Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-12-19 11:21 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2007-12-19 11:21 pm
Fake News: A Colbert Carol, Stanza III
Title: A Colbert Carol, Stanza III: The Second of the Three Spirits
Series: TCR
Rating: PG for icky imagery
Genre: Uplifting Christmas tale!
Summary: Years after Jon's death, Stephen is still celebrating Christmas with extravagant and overblown decorations, but he doesn't truly understand the spirit of the season until a succession of ghosts arrives to show him.
❄ A COLBERT CAROL ❄
Stanza III: The Second of the Three Spirits
Colbert awoke in the middle of a most prodigious snore, and did not need to hear the chime of the mysterious clock to perceive that it was again the hour of one. Whether it was day or the next night, he could not tell.
As the author of several novel-length productions with at least one spinoff television series concerning a heroic character whom he had based largely upon himself, Colbert nationally considered himself possessed of many qualities of heroism. Though it must be admitted that he personally had never exhibited the fortitude under duress for which his character was so lauded, it is only fair to say that, in this instance, as he sat up and adjusted his glasses, he was prepared to meet nearly any circumstance.
He was not prepared, however, for what greeted him: silence and darkness, and not a figure to be seen, ghostly or otherwise.
Colbert surveyed the room with more than a little trepidation; a minute passed, then two. And then he began to be aware that, beyond the light of the moon and the decorations outside the window, there was an eerie luminance from below his bedroom door, in a ghastly green color. Swallowing his fear, he got to his feet, approached the door, undid the chain, and flung it open.
The sight that greeted him was wholly different from his own hall. Oh, it had all the contours of the hall, but it took him a moment to discern them: all of its features had been transmuted to a uniform shade of green, the effect of which was to rob the scene of its depth and give it the appearance of a flat screen.
In the midst of this sat a man over whose shoulders was thrown a rich green robe trimmed with fur; but as he swiveled his chair to face Colbert the latter saw that the robe was hanging open to reveal beneath it a sensible collared shirt and jeans, as though the more festive clothing were an unaccustomed decoration for a person who would much prefer practical, no-nonsense dress.
The chair sat before a large bank of computer equipment with a highly technical appearance; and as as Colbert approached he saw also that the figure before it had a wavy shock of dark hair and a square jaw. "Oh, hi!" he exclaimed, in a tone that might have incensed Colbert as a mockery of his own, had he not been mellowed somewhat by the previous Spirit. "I didn't see you there. One moment." He returned to face the desk, and made some mysterious gestures. A moment later the walls flickered and were replaced with the image of a massive feast, flat and static but no less mouthwatering for all that.
There were heaps of fowl and poultry of all varieties, great joints of meat, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies and apple-pies and peach cobbler, plum-puddings, pyramids of muffins, barrels of oysters, pecans and almonds and chestnuts spilling from sacks, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense cakes, croissants and danishes with brightly colored fillings, bowls of punch and jugs of eggnog and sparkling bottles of champagne. All this appeared projected on every wall; this done, the figure swiveled to face Colbert again. "My name is Jimmy," said he, "and I am the Ghost of Christmas Present."
"It's a pleasure to see you," said Colbert politely. He would have snapped at this Spirit had he arrived earlier in the evening, but already Colbert had gained some measure of respect for powers beyond his own, and even perhaps for wisdom of the same variety.
"I should hope so," replied the Ghost matter-of-factly. "You sing my praises at every opportunity. And yet, you degrade and disrespect my siblings in the same breath."
Colbert apologized, and inquired if the Spirit had many siblings.
"As many as there are faiths among mankind," said the Ghost.
"But there is only one true faith," interjected Colbert.
"There you go again."
The Ghost of Christmas Present rose. "But come forward. There are things to be seen."
Colbert approached slowly, and said he hoped that he had not offended. "Spirit," he said, "take me wherever you need to. I started . . . learning . . . during my last excursion with your fellow. And, well, I think it's working. I'm getting it. After all, I come from a long line of it-getters. So let's go."
"Touch my robe!"
Colbert eyed him dubiously.
The Spirit sighed. "Okay, first lesson: stop being so afraid of anything that seems vaguely gay. Now come on. Touch the robe."
Colbert did as he was told, and held it fast.
With a flicker, turkey, geese, game, bananas, meat, muffins, sausages, cobbler, oysters, pies, fruit, and punch, all vanished. They were replaced, not with the room, but with the city streets, at a time so late that Christmas eve had become early Christmas morn.
It was truly the meaner part of the city that met Colbert's eyes this time. The streets were covered with litter, the lower windows boarded or broken, the walls plastered with cheaply printed advertisements for performances whose quality Colbert highly doubted.
A fresh snow had fallen, but it was already dirty upon the street. The apartment complexes looked black enough, and the windows blacker, and the snow was crushed and furrowed by cars and bicycles and a hundred shabby footprints. The sky was dark and the air thick with smog, and the whole atmosphere thoroughly foreboding; and yet there was an air of cheerfulness that could not be diffused.
For the people abroad were jovial and full of glee, calling out to one another from the rickety fire escapes, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball—by far a better-natured missile than many wordy jests traded on those streets—and laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went wrong. The bohemian little shops and cafés were still open, and as the Ghost made some small adjustment to his machinery, one of these was brought close up to them, that Colbert might look within.
The café! oh, the café! its windows closed against the cold, and some of them shuttered, but through those that were open, such glimpses! It was not merely that the bells within the cash register rang with such merriment, or that the hot water poured so briskly from the taps into the teacups, or even that the scent of coffee and spices was so delightful to the nose. No, it was the vivacity of the customers, who had shoved half a dozen tables together in a row and struck up an impromptu song and dance, some in their enthusiasm having leapt upon the tables themselves.
A toast was declared, to the season, and to divers other things besides, and every glass raised; and the Spirit smiled as his name was drunk to and made some other adjustment, and the whole scene appeared softer, as though viewed through a film of feathers. Whether the company realized it or not, the lines on their faces were smoothed, and with them all care and worry seemed to smooth away as well.
"Is this some kind of filter that you're applying here?" inquired Colbert.
"There is. My own."
"Would it apply to any kind of gathering on this day?"
"To any kindly given. To a poor one most."
"How come?" asked Colbert.
"Because it needs it most."
Colbert said nothing, but pondered this fact; and then the scene about them flickered and changed, becoming afternoon with the sun fully risen, and before them a large bookstore. As they zoomed in on this, the modest crowd inside became clear, and at the front of that crowd, at a little table, his own black friend! What a surprise, to see people of (whether Colbert could tell it or not) all races, eagerly approaching his table; and the Spirit, seated by Colbert's side, looking at him with approving affability!
"Ha, ha!" laughed Colbert's black friend. "Ha, ha, ha!"
If you know anyone with a laugh more constant than that of P. K. Winsome, all I can say is, I should like to know him too. But only in short bursts.
"He is, in fact, my friend," Winsome was telling a young woman who leaned across the table. "Couldn't be here today; he's a very busy man, that Stephen Colbert. Even on Christmas, ha, ha! But I will be delighted to pass on a word from you. Now, who would you like this book made out to?"
"Oh, for crying out loud!" exclaimed another voice from the crowd. "What has he ever done for you? Stand up for yourself once in a while!"
The black friend again adopted a smile that might have been an angry glare on some other man. "Friendship isn't about having to do things for each other. We don't need to exchange petty favors to be pals," he explained heartily.
"He's just using you, buddy," spoke up another voice.
"Stick it to the man!" cried a third.
The crowd broke into shouting, all of it apparently on the same subject, and Colbert clapped his hands over his ears and screwed shut his eyes. "Spirit, take it away!" he begged.
When he opened his eyes, the sky was dark again, though now it appeared to be shortly after sunset, the last rays reaching mutely over the horizon. Here was another apartment building, though the atmosphere about was quiet. At first Colbert knew not the dwelling, but as they zoomed in on a small set of rooms at the topmost level, the inhabitant came into view and was instantly recognized as his own building manager.
The man sat upon a threadbare armchair, dressed in pyjamas of a far cheaper cut than the ones Colbert then wore. His right leg was propped up upon a stool, wrapped tightly in bandages from the heel to halfway up the calf, and he appeared wholly immersed in a trade paperback whose spine was well creased from use. But as Colbert watched, Tad's stomach growled impatiently, and the man winced, though his eyes never left the page.
Then came a knock upon the door, and Tad's head shot up hopefully. "It's open," he cried. "Come in!"
In burst Meg Silverman and Bobby Cratchit, both dressed in red and green and sporting inexpensive copies of that white-furred hat which came yearly into fashion in imitation of none less than Saint Nicholas himself. Both had plastic bags slung over their arms, bearing the labels of local groceries and convenience stores.
Tad flushed with pleasure as he set aside his book, though he glanced in some contrition at his own clothing, or approximation thereof. "You guys didn't have to . . . I'm sorry, I would've changed, but it's so much trouble to walk . . ."
"That's all right," said Silverman brightly. "We brought you a hat, and that should be quite dress enough. And something else too—Bobby, would you run and get that?"
Cratchit said that he would, left his bags upon the floor, and made his exit. Silverman meanwhile searched her own cargo to extract a third red and white hat, which she tossed to the invalid in the chair. He donned it gratefully, while she retrieved a disc of seasonal music, which she fed into Tad's modest sound system.
Shortly thereafter Cratchit returned, bearing a pair of scuffed, dirty, but thoroughly sturdy old crutches, adorned with a festive red bow. "Merry Christmas, Tad," he said by way of explanation.
"Oh no. You didn't. Where did you get those?" exclaimed the building manager, taking the crutches with great delight and attempting to hoist himself to a standing position. "You didn't buy them just for me?"
"I got them for . . . my mom, when she broke her hip last year," explained the stage manager, in a nervous tone that would have betrayed his lie, had Tad been paying more attention to the tone and less to remaining upright. "So we just had them lying around. No need to give them back. —Unless she breaks something else, I guess."
He cut himself off with a tentative smile as Tad took a step away from the armchair, then swung the crutches forward and took another.
"You've got it!" cried Silverman with an unfettered grin. "Now you get dressed; we'll get dinner started. And then we'll get some hot water and wash that foot."
"The building's water heater broke down last night," Tad informed them as he made for the bedroom.
"Then we'll boil some," declared Silverman, smothering the look of dismay that threatened to surface on her features. "C'mon, Bob." She caught up her bags, and Cratchit his, and they turned to the small kitchen.
Then out came tinned potatoes, and frozen peas, and cans of gravy, and chicken breast enclosed between styrofoam and plastic wrap, and a pie crust prefabricated in tinfoil, and all the mass-produced and tightly sealed makings of a very modest but delicious feast. Silverman found first a pot and set a few cups of water to boiling on the stove.
"So," said Cratchit softly, "what do you think?"
"I think we should start with the chicken," came the brisk reply.
"No, no, Meg—I mean about Tad."
This reply was longer in coming, but when it did it was said in a steady, if rather high, voice. "He'll be fine. Now, see if you can't find a saucepan."
All the burners of that noble old stove were pressed into service, three for assorted articles of food and the fourth for that water, while in the belly of the oven the chicken was slowly and thoroughly brought to perfection. As Cratchit stirred the potatoes and Silverman poured water over the ice-encrusted peas, Tad returned, now in respectable pants and a warm-looking sweater. "Mm, smells good," he opinioned, though the cooking hard hardly proceeded far enough to start producing any odour. "Can I help?"
"We've got it covered," assured the director. "Don't worry about a thing. You go sit down and grab the bag from Rite Aid, and I'll be right out with the water."
This direction was gamely obeyed, and a moment later Silverman appeared in the living room again, carrying the pot with hands shielded in ratty but serviceable oven mitts. Tad resumed his station in the chair and set the crutches aside, and they began to undo the bandages.
A few spruce needles tucked into the wrapping bore witness to the party responsible for Tad's injury. As the last layer of it came off, though, it held more dried blood than foliage, and when the extent of the damage was revealed neither he nor Silverman could help flinching a bit. Colbert, who was unseen and had therefore no cause for restraint, fully cringed.
There was an unclosed gash up the side of the limb, and swelling of a nauseating shade of greenish-purple, and the remnants of many small scratches, these last giving the impression that the spruce had not merely fallen upon it but attempted to chew it off. The edges of the gash were crusted with dried fluid, the center still providing more.
Silverman set her mouth in a line, dipped a sponge (of which the drugstore bag contained several) in the steaming water, and began to abrase one end of the gash. Tad made no response, but clenched his teeth and gripped the old fabric of the chair's arms.
"He should be in a hospital," said Colbert weakly. "How can he stand that?"
The Ghost shrugged. "He's been through worse."
Relief washed over Colbert. "So he'll be okay, then."
The Ghost made no reply.
"He will be okay," pressed Colbert, with an interest he had never felt before, "right?"
"I have footage of a vacant apartment," replied the Ghost, "and boxes of clothing and two crutches given to Goodwill, and an advertisement in the local paper that says Building manager needed. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, this man will die."
"No, no!" cried Colbert. "Kind Spirit! say he will be spared."
"If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future," returned the Ghost, "this man will die. What of it? Health insurance is just legalized communism. If he can't afford his medical bills, that's his own problem."
Colbert hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome by a wholly unfamiliar desire—the desire to apologize.
"Man," said the Ghost, "if you are a man, and not a spoiled child, forbear that selfish refrain until you have discovered Who cannot afford it, and Why. Particularly if you yourself oversee the organization that ought to provide it! It may be that, in the sight of Heaven, you are less worthy to have your health safeguarded than your employees."
Colbert trembled, and cast his eyes upon the pot, the carpet, the door, anything to avoid the wound or the Spirit's face. At last he settled upon the bag from which the sponges were drawn, followed by antibacterial soap, followed in turn by a fresh roll of bandages, which mercifully hid the wound from view.
"Meg!" came Cratchit's voice from the kitchen, and the director leapt to her feet and went to assist him.
There was only a small table in the kitchen, with no more than two chairs; but when it was brought into the living room and placed before the old armchair, and the top adorned with dishes and bright red napkins, it was as grand as the central table in a banquet-hall.
And no sooner had they arranged this than they were compelled to rush back to the kitchen to turn off the burners before their contents were scorched. Then out came the pots and pans, and from the reaction you might well believe that there never had been such a feast! The sliced chicken was rounded out by stuffing and applesauce and mashed potatoes dripping with gravy, and every plate was heaped with food, the scent alone so delicious that it was almost a shame to start eating. But eat they did; and the cooking skills of Cratchit were roundly praised by all, never mind that every ingredient had come from boxes or bags (and he, modest man, would not let them forget it)!
Second helpings were taken all around. There was not enough for anyone to partake of thirds, but none would dream of making mention of it, nor looking wistful as they scraped the last of each dish onto their plates. For one thing, there was one more course to come, and at that very instant the timer on the oven rang, and Cratchit rose to attend it.
Suppose the pie should not be done enough! Suppose it should have burnt! Suppose it should have cooked unevenly, or there should have been some problem with the crust or the filling, or both! Silverman and Tad—and, from his unseen vantage, Colbert—waited with bated breath.
Hark! a blast of hot air—that was the oven opening—and a scent like an orchard—that was the pie! It was brought carefully to the table, the dishes hastily cleared by Silverman, and set down, still steaming. Then the flaky crust was sliced and the first piece lifted onto a plate, the center spilling out in a sticky rush of apple and sugar. Tad said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest achievement by Cratchit in all the time they had known each other. Cratchit confessed that, while he had added a bit of cinnamon, the quality of the pie was largely due to the merchant who had produced it. Silverman said he had a touch with it, and she herself had never had such success, no, not with the same brand. Nobody said how quickly it vanished, and what a shame it was that they had not another. This would have been heresy.
At last all was done, the cloth cleared, the table retired, and the floor swept. A bottle was produced, and though they had no fine goblets, a mug was poured full for each, which did the job just as well. Then Cratchit proposed.
"A merry Christmas to us all. God—or whatever—bless us!"
The toast went round.
"God bless us, every one!" said Tad, last of all.
Colbert's attention had been so focused within these events that he had nearly forgotten himself. He was restored to self-consciousness by the mention of his own name.
"To Stephen Colbert!" said Cratchit. "A drink to the Founder of the Feast!"
"The Founder of the Feast, indeed," cried Silverman, reddening. "I wish I could give him a piece of my mind to feast on. I hope his stomach could take it."
"Meg, please," said Cratchit. "It is Christmas."
"It could only be Christmas, I'm sure," said she, "on which one drinks to the health of such an ignorant, selfish, childish, unthinking man as Stephen Colbert. You know he is, Bob! Nobody knows it better than you and I!"
"Meg," was Bob's mild answer. "Christmas."
"I'll drink to his health for your sake, and the day's," said Silverman, "not for his. Long life to him! He'll have it, I'm sure; his family never lacked for health insurance."
They drank the toast. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heart in it. Colbert was the bugaboo of this little gathering. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party.
The contrite Colbert would gladly have poured ten more bottles and drunk a toast to each of them in turn; but the scene faded away before his eyes, to be replaced by a darkness which he soon judged to be the interior of his own studio. He knew it at once, though the multitude of decorations, barely visible, failed to brighten it; only the light from the Ghost's console made it possible to identify the scene.
And—was it a trick of the light?—no, Colbert was sure of it: though he had not changed in appearance over the course of the night, the Ghost had grown older, clearly older. His face was now lined, his hair gone grey.
"Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Colbert.
"My life upon this globe is very brief," replied the Ghost. "It ends tonight."
"Tonight!" cried Colbert.
"Tonight at midnight. Hark! the time is drawing near."
Some chime nearby was striking three quarters to eleven. The eerie sound made the loneliness of the deserted room all the more pronounced.
"Forgive me if it's rude to ask this," said Colbert suddenly, "but I see something strange poking out under there. Not that I was staring. Um. I mean. The point is, is that a claw or . . . a claw?"
"It might well be a claw, for all the flesh there is upon it," was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. "Look here."
From the foldings of his robe he brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.
"Oh, Man! look here! Look, look, down here!" exclaimed the Ghost.
They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with freshest tints, something meaner had pinched and twisted them, and pulled them to shreds.
Colbert started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but it was neither the truth nor the truthiness, and the words were choked back by gut, mind, and heart.
"Spirit! are they yours?" Colbert could say no more.
"They are Man's," said the Spirit, looking down upon them. "And they cling to me, appealing from their parents. The boy is Denial. The girl is Ignorance. Beware of them both, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see written that which is Doom, unless the writing be erased!"
"Isn't there something that can be done?" cried Colbert.
"Should not the Truth be enough for them?" said the Spirit, turning on him with his own words for the last time.
The bell began to strike.
Colbert looked around him for the Ghost or its console, and saw them not. The bell rang, slowly, twelve times in all. As the final stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of Jon Stewart, and, lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, dark and hooded, coming like a slow but inevitable tank along the ground towards him.
Series: TCR
Rating: PG for icky imagery
Genre: Uplifting Christmas tale!
Summary: Years after Jon's death, Stephen is still celebrating Christmas with extravagant and overblown decorations, but he doesn't truly understand the spirit of the season until a succession of ghosts arrives to show him.
❄ A COLBERT CAROL ❄
Stanza III: The Second of the Three Spirits
Colbert awoke in the middle of a most prodigious snore, and did not need to hear the chime of the mysterious clock to perceive that it was again the hour of one. Whether it was day or the next night, he could not tell.
As the author of several novel-length productions with at least one spinoff television series concerning a heroic character whom he had based largely upon himself, Colbert nationally considered himself possessed of many qualities of heroism. Though it must be admitted that he personally had never exhibited the fortitude under duress for which his character was so lauded, it is only fair to say that, in this instance, as he sat up and adjusted his glasses, he was prepared to meet nearly any circumstance.
He was not prepared, however, for what greeted him: silence and darkness, and not a figure to be seen, ghostly or otherwise.
Colbert surveyed the room with more than a little trepidation; a minute passed, then two. And then he began to be aware that, beyond the light of the moon and the decorations outside the window, there was an eerie luminance from below his bedroom door, in a ghastly green color. Swallowing his fear, he got to his feet, approached the door, undid the chain, and flung it open.
The sight that greeted him was wholly different from his own hall. Oh, it had all the contours of the hall, but it took him a moment to discern them: all of its features had been transmuted to a uniform shade of green, the effect of which was to rob the scene of its depth and give it the appearance of a flat screen.
In the midst of this sat a man over whose shoulders was thrown a rich green robe trimmed with fur; but as he swiveled his chair to face Colbert the latter saw that the robe was hanging open to reveal beneath it a sensible collared shirt and jeans, as though the more festive clothing were an unaccustomed decoration for a person who would much prefer practical, no-nonsense dress.
The chair sat before a large bank of computer equipment with a highly technical appearance; and as as Colbert approached he saw also that the figure before it had a wavy shock of dark hair and a square jaw. "Oh, hi!" he exclaimed, in a tone that might have incensed Colbert as a mockery of his own, had he not been mellowed somewhat by the previous Spirit. "I didn't see you there. One moment." He returned to face the desk, and made some mysterious gestures. A moment later the walls flickered and were replaced with the image of a massive feast, flat and static but no less mouthwatering for all that.
There were heaps of fowl and poultry of all varieties, great joints of meat, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies and apple-pies and peach cobbler, plum-puddings, pyramids of muffins, barrels of oysters, pecans and almonds and chestnuts spilling from sacks, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense cakes, croissants and danishes with brightly colored fillings, bowls of punch and jugs of eggnog and sparkling bottles of champagne. All this appeared projected on every wall; this done, the figure swiveled to face Colbert again. "My name is Jimmy," said he, "and I am the Ghost of Christmas Present."
"It's a pleasure to see you," said Colbert politely. He would have snapped at this Spirit had he arrived earlier in the evening, but already Colbert had gained some measure of respect for powers beyond his own, and even perhaps for wisdom of the same variety.
"I should hope so," replied the Ghost matter-of-factly. "You sing my praises at every opportunity. And yet, you degrade and disrespect my siblings in the same breath."
Colbert apologized, and inquired if the Spirit had many siblings.
"As many as there are faiths among mankind," said the Ghost.
"But there is only one true faith," interjected Colbert.
"There you go again."
The Ghost of Christmas Present rose. "But come forward. There are things to be seen."
Colbert approached slowly, and said he hoped that he had not offended. "Spirit," he said, "take me wherever you need to. I started . . . learning . . . during my last excursion with your fellow. And, well, I think it's working. I'm getting it. After all, I come from a long line of it-getters. So let's go."
"Touch my robe!"
Colbert eyed him dubiously.
The Spirit sighed. "Okay, first lesson: stop being so afraid of anything that seems vaguely gay. Now come on. Touch the robe."
Colbert did as he was told, and held it fast.
With a flicker, turkey, geese, game, bananas, meat, muffins, sausages, cobbler, oysters, pies, fruit, and punch, all vanished. They were replaced, not with the room, but with the city streets, at a time so late that Christmas eve had become early Christmas morn.
It was truly the meaner part of the city that met Colbert's eyes this time. The streets were covered with litter, the lower windows boarded or broken, the walls plastered with cheaply printed advertisements for performances whose quality Colbert highly doubted.
A fresh snow had fallen, but it was already dirty upon the street. The apartment complexes looked black enough, and the windows blacker, and the snow was crushed and furrowed by cars and bicycles and a hundred shabby footprints. The sky was dark and the air thick with smog, and the whole atmosphere thoroughly foreboding; and yet there was an air of cheerfulness that could not be diffused.
For the people abroad were jovial and full of glee, calling out to one another from the rickety fire escapes, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball—by far a better-natured missile than many wordy jests traded on those streets—and laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went wrong. The bohemian little shops and cafés were still open, and as the Ghost made some small adjustment to his machinery, one of these was brought close up to them, that Colbert might look within.
The café! oh, the café! its windows closed against the cold, and some of them shuttered, but through those that were open, such glimpses! It was not merely that the bells within the cash register rang with such merriment, or that the hot water poured so briskly from the taps into the teacups, or even that the scent of coffee and spices was so delightful to the nose. No, it was the vivacity of the customers, who had shoved half a dozen tables together in a row and struck up an impromptu song and dance, some in their enthusiasm having leapt upon the tables themselves.
A toast was declared, to the season, and to divers other things besides, and every glass raised; and the Spirit smiled as his name was drunk to and made some other adjustment, and the whole scene appeared softer, as though viewed through a film of feathers. Whether the company realized it or not, the lines on their faces were smoothed, and with them all care and worry seemed to smooth away as well.
"Is this some kind of filter that you're applying here?" inquired Colbert.
"There is. My own."
"Would it apply to any kind of gathering on this day?"
"To any kindly given. To a poor one most."
"How come?" asked Colbert.
"Because it needs it most."
Colbert said nothing, but pondered this fact; and then the scene about them flickered and changed, becoming afternoon with the sun fully risen, and before them a large bookstore. As they zoomed in on this, the modest crowd inside became clear, and at the front of that crowd, at a little table, his own black friend! What a surprise, to see people of (whether Colbert could tell it or not) all races, eagerly approaching his table; and the Spirit, seated by Colbert's side, looking at him with approving affability!
"Ha, ha!" laughed Colbert's black friend. "Ha, ha, ha!"
If you know anyone with a laugh more constant than that of P. K. Winsome, all I can say is, I should like to know him too. But only in short bursts.
"He is, in fact, my friend," Winsome was telling a young woman who leaned across the table. "Couldn't be here today; he's a very busy man, that Stephen Colbert. Even on Christmas, ha, ha! But I will be delighted to pass on a word from you. Now, who would you like this book made out to?"
"Oh, for crying out loud!" exclaimed another voice from the crowd. "What has he ever done for you? Stand up for yourself once in a while!"
The black friend again adopted a smile that might have been an angry glare on some other man. "Friendship isn't about having to do things for each other. We don't need to exchange petty favors to be pals," he explained heartily.
"He's just using you, buddy," spoke up another voice.
"Stick it to the man!" cried a third.
The crowd broke into shouting, all of it apparently on the same subject, and Colbert clapped his hands over his ears and screwed shut his eyes. "Spirit, take it away!" he begged.
When he opened his eyes, the sky was dark again, though now it appeared to be shortly after sunset, the last rays reaching mutely over the horizon. Here was another apartment building, though the atmosphere about was quiet. At first Colbert knew not the dwelling, but as they zoomed in on a small set of rooms at the topmost level, the inhabitant came into view and was instantly recognized as his own building manager.
The man sat upon a threadbare armchair, dressed in pyjamas of a far cheaper cut than the ones Colbert then wore. His right leg was propped up upon a stool, wrapped tightly in bandages from the heel to halfway up the calf, and he appeared wholly immersed in a trade paperback whose spine was well creased from use. But as Colbert watched, Tad's stomach growled impatiently, and the man winced, though his eyes never left the page.
Then came a knock upon the door, and Tad's head shot up hopefully. "It's open," he cried. "Come in!"
In burst Meg Silverman and Bobby Cratchit, both dressed in red and green and sporting inexpensive copies of that white-furred hat which came yearly into fashion in imitation of none less than Saint Nicholas himself. Both had plastic bags slung over their arms, bearing the labels of local groceries and convenience stores.
Tad flushed with pleasure as he set aside his book, though he glanced in some contrition at his own clothing, or approximation thereof. "You guys didn't have to . . . I'm sorry, I would've changed, but it's so much trouble to walk . . ."
"That's all right," said Silverman brightly. "We brought you a hat, and that should be quite dress enough. And something else too—Bobby, would you run and get that?"
Cratchit said that he would, left his bags upon the floor, and made his exit. Silverman meanwhile searched her own cargo to extract a third red and white hat, which she tossed to the invalid in the chair. He donned it gratefully, while she retrieved a disc of seasonal music, which she fed into Tad's modest sound system.
Shortly thereafter Cratchit returned, bearing a pair of scuffed, dirty, but thoroughly sturdy old crutches, adorned with a festive red bow. "Merry Christmas, Tad," he said by way of explanation.
"Oh no. You didn't. Where did you get those?" exclaimed the building manager, taking the crutches with great delight and attempting to hoist himself to a standing position. "You didn't buy them just for me?"
"I got them for . . . my mom, when she broke her hip last year," explained the stage manager, in a nervous tone that would have betrayed his lie, had Tad been paying more attention to the tone and less to remaining upright. "So we just had them lying around. No need to give them back. —Unless she breaks something else, I guess."
He cut himself off with a tentative smile as Tad took a step away from the armchair, then swung the crutches forward and took another.
"You've got it!" cried Silverman with an unfettered grin. "Now you get dressed; we'll get dinner started. And then we'll get some hot water and wash that foot."
"The building's water heater broke down last night," Tad informed them as he made for the bedroom.
"Then we'll boil some," declared Silverman, smothering the look of dismay that threatened to surface on her features. "C'mon, Bob." She caught up her bags, and Cratchit his, and they turned to the small kitchen.
Then out came tinned potatoes, and frozen peas, and cans of gravy, and chicken breast enclosed between styrofoam and plastic wrap, and a pie crust prefabricated in tinfoil, and all the mass-produced and tightly sealed makings of a very modest but delicious feast. Silverman found first a pot and set a few cups of water to boiling on the stove.
"So," said Cratchit softly, "what do you think?"
"I think we should start with the chicken," came the brisk reply.
"No, no, Meg—I mean about Tad."
This reply was longer in coming, but when it did it was said in a steady, if rather high, voice. "He'll be fine. Now, see if you can't find a saucepan."
All the burners of that noble old stove were pressed into service, three for assorted articles of food and the fourth for that water, while in the belly of the oven the chicken was slowly and thoroughly brought to perfection. As Cratchit stirred the potatoes and Silverman poured water over the ice-encrusted peas, Tad returned, now in respectable pants and a warm-looking sweater. "Mm, smells good," he opinioned, though the cooking hard hardly proceeded far enough to start producing any odour. "Can I help?"
"We've got it covered," assured the director. "Don't worry about a thing. You go sit down and grab the bag from Rite Aid, and I'll be right out with the water."
This direction was gamely obeyed, and a moment later Silverman appeared in the living room again, carrying the pot with hands shielded in ratty but serviceable oven mitts. Tad resumed his station in the chair and set the crutches aside, and they began to undo the bandages.
A few spruce needles tucked into the wrapping bore witness to the party responsible for Tad's injury. As the last layer of it came off, though, it held more dried blood than foliage, and when the extent of the damage was revealed neither he nor Silverman could help flinching a bit. Colbert, who was unseen and had therefore no cause for restraint, fully cringed.
There was an unclosed gash up the side of the limb, and swelling of a nauseating shade of greenish-purple, and the remnants of many small scratches, these last giving the impression that the spruce had not merely fallen upon it but attempted to chew it off. The edges of the gash were crusted with dried fluid, the center still providing more.
Silverman set her mouth in a line, dipped a sponge (of which the drugstore bag contained several) in the steaming water, and began to abrase one end of the gash. Tad made no response, but clenched his teeth and gripped the old fabric of the chair's arms.
"He should be in a hospital," said Colbert weakly. "How can he stand that?"
The Ghost shrugged. "He's been through worse."
Relief washed over Colbert. "So he'll be okay, then."
The Ghost made no reply.
"He will be okay," pressed Colbert, with an interest he had never felt before, "right?"
"I have footage of a vacant apartment," replied the Ghost, "and boxes of clothing and two crutches given to Goodwill, and an advertisement in the local paper that says Building manager needed. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, this man will die."
"No, no!" cried Colbert. "Kind Spirit! say he will be spared."
"If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future," returned the Ghost, "this man will die. What of it? Health insurance is just legalized communism. If he can't afford his medical bills, that's his own problem."
Colbert hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome by a wholly unfamiliar desire—the desire to apologize.
"Man," said the Ghost, "if you are a man, and not a spoiled child, forbear that selfish refrain until you have discovered Who cannot afford it, and Why. Particularly if you yourself oversee the organization that ought to provide it! It may be that, in the sight of Heaven, you are less worthy to have your health safeguarded than your employees."
Colbert trembled, and cast his eyes upon the pot, the carpet, the door, anything to avoid the wound or the Spirit's face. At last he settled upon the bag from which the sponges were drawn, followed by antibacterial soap, followed in turn by a fresh roll of bandages, which mercifully hid the wound from view.
"Meg!" came Cratchit's voice from the kitchen, and the director leapt to her feet and went to assist him.
There was only a small table in the kitchen, with no more than two chairs; but when it was brought into the living room and placed before the old armchair, and the top adorned with dishes and bright red napkins, it was as grand as the central table in a banquet-hall.
And no sooner had they arranged this than they were compelled to rush back to the kitchen to turn off the burners before their contents were scorched. Then out came the pots and pans, and from the reaction you might well believe that there never had been such a feast! The sliced chicken was rounded out by stuffing and applesauce and mashed potatoes dripping with gravy, and every plate was heaped with food, the scent alone so delicious that it was almost a shame to start eating. But eat they did; and the cooking skills of Cratchit were roundly praised by all, never mind that every ingredient had come from boxes or bags (and he, modest man, would not let them forget it)!
Second helpings were taken all around. There was not enough for anyone to partake of thirds, but none would dream of making mention of it, nor looking wistful as they scraped the last of each dish onto their plates. For one thing, there was one more course to come, and at that very instant the timer on the oven rang, and Cratchit rose to attend it.
Suppose the pie should not be done enough! Suppose it should have burnt! Suppose it should have cooked unevenly, or there should have been some problem with the crust or the filling, or both! Silverman and Tad—and, from his unseen vantage, Colbert—waited with bated breath.
Hark! a blast of hot air—that was the oven opening—and a scent like an orchard—that was the pie! It was brought carefully to the table, the dishes hastily cleared by Silverman, and set down, still steaming. Then the flaky crust was sliced and the first piece lifted onto a plate, the center spilling out in a sticky rush of apple and sugar. Tad said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest achievement by Cratchit in all the time they had known each other. Cratchit confessed that, while he had added a bit of cinnamon, the quality of the pie was largely due to the merchant who had produced it. Silverman said he had a touch with it, and she herself had never had such success, no, not with the same brand. Nobody said how quickly it vanished, and what a shame it was that they had not another. This would have been heresy.
At last all was done, the cloth cleared, the table retired, and the floor swept. A bottle was produced, and though they had no fine goblets, a mug was poured full for each, which did the job just as well. Then Cratchit proposed.
"A merry Christmas to us all. God—or whatever—bless us!"
The toast went round.
"God bless us, every one!" said Tad, last of all.
Colbert's attention had been so focused within these events that he had nearly forgotten himself. He was restored to self-consciousness by the mention of his own name.
"To Stephen Colbert!" said Cratchit. "A drink to the Founder of the Feast!"
"The Founder of the Feast, indeed," cried Silverman, reddening. "I wish I could give him a piece of my mind to feast on. I hope his stomach could take it."
"Meg, please," said Cratchit. "It is Christmas."
"It could only be Christmas, I'm sure," said she, "on which one drinks to the health of such an ignorant, selfish, childish, unthinking man as Stephen Colbert. You know he is, Bob! Nobody knows it better than you and I!"
"Meg," was Bob's mild answer. "Christmas."
"I'll drink to his health for your sake, and the day's," said Silverman, "not for his. Long life to him! He'll have it, I'm sure; his family never lacked for health insurance."
They drank the toast. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heart in it. Colbert was the bugaboo of this little gathering. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party.
The contrite Colbert would gladly have poured ten more bottles and drunk a toast to each of them in turn; but the scene faded away before his eyes, to be replaced by a darkness which he soon judged to be the interior of his own studio. He knew it at once, though the multitude of decorations, barely visible, failed to brighten it; only the light from the Ghost's console made it possible to identify the scene.
And—was it a trick of the light?—no, Colbert was sure of it: though he had not changed in appearance over the course of the night, the Ghost had grown older, clearly older. His face was now lined, his hair gone grey.
"Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Colbert.
"My life upon this globe is very brief," replied the Ghost. "It ends tonight."
"Tonight!" cried Colbert.
"Tonight at midnight. Hark! the time is drawing near."
Some chime nearby was striking three quarters to eleven. The eerie sound made the loneliness of the deserted room all the more pronounced.
"Forgive me if it's rude to ask this," said Colbert suddenly, "but I see something strange poking out under there. Not that I was staring. Um. I mean. The point is, is that a claw or . . . a claw?"
"It might well be a claw, for all the flesh there is upon it," was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. "Look here."
From the foldings of his robe he brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.
"Oh, Man! look here! Look, look, down here!" exclaimed the Ghost.
They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with freshest tints, something meaner had pinched and twisted them, and pulled them to shreds.
Colbert started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but it was neither the truth nor the truthiness, and the words were choked back by gut, mind, and heart.
"Spirit! are they yours?" Colbert could say no more.
"They are Man's," said the Spirit, looking down upon them. "And they cling to me, appealing from their parents. The boy is Denial. The girl is Ignorance. Beware of them both, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see written that which is Doom, unless the writing be erased!"
"Isn't there something that can be done?" cried Colbert.
"Should not the Truth be enough for them?" said the Spirit, turning on him with his own words for the last time.
The bell began to strike.
Colbert looked around him for the Ghost or its console, and saw them not. The bell rang, slowly, twelve times in all. As the final stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of Jon Stewart, and, lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, dark and hooded, coming like a slow but inevitable tank along the ground towards him.
❄