Michael's Christmas Wish

Note: originally published on my Tumblr 11/09/17. Any resemblance to Michael Buble, the human person, is strictly a huge coincidence. Definitely a work of "fiction" (wink, wink).

Actual Michael Buble woke up that cold December morning with an ache in his heart. As he padded in hand-crocheted sock-slippers down the hallway from his modern-rustic bedroom to his open-concept living space, Actual Michael Buble wondered why he was so unhappy. He had it all-- four Grammy awards, piercing green eyes, a steady standing at #45 on Forbes top 100 celebrities list, both Canadian and Italian citizenships. Yet here he was, 42 years old, all alone, sipping his eggnog latte made by his custom-made robot barista in his carrera marble kitchen, barely even in the Christmas mood.

Michael Buble tied the sash of his cranberry-red velvet dressing gown closer around his waist and set his steaming seasonal mug on his artisan-crafted locally-sourced teakwood desk before pulling out his antique high-backed brown leather chair and sitting down. His monogrammed linen stationary lay before him on the perfectly polished desk, beckoning in the glow of the huge warm fire burning in his open fireplace. Outside the windows, Canada’s gorgeous snowy tree-filled landscape stretched as far as Michael Buble’s green eyes could see. He uncapped his solid-gold fountain pen and sighed. It was time.

Dear Santa,

He wrote, then paused. He had asked for so many things for Christmas in his 42 years of being alive. A red bicycle, a teddy bear, a fourth Grammy. Santa Claus had never failed him. No matter what else was going on, no matter how cold and snowy the Canadian December got, nothing stopped Santa from making his way to Michael Buble’s 5200-square-foot four-story cabin in the remote Canadian woods.

But this year, for the first time, Michael Buble couldn’t think of what to ask for.

Another handknit angora sweater? More monogrammed cashmere socks? No, Michael Buble thought. Cozier. A double-knit chenille scarf in a plaid pattern. Cozier. A set of sweater-patterned ceramic mugs wearing actual knit sweaters with handles through the sleeves. Cozier.

Michael Buble pushed his leather chair back and stood, pacing in frustration.

“Alexa,” he said. “Play Michael Buble’s Christmas album.”

Michael Buble lit a holly-flavored cigar and puffed gently while the soothing strains of his own velvety voice washed over him, calming him like nothing else could. He smoked his cigar while looking at his 72-foot Christmas tree in front of the roaring fire. Each ornament was a handcrafted antique, handed down from his great-great-great-great Grandfather, who had been the Canadian glassblower who first invented Christmas ornaments. They twinkled in the golden heirloom Christmas lights. Below the tree lay all the beautifully wrapped presents that Michael Buble had personally selected for each of the 47 orphans at the local Canadian orphanage. Michael Buble held his cigar between his straight white teeth and shoved his hands deep into the satin-lined pockets of his robe. There was a slip of paper in one of the pockets. He pulled it out and read it. It was a fortune cookie fortune. It said, “Happiness will soon be yours.”

Michael Buble sat down at his desk once more and tried to picture the perfect Christmas. He would spend his morning hosting a Christmas brunch for the orphans, of course, like he always did. In the afternoon, he would visit the graves of his family, who had all died when he was a boy. He was an orphan himself, which was why he always made sure to take care of the orphans. He had been saved from poverty on one fateful winter day when he was singing on the street corner, begging for pennies to buy himself a nourishing cup of cocoa at the local artisanal bakery. An important record executive had heard his smooth croonings and declared, “That’s the voice of a boy who could win three Grammys!”

Michael Buble chuckled to himself as he remembered. Little had old Gerald known, he would go on to win four Grammys.

“If only you could see me now, Gerald,” Michael Buble said to Heaven.

Up in Heaven, old Gerald smiled. He was proud of Michael Buble.

The blank paper beckoned. Michael Buble sighed as his soulful and melodic rendition of “All I Want for Christmas” began to play. All I want for Christmas is… He was lonely, that much was clear. But who was it he was missing? Who was he longing for? Not just anyone would do. Michael Buble was very selective. He didn’t want anyone who would just love him for his fame, fortune, and enormous tree. He wanted someone with a good heart, someone who would truly love him for who he was inside.

His heart skipped a beat as he thought of the one person he most wanted to spend Christmas with, the only person who had always been there for him, who would never desert him or betray him. Michael Buble’s cheeks flushed with excitement. He knew exactly what to write.

Soon he was sealing up his envelope and mailing it to the North Pole. With the letter on its way, Michael Buble hurried to the Master bathroom to get ready. Today was Christmas Eve and if his wish came true, there wasn’t much time. He lathered up his beavertail shaving brush with organic castile soap and lathered up his deeply handsome face. He shaved carefully with a sharp razor, until he was satisfied that his face was as smooth as his jazz. He sipped a 200-year-old brandy while taking a steamy shower, lathering up his body in thick lavender-and-sandalwood bubbles. He ran his hands over himself with an electric shiver at the thought of his lover crawling into bed and smelling this soap. He swallowed hard and tried not to get his hopes, or anything else, up. What if I don’t get my wish?

But Santa had never failed him before. Michael Buble truly believed that he would come through again.

The closet in Michael Buble’s bedroom was huge. It was the size of your whole apartment, probably, if you live in a small apartment. It was full of red cashmere turtlenecks and flattering blazers and tan corduroy pants. Michael Buble put on a white cable knit sweater and gray slacks— his loungewear. His loafers were felted from the wool shed by angora rabbits and made his feet look like his voice sounded, delicious and smooth.

When he was dressed, Michael Buble went into his state-of-the-art chef’s kitchen and tied on his red-and-white checkered apron with the loop for a rolling pin on one of the pockets. It still had a flour smudge from the pies he had baked for the Unwanted Old People’s Home last week. Michael Buble giggled to himself with excitement as he assembled ingredients on the Carrera-marble counters. He had had this marble shipped in from his second homeland, Italy, when he had built this house. They were as deep and sparkling as his vibrato. He smiled his cute smile with his nice teeth while he stirred dough and dusted the counter with flour and rolled the dough out. Then his cheeks were tired so he just started singing along with the Christmas album that was still playing while he cut out all the shapes from the dough. He baked them in his enormous double-decker oven while he made his own icing from hand-powdered ethically-farmed sugar and 100% vegetable-derived food dyes.

After he was all finished, Michael Buble surveyed his enormous plate of cookies. They were sugar cookies, three shapes squished together so that each cookie said “I <3 U”, decorated with Christmas colors: green and red stripes, red polka dots on white, green zigzags on white, white and green waves on red, green holly leaves with red berries, silver snowflakes, red and white peppermint striping. “Perfect,” Michael Buble said, his voice mild and resonant. All around him was the sound of the children’s chorus from his rendition of “Silent Night.” Not many people knew that that choir was all the orphans from the orphanage. They were all beautiful singers, but none of them had voices that could win even one Grammy, sadly, much less four.

Michael Buble set out the plate of cookies with a glass of wine in front of the fire and prepared to wait for morning. It had been a long day of smoking a cigar, writing a letter, and taking a shower, and night had fallen long ago. He sipped hot cocoa with eleven marshmallows from a red mug and watched the flames dance in the fireplace. All of his fireplace tools had little white knitted sweaters on their handles. Michael Buble put his feet up on the red velvet ottoman in front of his highbacked leather armchair and read “Twas the Night Before Christmas” before starting on “A Christmas Carol.” He fell asleep somewhere between the Spirit of Christmas Present and Spirit of Christmas Future, the book tumbling from his hands and landing on the plush red and white carpet beside the empty cocoa mug.

It was well after midnight when Michael Buble felt something brush against his cheek. He woke up, blinking cutely, to find a soft beard tickling him.

“Santa,” Michael Buble breathed breathily. “You got my letter.”

“I certainly did,” Santa chuckled, his voice deep and warm in Michael Buble’s ear. Cookie crumbs twinkled in his long white beard.

“And are you here to give me my Christmas wish?” Michael Buble asked, his voice trembling with excitement like a snowflake at the edge of a cloud.

“Have I ever not given you your Christmas wish?” Santa smiled, his eyes twinkling. He scooped Michael Buble up in his strong arms as if he weighed nothing. Michael Buble wrapped his arms around Santa’s neck and buried his face against Santa’s strong chest, breathing in the smells of peppermint and manly sweat. He was overcome with joy. Santa carried Michael Buble down the hall and closed the bedroom door behind them, leaving only the stockings on the mantel to enjoy the remains of the glorious fire.

“Oh Santa,” Michael Buble sighed in bed later. “I just knew you’d come.”

“I always come for good little boys.” Santa chuckled, his naked belly jiggling. Michael Buble rested his head on Santa’s chest and drifted off to sleep with a blissful smile.

The next morning, Santa and Michael Buble watched the 47 orphans tear excitedly into the pile of gifts. Michael Buble sat nestled between Santa’s legs, resting against Santa’s warm body while Santa’s arms were wrapped around him. Michael Buble laughed with joy as the boys squealed over the gifts.

“Oh, Santa,” Michael Buble said, “Let’s adopt them!”

“Whatever you want, my darling,” Santa said, and kissed Michael Buble on the top of his head. “Whatever makes you happy.”

Michael Buble nestled closer into Santa’s embrace and blinked back a film of tears from his green eyes. Outside, more snow was falling over the Canadian forest. There were two mugs of eggnog latte on the table beside them now.

“Hey, boys, would you like for Santa and your uncle Michael Buble to adopt you?” Michael Buble called over the sound of the din.

There was a pause, and then all of the boys started screaming with joy and jumping up and down.

“This is the best Christmas ever!” cried Timmy, the littlest orphan.

“Yes, Timmy.” Michael Buble turned and pressed a tender kiss on Santa’s lips. Santa’s bright eyes danced with promise. “Yes, it is the best Christmas ever.”

THE END