seemingly unfazed by their angry demands, the checkout clerk responded to them with the unflappable insouciance of a genuine slacker.
After an eternity, Pixel and her two companions had reached the front of the line. The teenager gave them his standard greeting –“ ‘Zup,” – but when he saw that there was no merchandise to scan and ring up, his face assumed the same look of confusion it displayed when the principal at his high school confiscated his cell phone.
“Season’s greetings to you, young sir,” Pixel said brightly. “Would you be so kind as to tell us if this fine establishment has any SazzySlutz Dollz in stock?”
“And Cuddle-Me-Brites–“ Cratchlow quickly added.
The clerk held up an index finger as a way of saying “Wait,” then removed his earpods and
after Pixel repeated her inquiry, replied, “ Nope. You know, a little girl and her mom just asked me about those things. But we ain’t got ‘em. They didn’t come in. Sorry. BTW, nice costume, lady. . .” Pixel had no time to thank him for the compliment before the next customer in line all-but-shoved the trio out of the way.”
“No SazzySlutz!” was the cry from Broadporn, “No Cuddle-Me-Brites?” from Cratchlow, and then in unison, “We demand to see the manager!”
“No,” Pixel corrected, “I demand that you see this.” In the twinkling of a wrong-sized contact lens, the two CEOs found themselves out outside a building in a run-down neighborhood. The spirit guide had somehow abandoned the duo en route, for now they were out on the street and desperately alone.
Through the blinding blizzard, both men could somehow make out two other figures stumbling down the sidewalk from opposite directions toward the building whose unlit sign read in peeling paint, “City Mission.” As the unfortunates headed toward the building, both members of the higher economic tier noticed that both of their less-fortunate counterparts both wore clothes which, though wholly inadequate for the weather, faintly showed that they had been cut in a better-woven past, that they had been hung in cathedral-like closets and carefully packed in far-flung luggage rather than schlepped around in a wayward supermarket cart or a jammed into a cardboard box.
Somehow there was an unexplainable yet unmistakable affinity between the two pairs of men. When both of the presumably homeless men had approached close enough that Cratchlow and Broadporn could see their unshaven faces and unruly hair, the CEOS both turned away rather than discover what their mutual fear already suspected. Both executives had started to shiver, not totally from the cold.
“Tell me, Cratchlow,” Broadporn asked. “How much did you pull down last year? You know, salary, stock options, the whole ball o wax.”
Cratchlow reached into his pocket and having retrieved a 24-carat gold plated pen and wrote down a figure on one of the vellum pages of his leather-bound notebook. “And you? About the same, eh?”
“Well – I don’t normal divulge – yeah, the same. Give or take. What I’m getting at, Cratchlow, is I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. Tell you what, I’ll drop the litigation, but don’t dismiss the lawyers just yet. What say SazzySlutz Dollz, Inc. and the Cuddle-Me-Brite Teddy Bear Company agree to a merger?”
No sooner than the two men had come to terms when they were back in the boardroom. There was no trace of any previous mishaps or incidents; indeed, the lawn dart was safely nestled in its display case, the fruit and pastries appetizingly arranged and unsquashed.
In the following shopping season, and that of subsequent years, a novelty item sold well. While not as coveted as a flat-screen tv or an electronic game console, this toy was purchased and gaily-wrapped and placed under many a Christmas tree. A plush, fake-fur covered doll who sported a sequined miniskirt and a lavender-colored wig, the
Cuddle Me Slutz Bear was only advertised for about six weeks during the end of the year,
and occupied store spaces primarily during the holiday season, a la the Salad Shooter or the Chia Pet, and like the latter, served as a sure-fire conversation, guaranteed to break the frigid silence whenever estranged relatives drop by for their annual family festivities.
Despite the seasonal nature of its leading product, the manufacturers were able to turn a modest profit. The item’s shelf-life may have been limited, yet it was a perennial with no apparent expiration date. The knock-around arena of commerce often mimicked its network and cable television stepchildren, for the Cuddle Me Slutz bear was a perennial item returning each holiday season like an animated special. In this season of the rebirth of Light, let the truth be known that it is far better for an item, a program, an Event to appear but once a year than never to appear at all.
