A Christmas Story

Doogie and I were hanging out at Ritchie’s second-floor apartment, our regular hangout, watching a hockey game. We had a week off over Christmas time which loomed only a few days away. Trying to get into the holiday spirit was difficult; nothing was really working. We concluded that yeah, this dump could use a Christmas tree, get into the spirit. All the tree guys on lots around town had sold out already.

Ritchie was a displaced Francophone from Ontario. Doogie was from a tiny inlet in Newfoundland and vowed never to set foot in it ever again despite crying about it when he got drunk. Being thousands of miles away from their birthplaces, in far away Edmonton, Alberta they seemed like Canadians from another planet. They weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, but to their credit were never out of work and real party guys.

“A big tree,” said Doogie. “Cause you’re a good guy, eh Ritch?”

“Yeah, like stunning big,” I said.

Ritchie nodded. He walked over to the window to peer out at the darkness and the park across the street. “And we’ll have a great party; best Christmas ever, right guys? We'll invite the people in the building.”

I glanced around the small spartan apartment. “Damn rights, a tree would be great.”

The walk-up apartment stood on Edmonton's north side across from a community park. It's balcony had an excellent view of the street, too.

“And that’s where we’ll get,” said Ritchie.

I decided not to tag along as someone needed to be a spotter for any cop sniffing around. The heater in Doogie’s truck was toast and I was coming off the flu. “You guys don’t need me. Anyhow, it looks easy, eh?”

Plans were made. Doogie would drive. Ritchie would cut.

At midnight, they donned their oil patch logo coveralls, and off they went. I had a flashlight and would flick it twice if a cop car was prowling around. I settled into a chair beside the patio doors and turned off the TV.

Doogie’s old Chev truck rumbled slowly past a few times before it veered off onto the snow-covered grass. He cut its lights and tucked into a copse of trees. Any one of the perfect fir trees in there would do. I had to admit being excited by the prospect of a Christmas tree to brighten up the place, figuring on getting some tree lights from WalMart, too.

I remembered one year when I was little, going out to the bush to cut a tree with my father. Dad used a hatchet and brought cocoa. It felt like we were hardy pioneers and made that Christmas real special.

Ritchie and Doogie parked near the King Kong-sized snowman, the biggest snowman we’d ever seen. How big was it? So big it required a forklift to erect and while hundreds of happy people at the celebration watched. There was a big bonfire, cocoa, some speeches, and a special appearance by a skinny Santa.

The snowman’s head loomed above the firs. Its grin was made of hexagonal black paving stones and a nose from a black PVC pipe. Its eyes were red paper dinner plates from the Dollar Store. The more I looked at it the more it seemed...unfriendly, downright creepy; not at all Christmasy.

I lifted my binoculars and could see Doogie's face through the open driver’s window, dimly lit by a streetlamp. His muskrat hat nodded to a tune on the radio. Ritchie slipped out of the truck and crawled under a tree to work the Swede saw. Snow would occasionally fall from trembling fir boughs as he sawed.

After a time, Ritchie scrambled out from under the tree and brushed snow from his coveralls. He called to Doogie and they began to push on the tree. It finally keeled over in a slow arc, its tip resting against the giant snowman’s black belt. They looked over at me and gave thumbs up—an almost perfect tree fall.

I stood and pumped my fist. We’d get a tree! Nice work guys.

Doogie climbed back in the truck and manoeuvred it back to get the tip of the tree set in the truck box, or at least over the cab. I assumed they’d cut off the end of whatever was hanging over the tailgate. Unfortunately, the truck lurched forward and back several times. Then stopped. Stuck.

I shook my head bemoaning Doogie and his almost bald tires. Doogie got out and waved frantically to me with both hands. I opened the patio doors.

“We’re stuck, man! Come and push!” he shouted, in a loud whisper, into the darkness.

I slipped on my mukluks, toque, gloves, and bolted downstairs and outside. When I crossed the street, Doogie was already giving it another go--forward reverse, forward reverse--rocking the truck.

"Where's the Christmas elves, when you need 'em?" he said.

The truck lurched backward, surprisingly gained traction, and rammed into the snowman.

The upper part of the white behemoth leaned, then stopped for a moment. Then its two top boulders skidded forward and silently fell.

Ritchie, who’d turned to my approach didn’t see the avalanche.

He disappeared.

Buried. Without as much as a scream or a whimper.

I was stunned.

Some of the snowman slid into the truck box and weighed it down to the axles.

Doogie swept open the door and raced around back. “Oh, man! Did ya see where Ritchie went?”

Ritchie wore no locator beacon.

I looked around frantically for a snow rescue dog. “Here! Look, his boot! We gotta dig.”

Ritchie’s boot poked out from under the snowman’s massive belly, its black belt of landscaping edging was curled like a ribbon. We frantically scooped snow, following Ritchie's foot up to his leg. I pulled out the long PVC pipe--that's gotta hurt. Ouch. Doogie tossed away paving stones.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph, hope one a’these pavers didn’t clunk his head.”

We worked like dogs scooping out a bone. I reached Ritchie’s butt and followed it up. A few paving stones later we brushed snow from his face. His eyes were closed.

“He’s breathin’! Thank ya, Lord Jesus,” said Doogie, his eyes fearful and bloodshot.

We finally extracted Ritchie, hauled him into the truck, and propped him up between us. His toque was missing and his hair was full of snow. He was bleeding from somewhere under his dark hair. The truck wouldn't budge with all the extra weight, so I had to go out and get rid of some snow in the box.

With a few tries, the truck shot ahead like a porpoise escaping Sea World. Down to the ER we went with Ritchie moaning, and me trying to wipe the moisture off the inside of the windshield—no heat, no defroster. We carried him inside the ER. They took him away. A nurse approached us with a clipboard.

“What happened to your friend?” she asked, very concerned, holding a clipboard.

Doogie and I looked at each other. We spoke at the same time, blurting out some nonsense.

The nurse frowned.

Doogie’s answer was better than mine. I pointed to him.

In his best Newfy accent he said, “A snowman t’rew a brick at ‘im.”

We left to go back and lock up Ritchie’s place. The hospital called me on my cell letting us know Ritchie had a cut on his head and had suffered a mild concussion. The nurse said that snowmen were particularly bad this year. Doogie’s remark got around the ER pretty quick. I had a good chuckle and hung up.

“What so funny?” asked Doogie.

“They might need a description of the evil snowman for the police report.”

Doogie’s eyes widened. “No way, man. I'm no rat. He’s gettin’ away with that one.”

*

In the morning, we stopped at the Dollar Store before visiting the hospital.

Ritchie sat up in bed and waved us in when we peeked in the room. One side of his head was shaved where they sewed up the cut.

“Close your eyes, Ritchie. No peekin’ now,” said Doogie.

I pulled out the object in my large bag and set it on the small table beside Ritchie. He had five nasty stitches above his ear.

“Okay. Open ‘em.”

The miniature Christmas tree was already decorated. Its tiny lights even flashed.

Ritchie didn’t know quite what to say, struck dumb for a long moment.

He sighed. “Mine was bigger.”