LITMIR.BIZ

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to me. I have a future there.”

      “So they got you.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “The manure heap. From now on your life will be measured in terms of profit and loss. Well, I’m not going to be a nine-to-five copy editor for the rest of my life. I’m tired of the East. It stinks here. All of the contradictions of the capitalistic system are in plain view. The pitiful vagrants and the limousines with their shades drawn, the fascist impersonal skyscrapers. Hideous glass boxes. I haven’t seen a bird or a wild tree in so long I forget what they look like. And then, suppose they find you. Then what? You’ll go to jail. For what you did, you might even be shot on sight. Suppose the plastic surgeon squeals.”

      “I’m tired of running. I’ll just have to take my chances. I have a future in the department store business, and I’m not going to blow it. For the first time in my life I’m making my own decisions on how to run my life, and I’m not a dutiful imbecile doing what you, my parents, or some nutty left-wing organization wants me to do.”

      “Man, are you into a power thing.” The buzzer rings.

      “That’s him now.” Zumwalt embraced his wife. “Look, hon, please try to be civil. He’s an old and lonely guy. He and his brother both. If his brother hadn’t had to leave for Texas, I would have invited him too.” She smiles. “And don’t bring up that alternative Christmas junk either. He hates that shit.” Jane frowned.

      Ebenezer Scrooge bahed and humbugged his way through the 1980 Christmas. A cold wave, a bitter season indeed; the icebreakers were kept very busy. In Florida, oranges and grapefruit perished. And around January the omen-watchers began to look for signs. They knew that JFK was doomed when Robert Frost read his inaugural poem, “The Gift Outright,” condemning Indian culture. The lectern caught fire. Nixon? Nixon’s goose was cooked when he dropped the first baseball of the season.

      On January 17th, two workers preparing the bleachers for the fortieth President’s inaugural fell when the scaffolding collapsed. One man was killed, the other seriously injured.

      It was a season of dry winds and biting snow. Scrooge’s winter, “as mean as a junkyard dog.” Giant (fifty-inch wingspan) Snowy Arctic Owls landed on eastern rooftops and the newspapers said that they rarely traveled that far south.

      Not only was it the coldest in forty years, but it was the longest Christmas ever. In keeping with Jimmy Carter’s pledge that the White House Christmas tree be unlit until the American hostages held by Iran were released, the tree was finally lit on the night of January 20th. On that day, bells rang in New York City, and the hallelujah chorus was heard, throughout the land, for many days afterwards.

A Future Christmas

      6

      Winter is the mummer’s season because it covers the earth with a mask. Twenty-five miles from one of Alaska’s most populous cities lies a complex of buildings forming a small village. The headquarters of Oswald Zumwalt’s North Pole Development Corporation. Soon, these buildings will be sold and the whole company will move its headquarters to the North Pole. That is, if Congressman Kroske can gather the necessary votes to get it out of his committee—he has assured Zumwalt that it is a cinch. Inside one of the artless, faceless buildings Vixen sits in a Danish chair. On her desk are a pile of papers, a pastry on a paper plate, and a coffee in a paper cup. Vixen’s staff is putting the last touches on Santa Claus, who stands there like a mute human doll. She looks into his whipped eyes, which have so captured the heart of America. She examines his ermine jacket and his shiny black boots. Santa and his entourage are about to leave for New York via Seattle, where they will rendezvous with Oswald Zumwalt and some of the staff already there. Vixen was tired. She’d gotten into an argument with her boyfriend the night before. They were always arguing.

      “Everything looks ready,” Vixen said to her staff. They were all bundled up for the trip. “Are there any questions?” Vixen asked. There were none. Vixen was a pro. She had caught Oswald Zumwalt’s eye when she first came to work for North Pole Development Corporation, shortly after arriving in Alaska from New York.

      Outside, Santa rode with his German helper, Blitz, in the lead limousine which was followed by campers and a bus carrying some of the Alaska press people. The winter sun was up and shining. It was a radiant day, the last Saturday in November. A charter flight would take him and his party to New York. They would spend the rest of the day greeting department store executives, toy manufacturers, before their grand welcome to New York City, marking the official beginning of the Christmas season. The van moved towards the airport. The bars along the street were empty. Some of the store windows had been smashed.

      “Where are the Indians, Blitz?”

      “O, didn’t you hear, sir?”

      “No, what happened?”

      “The Indians tore the place up last night. Something about a sacred spruce they wanted to save. The government wants to take it. Some old chief is keeping the lumberjacks away from it. He’s placed himself between the tree and the authorities. Imagine these Indians, getting worked up over some tree.” S.C. pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey from his bag and took an ample swig. Wild Turkey, a precious, silky ointment for the soul, so precious that in Kentucky the Wild Turkey distilleries are guarded by dogs and guns.

      “Would you like a taste, Blitz?” Blitz answered by reaching his hand into the back seat. Blitz loved Santa. So human. So down-to-earth despite his reputation for scaling rooftops. Everybody loved Santa.

      7

      “Well, where is he?” the huge gruff one said. He was a big mountainous man who gave off a fishy odor. “We ain’t got all day.”

      “He should be arriving any minute,” said Jerry, the Forest Ranger. “He’ll explain what’s going on. He knows them. He’s part of them.” The big man and three other Gussucks began loading their shotguns and putting on their bullet-proof vests.

      “He’d better explain it good, because we’ve just about run out of patience. Downtown turning over cars and things. This thing has to come to a quick conclusion. I aim to get me some red meat tonight.” The other Gussucks laughed. The door opened and in breezed Flinch Savvage, the half-breed native liaison. He wore dark green woolen socks, galoshes, and hooded coat. He removed the coat; underneath he wore gray slacks, plaid jacket, and black turtleneck sweater. He smelled like pine, was freshly shaved, and talked like Richard Burton. The Gussucks looked him up and down.

      “I’m sorry I’m late. I came as quickly as I heard.”

      “Things look bad. The old chief won’t let anybody get near that tree and Washington is calling up here for it. They’ve sent these men to remove the old chief. Maybe you can explain to the old chief. Maybe you can tell him that these men mean business. They’ve got shotguns. It’s going to get worse. Today the Indians ran up and down the streets, dragging every Gussuck driver they could get their hands on from his car. One man was stomped to death.”

      “Captain, you have to realize that these people embrace beliefs that are alien to your western ideas. They haven’t had the advantages of a good education.” The Gussucks exchanged glances; they smirked.

      “Look, sonny, you’d better get that injun away from that tree before we get to him. The First Lady wants that tree. She’s very finicky and always gets her way. They sent me to get that tree and I’m not leaving until I get that tree.”

      “Very well, I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”

      “It’s up to you. They know your language. They’ll listen to you.”

      Flinch Savvage put on his coat, left the office, and began his snowy trek into the woods, until he came upon the old medicine man. He was covered with snow. Even the hair above his eyes held snow. He was looking straight ahead. Flinch Savvage approached him and squatted.

      “Look, Chief, the Gussucks are preparing to move in here to arrest you. Why don’t you give it up? Why do you

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