Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-12-21 11:25 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2007-12-21 11:25 pm
Fake News: A Colbert Carol, Stanza V
Title: A Colbert Carol, Stanza V: The End Of It
Series: TCR
Rating: G
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 V: The End Of It
Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the striped sheets below his knees were his own, the room was his very own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!
"I'll be good to people," Colbert repeated as he scrambled out of bed. "I'll change and I'll learn. It worked, Jon! Heaven and Christmas be praised, it worked!"
He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions that he could not sit still, and he rushed in one direction and another, putting down his glasses, picking them up to set them down elsewhere, fumbling with his buttons, opening his closet, hopping from one foot to another as he rifled through his shirts.
"I don't know where to start!" cried Colbert, laughing and crying in the same breath, and making a perfect fool of himself as it took him five tries to don one tube sock. "I'm light as a feather, I'm giddy as a schoolboy, I'm excited as I was when they announced the Silmarillion movie. Ha-ha!"
He frisked about like a madman, fairly danced into his shoes, not noticing that they were on the wrong feet until he tripped, at which juncture he was so winded besides that he was compelled to sit down.
"There's the mug my eggnog was in," he exclaimed aloud as he righted the shoes. "There's the door Jon came through. There's the window I was led out through! There's the hall where the Ghost of Christmas Present stood! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened! Ha, ha!"
Really, for a man whose laugh had so long been self-satisfied and derisive, it was a splendid laugh: a laugh of pure, loving joy!
"I don't know when I am," he realized. "I don't know how long the Spirits kept me out. I don't know anything. I admit it! But I'll learn. I'll learn!"
Running to the window, he opened it, and put his head out. No fog, no mist; bright, jovial, stirring, cold; but filled with clear sunlight, bright and merry, and a glorious fresh breeze!
"What day is it?" called Colbert to a girl in a new coat walking down the street, perhaps to visit a friend.
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you, my dear young lady! What day is it?"
"Today!" replied the girl. "Why, CHRISTMAS DAY!"
"It's Christmas Day!" said Colbert to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. Of course they could. They can do anything. Where's my phone?"
He found the device, which, when turned a certain way, made the curious transformation from a phone into a miniature email station; composed a brief message to a blog which he trusted to spread any news regarding him within minutes; and, that done, reverted it to a phone and began making calls.
Fifteen minutes later found him pacing about and compulsively checking his watch. "What am I going to do with myself until this afternoon?" he asked aloud. "The time can hardly pass fast enough . . . Oh, right! Charities! Where's my bank book? Where's my checkbook? And after that, maybe breakfast. I could use a sauswich . . . Wait. I'm out of eggs. Maybe I'll try Kix."
The time of the signing arrived at last, although as Colbert approached the bookstore he had to look several times to be sure it was the right place, for there was a massive crowd about it which, besides being greater than the one he had seen with the Ghost of Christmas Present, blocked the advertisements from view. It was his own Colbert Nation, as was made abundantly clear when one at the back of the line chanced to turn, laid eyes on him, and let out a shriek which cut through the chatter like a bolt of Truth through a self-congratulatory dinner party.
"Please—ladies, gentlemen—let me through," entreated Colbert. "You're too kind, no, really, but I need to get by—my . . . friend is in there, and I need to stand by him. Thank you! Excuse me. Excuse me!" And he pushed through, dodging hugs and squeals and professions of love and offers of sexual favors and the sort of praise which only a day before he would have tarried long to revel in. He had no time for it now.
At last he made it in, and, spotting Winsome at the table flanked by stacks of his book, waved enthusiastically. "P. K.! Hey! I'm here!"
"Stephen, you made it!" exclaimed Winsome brightly. "It's great to see you! Come on, come join me."
Colbert forged his way through the last of the crowd and came to stand behind the table, where he put on his sternest expression and waved the crowd into silence. "Settle, settle!" he ordered, and even those who had come to see Winsome were cowed by the sudden impression of authority. "Now, listen up, America. You are all here for a book signing by P. K. Winsome, good friend of me, Stephen Colbert."
There was a smattering of cheers at the name. He hushed them.
"Now, I've come here to join him, but I need to warn you all of something: I am not here as 'Stephen Colbert of the Colbert Report'. I'm here as 'Stephen Colbert, friend of P. K. Winsome.' Today, my signature will only be committed to paper or other surfaces if it goes alongside his. Long story short, if you want me to sign something, get him to sign it first. Pass the word along to the people in back. Understood? Good." He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "All right. Let's do this thing."
And now our narrative must depart from Colbert's side for a brief time, and stand vigil outside the apartment of Tad, where a cab sat parked. We need not wait here long, for though the signing lasted the full afternoon, and was forced to extend some hours beyond what the store had anticipated through sheer volume of customers (to which the store did not complain, as it did a booming business), we may tell of it in a single sentence, and thereby arrive at sunset, when Cratchit and Silverman, bags in arms, approached the building's door.
"Excuse me!" called the driver of the cab, leaning from his window. He was a young Indian gentleman, too polite and well-spoken to inspire mistrust, and both Silverman and Cratchit turned to face him.
"Are you Mr. Bob Cratchit and Ms. Meg Silverman?" inquired the driver.
The two in question exchanged a puzzled glance. "That's us," affirmed Silverman. "Why do you ask?"
"I've been sent to give you a ride."
"You'll have to wait," put in Cratchit. "We're here to make dinner for a friend . . ."
"Would that be Tad?" pressed the cabman.
Another glance was exchanged, then both nodded.
"He's not here. He's in the hospital. That's where I'm meant to be taking you."
Not a moment was spared for looks this time; both Cratchit and Silverman ran for the cab without an instant's hesitation, and bundled themselves into the back seat, bags and all.
As the cab pulled away from the curb, Silverman removed her hat and began to toy nervously with the ball of fur on the end. "Something really bad must have happened if he went to the hospital," she said at last. "But at least they'll know how to take care of him better than we did. He'll pull through."
Beside her, Cratchit was all atwitter; though nominally sitting still, he was beset by a fluttering of little twitches and tics that kept him constantly in some sort of motion. "How would he have known we were coming?" he replied abruptly. "It was supposed to be a surprise. We didn't tell anybody else."
Silverman leaned forward to address the driver. "Excuse me, but who sent you to get us, exactly? Was it Tad? Do you know how he is?"
"I'm sorry, miss," replied the driver mildly. "I've been paid to convey you, but I'm afraid I cannot explain anything."
"Because you don't know," cut in Cratchit, "or because you were paid not to tell us?"
The driver smiled slightly. "You are not the only ones in the world who enjoy arranging surprises. I believe I may say that much. Ah! We've arrived."
The cab came to a halt in the half-circle of pavement that curved to meet the front doors of the vast white edifice that was the hospital. Its passengers climbed out, thanked the driver profusely, and conveyed their baggage to the front desk. Here the receptionist informed them that they were expected (which information came quite unexpected to the expected parties), and they might proceed to room B221; on entering this room they were received with far more surprise than normally accompanies an expected arrival, and after a moment of confused talking it was clear (though nothing else was) that the day's events had been the farthest thing from any expectations.
For the room contained a multitude, though not an excess, of holiday decorations; and in the midst of it, propped up by pillows on the bed, was Tad, looking rather pale but with eyes brighter than either of his fellows had seen them in some weeks.
The profusion of talking was at last interrupted when Silverman cried "Are you okay?", at which she and Cratchit both silenced themselves, for both were eager to hear Tad's answer.
"I am now," replied the building manager, his voice betraying his awe at the situation in which he found himself. "The doctors cleaned my leg, put in some stitches, then gave me a boatload of antibiotics and another boatload of painkillers. So I'm pretty numb, but it's a good kind of numb, you know?"
"But what happened before," prompted Cratchit, "to make you feel you needed to come here?"
"Nothing! I just heard a knock on my door this morning, and in came a couple of paramedics who said there was an ambulance outside waiting for me."
"Did you tell them you don't have health insurance?" exclaimed Silverman, looking nervously about her as she said it, as though frightened that someone might overhear and throw them out.
"I did! They said it was all paid for. But how did you guys get here?"
"There was a cab waiting for us outside your apartment," explained Silverman. "It brought us here. It was paid for too."
"We were bringing you dinner," added Cratchit helpfully, lifting one of the bags in his hand to illustrate.
"You haven't eaten yet?" cried Tad, much affected by this display of friendship. "I'm sorry! I wish I could offer you something, but," and here he gestured to a tray at his bedside table, bearing a half-eaten block of Jello, "it's not very appetizing . . ."
Colbert could stand it no longer. He had been waiting patiently at the door while this reunion took place, but at the mention of dinner he turned the handle, opened the door, and entered, a stack of boxes brandished before him and a cap pulled low over his face. In an affected but subdued voice he inquired, "Did somebody order a pizza?"
The three occupants of the room exchanged looks that said, plainer than words, that none of them had, but this was so far from the most startling occurrence of the day that they were hardly shocked by it.
"Well, somebody had better eat it, or it'll get cold," pronounced Colbert, tipping back his cap.
Now they looked shocked! And, as each began to assemble the puzzle in his or her own way around this new piece, more shocked still!
"Stephen," began Cratchit at last, "what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"
"Ah, yes." Colbert arranged his features into as stern a look as he could manage. "Yes, lots of things are wrong. Put down those bags and take these. I've got to go grab a few more things."
He thrust the pizza boxes into Cratchit's arms and ducked out again, returning with a severe-looking briefcase. "Don't just stand there gaping," he ordered briskly. "Pull up some chairs."
In a trice the chairs that had stood at the wall of the room were moved to either side of Tad's bed, and Colbert took a seat in one of them facing the nervous Silverman and Cratchit, who sat opposite.
"First order of business," said he, opening the briefcase, "is that pizza." And he removed a handful of plastic plates and paper napkins and passed them out, one of each to each.
The employees met these unprecedented gestures with suspicion, but when the first box of pizza was opened all were reminded that they were ravenous—Cratchit and Silverman thanks to the low quantity of food they had eaten that day, Tad to its low quality—and dug in. Colbert, who had found himself too nervous to eat since breakfast, likewise attacked his first slice with great vigour, and then a second, and a third. Between them the four polished off two of the boxes before the pace began to slow.
At last Colbert licked the grease from his fingers, dried them with a napkin, and attempted to look stern again. "Second order of business," he announced, gesturing to the plastic shopping bags which now lay forgotten on the floor. "Those were going to be your dinner, right?"
"That's right," said Silverman faintly, dabbing sauce from her mouth with her napkin.
"Well, it looks like I've messed that up for you. So I'll refund it. I don't know how you arranged the bill," he added, reaching into the briefcase and extracting two hundred-dollar bills, "so I'll give you each the same amount and let you fight it out yourselves."
He reached over Tad's legs and placed the bills on the sheet, each before its recipient, both of whom goggled so that the hospital might well have needed to admit them next, to return their eyes to their sockets.
It was Tad who first collected his wits enough to speak. "Was it you, then," he cried, "who set this all up, and paid for it?"
"It was," replied Colbert. "And don't you dare worry about the medical costs. I personally have this visit covered, and though I couldn't get any more done today because everything's closed, I give you my word that by the end of the year you—all of you," he added, looking to Cratchit and Silverman in turn before returning his gaze to Tad—"will have some quality health insurance drawn up."
"But why?" exclaimed Tad, utterly taken aback by this turn of events; and Colbert's heart sank to find a genuine gift from himself met first with incredulity.
"Because," said he, in a sincere a tone as ever he had spoken, "I realize now that there is no way I can risk losing my best building manager ever. And director," he added, looking across to Silverman, "and stage manager," he concluded, now facing Cratchit. "Speaking of which," he added, "I believe, Bobby, that I owe you a Christmas bonus."
"You really don't have to," protested Cratchit, just beginning to adjust to the overwhelming change in his employer. "I mean, health insurance, that's worth so much already . . ."
"Nonsense." Colbert reached into the briefcase again, this time retrieving a cheque, which he handed to his stage manager. "Now, what do you think of that?"
Cratchit's jaw dropped. "Stephen!" he exclaimed. "I can't possibly . . ."
"No? Fine, then." Colbert snatched the cheque back; ignoring the looks of scandal that flashed briefly on all three faces, he wrote something on it and returned it. "How about that?"
"Did you," stammered Cratchit, clearly unwilling to accept the evidence before his eyes, "did you just add a zero?"
"Still not enough? I can add one more," declared Colbert, "but that's as far as I'll go."
"No, that's—"
"—not enough. Right." Colbert snatched the cheque again—Cratchit was too overwrought to have the presence of mind to hang on to it—and added another zero to the end of the figure, finishing by writing out the amount and signing it with a flourish.
"Stephen," said Cratchit weakly as this cheque was held before him, "that's more than my annual salary."
"Good," said Colbert brusquely. "We've been underpaying you for years."
To Silverman and Tad he turned and added, "Don't worry—I'll bring yours up to the same level. I have a couple more cheques in this thing."
Noting that his employees had hardly the breath to speak, Colbert delayed in retrieving these next papers, that he might give them time in which to compose themselves. He was in the midst of this process of self-occupation when he felt a light touch upon his arm, and on raising his eyes saw that Tad was looking at him in earnest.
"Stephen," he said, most unsteadily, "this is absolutely overwhelming, and I don't know how to thank you enough, and I can hardly imagine how you could do more, but please—if there is more, you've got to tell me now, because I don't think I'm in any condition to take more surprises today."
Colbert's heart, already softened, was quite melted by this declaration. "There's only one more thing," he replied softly, covering Tad's hand with his own and administering a reassuring squeeze. "I figured we'd be thirsty after the pizza, so I ordered up a round of eggnog."
A reflexive grimace of disgust jolted Tad's face. "There's the Stephen I know," he said brightly, forcing a smile and making the best of it.
"And," continued Colbert, "since you've told me countless times that you don't like eggnog, I also scared up several rounds of Nutz brand soda."
Tad's jaw dropped.
"That's it," added Colbert quickly.
Without warning, the building manager through himself forward and flung his arms about Colbert's neck, knocking the briefcase to the floor, where it lay forgotten. Colbert accepted the embrace with only a moment's flustered hesitation, and even found the wherewithal to rub the other man's back in a soothing fashion as a litany of tearful thanks was whispered beside his ear.
There was a knock at the door; Silverman and Cratchit simultaneously leapt to answer. Together they met a young volunteer bearing the predicted eggnog and soda, as well as a package of disarmingly elegant plastic wine glasses; by the time the embrace was broken, a cup had been poured full for each.
"To Stephen," proposed Cratchit, raising his glace of pistachio Nutz; and Silverman joined him without hesitation.
"Nonsense," rejoined Colbert. "It's no more than you three have long deserved. To you."
"To us," offered Tad. "To all of us."
This was an acceptable compromise, to which Cratchit and Colbert both nodded, and glasses were raised all around. "To us," cried Colbert. "God—or whatever," he added, with a nod to Cratchit—"bless us!"
This sentiment was echoed all round.
"God bless us," finished Tad, "every one!"
Colbert was as good as his word, and better. He did all that he had promised, and was ever ready to do more; and to Tad, who did NOT die, he finally became much more than an employer. He also became as good a boss, as good a friend, and as good a man as the good old City knew, or any other good old city, or town, or collection of used car shops and strip clubs masquerading as a town for the purpose of monetary compensation, in the good old world.
Some people scoffed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he had achieved that internal security which relieves a person of the pressure of requiring the good opinion of all the world. He no longer scoffed at others for the purpose of reinforcing himself, and that was good enough for him.
He had no more intercourse with Spirits, including Jon Stewart, whom he never saw again—well, not in this world. And it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, not merely on his walls, but in his heart. And so, as Tad would have put it had he known the full truth of the matter, may the Flying Spaghetti Monster bless us—Every One!
Series: TCR
Rating: G
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 V: The End Of It
Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the striped sheets below his knees were his own, the room was his very own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!
"I'll be good to people," Colbert repeated as he scrambled out of bed. "I'll change and I'll learn. It worked, Jon! Heaven and Christmas be praised, it worked!"
He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions that he could not sit still, and he rushed in one direction and another, putting down his glasses, picking them up to set them down elsewhere, fumbling with his buttons, opening his closet, hopping from one foot to another as he rifled through his shirts.
"I don't know where to start!" cried Colbert, laughing and crying in the same breath, and making a perfect fool of himself as it took him five tries to don one tube sock. "I'm light as a feather, I'm giddy as a schoolboy, I'm excited as I was when they announced the Silmarillion movie. Ha-ha!"
He frisked about like a madman, fairly danced into his shoes, not noticing that they were on the wrong feet until he tripped, at which juncture he was so winded besides that he was compelled to sit down.
"There's the mug my eggnog was in," he exclaimed aloud as he righted the shoes. "There's the door Jon came through. There's the window I was led out through! There's the hall where the Ghost of Christmas Present stood! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened! Ha, ha!"
Really, for a man whose laugh had so long been self-satisfied and derisive, it was a splendid laugh: a laugh of pure, loving joy!
"I don't know when I am," he realized. "I don't know how long the Spirits kept me out. I don't know anything. I admit it! But I'll learn. I'll learn!"
Running to the window, he opened it, and put his head out. No fog, no mist; bright, jovial, stirring, cold; but filled with clear sunlight, bright and merry, and a glorious fresh breeze!
"What day is it?" called Colbert to a girl in a new coat walking down the street, perhaps to visit a friend.
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you, my dear young lady! What day is it?"
"Today!" replied the girl. "Why, CHRISTMAS DAY!"
"It's Christmas Day!" said Colbert to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. Of course they could. They can do anything. Where's my phone?"
He found the device, which, when turned a certain way, made the curious transformation from a phone into a miniature email station; composed a brief message to a blog which he trusted to spread any news regarding him within minutes; and, that done, reverted it to a phone and began making calls.
Fifteen minutes later found him pacing about and compulsively checking his watch. "What am I going to do with myself until this afternoon?" he asked aloud. "The time can hardly pass fast enough . . . Oh, right! Charities! Where's my bank book? Where's my checkbook? And after that, maybe breakfast. I could use a sauswich . . . Wait. I'm out of eggs. Maybe I'll try Kix."
❄
The time of the signing arrived at last, although as Colbert approached the bookstore he had to look several times to be sure it was the right place, for there was a massive crowd about it which, besides being greater than the one he had seen with the Ghost of Christmas Present, blocked the advertisements from view. It was his own Colbert Nation, as was made abundantly clear when one at the back of the line chanced to turn, laid eyes on him, and let out a shriek which cut through the chatter like a bolt of Truth through a self-congratulatory dinner party.
"Please—ladies, gentlemen—let me through," entreated Colbert. "You're too kind, no, really, but I need to get by—my . . . friend is in there, and I need to stand by him. Thank you! Excuse me. Excuse me!" And he pushed through, dodging hugs and squeals and professions of love and offers of sexual favors and the sort of praise which only a day before he would have tarried long to revel in. He had no time for it now.
At last he made it in, and, spotting Winsome at the table flanked by stacks of his book, waved enthusiastically. "P. K.! Hey! I'm here!"
"Stephen, you made it!" exclaimed Winsome brightly. "It's great to see you! Come on, come join me."
Colbert forged his way through the last of the crowd and came to stand behind the table, where he put on his sternest expression and waved the crowd into silence. "Settle, settle!" he ordered, and even those who had come to see Winsome were cowed by the sudden impression of authority. "Now, listen up, America. You are all here for a book signing by P. K. Winsome, good friend of me, Stephen Colbert."
There was a smattering of cheers at the name. He hushed them.
"Now, I've come here to join him, but I need to warn you all of something: I am not here as 'Stephen Colbert of the Colbert Report'. I'm here as 'Stephen Colbert, friend of P. K. Winsome.' Today, my signature will only be committed to paper or other surfaces if it goes alongside his. Long story short, if you want me to sign something, get him to sign it first. Pass the word along to the people in back. Understood? Good." He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "All right. Let's do this thing."
❄
And now our narrative must depart from Colbert's side for a brief time, and stand vigil outside the apartment of Tad, where a cab sat parked. We need not wait here long, for though the signing lasted the full afternoon, and was forced to extend some hours beyond what the store had anticipated through sheer volume of customers (to which the store did not complain, as it did a booming business), we may tell of it in a single sentence, and thereby arrive at sunset, when Cratchit and Silverman, bags in arms, approached the building's door.
"Excuse me!" called the driver of the cab, leaning from his window. He was a young Indian gentleman, too polite and well-spoken to inspire mistrust, and both Silverman and Cratchit turned to face him.
"Are you Mr. Bob Cratchit and Ms. Meg Silverman?" inquired the driver.
The two in question exchanged a puzzled glance. "That's us," affirmed Silverman. "Why do you ask?"
"I've been sent to give you a ride."
"You'll have to wait," put in Cratchit. "We're here to make dinner for a friend . . ."
"Would that be Tad?" pressed the cabman.
Another glance was exchanged, then both nodded.
"He's not here. He's in the hospital. That's where I'm meant to be taking you."
Not a moment was spared for looks this time; both Cratchit and Silverman ran for the cab without an instant's hesitation, and bundled themselves into the back seat, bags and all.
As the cab pulled away from the curb, Silverman removed her hat and began to toy nervously with the ball of fur on the end. "Something really bad must have happened if he went to the hospital," she said at last. "But at least they'll know how to take care of him better than we did. He'll pull through."
Beside her, Cratchit was all atwitter; though nominally sitting still, he was beset by a fluttering of little twitches and tics that kept him constantly in some sort of motion. "How would he have known we were coming?" he replied abruptly. "It was supposed to be a surprise. We didn't tell anybody else."
Silverman leaned forward to address the driver. "Excuse me, but who sent you to get us, exactly? Was it Tad? Do you know how he is?"
"I'm sorry, miss," replied the driver mildly. "I've been paid to convey you, but I'm afraid I cannot explain anything."
"Because you don't know," cut in Cratchit, "or because you were paid not to tell us?"
The driver smiled slightly. "You are not the only ones in the world who enjoy arranging surprises. I believe I may say that much. Ah! We've arrived."
The cab came to a halt in the half-circle of pavement that curved to meet the front doors of the vast white edifice that was the hospital. Its passengers climbed out, thanked the driver profusely, and conveyed their baggage to the front desk. Here the receptionist informed them that they were expected (which information came quite unexpected to the expected parties), and they might proceed to room B221; on entering this room they were received with far more surprise than normally accompanies an expected arrival, and after a moment of confused talking it was clear (though nothing else was) that the day's events had been the farthest thing from any expectations.
For the room contained a multitude, though not an excess, of holiday decorations; and in the midst of it, propped up by pillows on the bed, was Tad, looking rather pale but with eyes brighter than either of his fellows had seen them in some weeks.
The profusion of talking was at last interrupted when Silverman cried "Are you okay?", at which she and Cratchit both silenced themselves, for both were eager to hear Tad's answer.
"I am now," replied the building manager, his voice betraying his awe at the situation in which he found himself. "The doctors cleaned my leg, put in some stitches, then gave me a boatload of antibiotics and another boatload of painkillers. So I'm pretty numb, but it's a good kind of numb, you know?"
"But what happened before," prompted Cratchit, "to make you feel you needed to come here?"
"Nothing! I just heard a knock on my door this morning, and in came a couple of paramedics who said there was an ambulance outside waiting for me."
"Did you tell them you don't have health insurance?" exclaimed Silverman, looking nervously about her as she said it, as though frightened that someone might overhear and throw them out.
"I did! They said it was all paid for. But how did you guys get here?"
"There was a cab waiting for us outside your apartment," explained Silverman. "It brought us here. It was paid for too."
"We were bringing you dinner," added Cratchit helpfully, lifting one of the bags in his hand to illustrate.
"You haven't eaten yet?" cried Tad, much affected by this display of friendship. "I'm sorry! I wish I could offer you something, but," and here he gestured to a tray at his bedside table, bearing a half-eaten block of Jello, "it's not very appetizing . . ."
Colbert could stand it no longer. He had been waiting patiently at the door while this reunion took place, but at the mention of dinner he turned the handle, opened the door, and entered, a stack of boxes brandished before him and a cap pulled low over his face. In an affected but subdued voice he inquired, "Did somebody order a pizza?"
The three occupants of the room exchanged looks that said, plainer than words, that none of them had, but this was so far from the most startling occurrence of the day that they were hardly shocked by it.
"Well, somebody had better eat it, or it'll get cold," pronounced Colbert, tipping back his cap.
Now they looked shocked! And, as each began to assemble the puzzle in his or her own way around this new piece, more shocked still!
"Stephen," began Cratchit at last, "what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"
"Ah, yes." Colbert arranged his features into as stern a look as he could manage. "Yes, lots of things are wrong. Put down those bags and take these. I've got to go grab a few more things."
He thrust the pizza boxes into Cratchit's arms and ducked out again, returning with a severe-looking briefcase. "Don't just stand there gaping," he ordered briskly. "Pull up some chairs."
In a trice the chairs that had stood at the wall of the room were moved to either side of Tad's bed, and Colbert took a seat in one of them facing the nervous Silverman and Cratchit, who sat opposite.
"First order of business," said he, opening the briefcase, "is that pizza." And he removed a handful of plastic plates and paper napkins and passed them out, one of each to each.
The employees met these unprecedented gestures with suspicion, but when the first box of pizza was opened all were reminded that they were ravenous—Cratchit and Silverman thanks to the low quantity of food they had eaten that day, Tad to its low quality—and dug in. Colbert, who had found himself too nervous to eat since breakfast, likewise attacked his first slice with great vigour, and then a second, and a third. Between them the four polished off two of the boxes before the pace began to slow.
At last Colbert licked the grease from his fingers, dried them with a napkin, and attempted to look stern again. "Second order of business," he announced, gesturing to the plastic shopping bags which now lay forgotten on the floor. "Those were going to be your dinner, right?"
"That's right," said Silverman faintly, dabbing sauce from her mouth with her napkin.
"Well, it looks like I've messed that up for you. So I'll refund it. I don't know how you arranged the bill," he added, reaching into the briefcase and extracting two hundred-dollar bills, "so I'll give you each the same amount and let you fight it out yourselves."
He reached over Tad's legs and placed the bills on the sheet, each before its recipient, both of whom goggled so that the hospital might well have needed to admit them next, to return their eyes to their sockets.
It was Tad who first collected his wits enough to speak. "Was it you, then," he cried, "who set this all up, and paid for it?"
"It was," replied Colbert. "And don't you dare worry about the medical costs. I personally have this visit covered, and though I couldn't get any more done today because everything's closed, I give you my word that by the end of the year you—all of you," he added, looking to Cratchit and Silverman in turn before returning his gaze to Tad—"will have some quality health insurance drawn up."
"But why?" exclaimed Tad, utterly taken aback by this turn of events; and Colbert's heart sank to find a genuine gift from himself met first with incredulity.
"Because," said he, in a sincere a tone as ever he had spoken, "I realize now that there is no way I can risk losing my best building manager ever. And director," he added, looking across to Silverman, "and stage manager," he concluded, now facing Cratchit. "Speaking of which," he added, "I believe, Bobby, that I owe you a Christmas bonus."
"You really don't have to," protested Cratchit, just beginning to adjust to the overwhelming change in his employer. "I mean, health insurance, that's worth so much already . . ."
"Nonsense." Colbert reached into the briefcase again, this time retrieving a cheque, which he handed to his stage manager. "Now, what do you think of that?"
Cratchit's jaw dropped. "Stephen!" he exclaimed. "I can't possibly . . ."
"No? Fine, then." Colbert snatched the cheque back; ignoring the looks of scandal that flashed briefly on all three faces, he wrote something on it and returned it. "How about that?"
"Did you," stammered Cratchit, clearly unwilling to accept the evidence before his eyes, "did you just add a zero?"
"Still not enough? I can add one more," declared Colbert, "but that's as far as I'll go."
"No, that's—"
"—not enough. Right." Colbert snatched the cheque again—Cratchit was too overwrought to have the presence of mind to hang on to it—and added another zero to the end of the figure, finishing by writing out the amount and signing it with a flourish.
"Stephen," said Cratchit weakly as this cheque was held before him, "that's more than my annual salary."
"Good," said Colbert brusquely. "We've been underpaying you for years."
To Silverman and Tad he turned and added, "Don't worry—I'll bring yours up to the same level. I have a couple more cheques in this thing."
Noting that his employees had hardly the breath to speak, Colbert delayed in retrieving these next papers, that he might give them time in which to compose themselves. He was in the midst of this process of self-occupation when he felt a light touch upon his arm, and on raising his eyes saw that Tad was looking at him in earnest.
"Stephen," he said, most unsteadily, "this is absolutely overwhelming, and I don't know how to thank you enough, and I can hardly imagine how you could do more, but please—if there is more, you've got to tell me now, because I don't think I'm in any condition to take more surprises today."
Colbert's heart, already softened, was quite melted by this declaration. "There's only one more thing," he replied softly, covering Tad's hand with his own and administering a reassuring squeeze. "I figured we'd be thirsty after the pizza, so I ordered up a round of eggnog."
A reflexive grimace of disgust jolted Tad's face. "There's the Stephen I know," he said brightly, forcing a smile and making the best of it.
"And," continued Colbert, "since you've told me countless times that you don't like eggnog, I also scared up several rounds of Nutz brand soda."
Tad's jaw dropped.
"That's it," added Colbert quickly.
Without warning, the building manager through himself forward and flung his arms about Colbert's neck, knocking the briefcase to the floor, where it lay forgotten. Colbert accepted the embrace with only a moment's flustered hesitation, and even found the wherewithal to rub the other man's back in a soothing fashion as a litany of tearful thanks was whispered beside his ear.
There was a knock at the door; Silverman and Cratchit simultaneously leapt to answer. Together they met a young volunteer bearing the predicted eggnog and soda, as well as a package of disarmingly elegant plastic wine glasses; by the time the embrace was broken, a cup had been poured full for each.
"To Stephen," proposed Cratchit, raising his glace of pistachio Nutz; and Silverman joined him without hesitation.
"Nonsense," rejoined Colbert. "It's no more than you three have long deserved. To you."
"To us," offered Tad. "To all of us."
This was an acceptable compromise, to which Cratchit and Colbert both nodded, and glasses were raised all around. "To us," cried Colbert. "God—or whatever," he added, with a nod to Cratchit—"bless us!"
This sentiment was echoed all round.
"God bless us," finished Tad, "every one!"
❄
Colbert was as good as his word, and better. He did all that he had promised, and was ever ready to do more; and to Tad, who did NOT die, he finally became much more than an employer. He also became as good a boss, as good a friend, and as good a man as the good old City knew, or any other good old city, or town, or collection of used car shops and strip clubs masquerading as a town for the purpose of monetary compensation, in the good old world.
Some people scoffed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he had achieved that internal security which relieves a person of the pressure of requiring the good opinion of all the world. He no longer scoffed at others for the purpose of reinforcing himself, and that was good enough for him.
He had no more intercourse with Spirits, including Jon Stewart, whom he never saw again—well, not in this world. And it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, not merely on his walls, but in his heart. And so, as Tad would have put it had he known the full truth of the matter, may the Flying Spaghetti Monster bless us—Every One!
❄