Pt 4 of Christmas Ray Family Novel
Some people suffer from insomnia; I do not. I sleep eight full hours, straight thru, on the regular. Actually, truth be told, it’s often more like ten or twelve hours. And it’s always deep, rejuvenating, dreamless slumber punctuated by a couple prophetic visions that are lovely and positive.
But on this particular night I find myself wide awake at three in the morning. This isn’t a bad thing — I mean, the reasons for my being awake are not unpleasant; I am not in pain or worried about anything — in fact, it’s quite the opposite: I feel euphoric and full of wild desire. My thots match Alfred Tennyson’s Ulysses:
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
Yes, I’m awake because I can’t stand to waste time lying in bed when there’s such a wonderful pastime to be engaged in… — I’m talking about sleigh-riding.
That sleigh that we rented yestereven thrilled me so much that now I can’t stand to be away from it. I’m like a turkey addict who wakes up in the middle of the night to sneak some leftovers from the refrigerator… yet, instead of food, I want action! speed! snow-dashing! — and instead of simply sneaking downstairs to the fridge, I need to sneak entirely out of the house and drive downtown to the Reindeer Sleigh-Rental Place. I simply must do this. If you only knew how much I loved last evening’s sleigh ride, you’d understand my actions on this occasion:
First I get out of bed and tiptoe to the guest-room and grab the pillows off the guest-bed; I bring them back to our bedroom, where my wife Mrs. Ray remains asleep. I place the pillows on my side of the bed and pull the covers over them, so that they have the look and feel of the Real Me—Bryan Ray, husband and father—sleeping there like normal. Thus, in case my wife rolls over and tries to snuggle up next to me during my absence, she will not awaken in panic upon discovering that I’ve vacated the mattress: no, on the contrary, she will embrace these loving pillows that I’ve set here as my surrogate: she will assume that they are me; and thus her sleep will remain unbroken.
So, still in my pajamas and nightcap, I light the candle and put on my bathrobe and slippers; then I sneak into the garage. I start my Cadillac and back out into the street, then I drive off as quietly as possible. I don’t rev my engine or take the corners too fast, which might cause my tires to squeal, because I’d prefer that everyone in the neighborhood remains clueless about my little midnight exploit.
I arrive at the Sleigh Rental Stables and find the reindeer herder snoozing at his station. “Poor fellow,” I think to myself, “he works hard all day and then sleeps at his place of employment.” I am moved by pity to take out my billfold and slip several Benjamins into the man’s shirt pocket. Then I write a little note and pin it to his sleeve. This is what the note sez:
My dear deer-herder, this is Bryan Ray speaking. I am the husband and father who rented the sleigh from you on the night of December 3rd. That was a Thursday; do you remember? If you don’t recall me myself, perhaps you remember my family: I have a son and a daughter who are studious, bright, extremely happy children (well raised), and a faithful wife who is buoyant and wholesomely gorgeous. The reason I am writing to you now is that I fear that you might go to wash your shirt in the river before noticing that I placed several hundred dollar bills in its pocket. I can just imagine you taking off the shirt without even looking at that pocket, because you yourself never use the pocket for anything; and when you dunk the shirt into the river again and again, then vigorously scour it against the washboard, the paper bills might fall out of its pocket and drift away with the current of the river, until they end up in the ocean. This would be unfortunate, for so many U.S. dollars to come to rest at the bottom of the sea — perhaps a Giant Squid might eat them! — then my attempt at performing a charitable act on Christmas would have been thwarted by time and chance. It is for this reason that I ask you to join me in defying the intentions of destiny by checking your shirt-pocket before engaging in your normal weekly laundering routine. Thanks a million! Oh, and P.S.: note also that the amount I deposited in your shirt-pocket should cover not only one generous, unexpected gift from a near-stranger, but it also includes the price of an all-night sleigh-ride on Friday (that’s today); for, immediately after I finish writing this note and pinning it to your sleeve, I plan on taking your reindeer out for another spin. I just couldn’t wait for regular business hours, to satisfy my longing. I hope you’re not angry with me for taking this liberty. I will have the beasts back to the stable by 7:30 a.m., at the latest. That’s when my wife normally wakes. I need to sneak back into our bed by that time, anyway. (Right now, I have pillows saving my spot!) I’ll also feed the beasts, so that they’re fully refreshed and energized for the next rental session. Until then, I wish you sweet dreams. May God be with thee.
So now I head over to the individual stalls of the stable. I go from one reindeer to the next and open its gate while whispering sweetly, calling each creature by name (their titles are printed clearly on the front of each respective beast’s tiara: Dasher, Donner, Prancer, etc.); and while doing so, I keep tapping my hand against the front of my thigh, indicating that I’m friendly and that I wish for the beast to follow me. This way, I coax all the reindeer over to their places in the communal sleigh-harness. Then I strap them all in. I put Rudolph up front, because of his nose, which is like a natural headlight. Finally I myself climb into the sleigh and lash the whip.
And we’re off! It’s exactly the delight that I presumed it would be. Since it’s nighttime, the air is still and the town is silent. There is the sound of the jingling bells, and the crunch of their hooves in the snow, and the continuous, hypnotic whoosh of the sleigh’s runners. A full moon is out tonight, and its glow reflects off the surface of the snow-blanketed hillocks, causing an exquisite contrast between the look of bright white land against the pitch black sky.
I navigate a route that runs in a large loop thru Rosemount, Farmington, then over into Apple Valley, up thru Burnsville, and finally ending back at the rental place in Eagan. When I’m done, I unhook each reindeer from its harness and offer it a treat — I brought a burlap sack of apples along for this purpose. Each creature’s tongue tickles my hand as it takes the fruit that I hold before it. Then I return all the beasts to their stables. I pat the side of each of my friends as I take my leave, whispering a personal message in its ear: “Nice form tonight, Blitzen!” “Keep those legs strong, Comet!” “I love you SO much, Vixen!” etc.
Then I stop at this really good taco place on the way home; because they open early, and they sell these super tasty breakfast tacos that I love.
Now, when I sneak back into the house and tiptoe up the stairs, I am pleasantly surprised to see my side of the bed is occupied: tho not by pillows but by a jolly, red-suited hero — it is Charles Laughton himself! He was kind enough to man my station in bed while I left on my important night-errand, so that my wife could remain sufficiently comforted. And there is nothing improper or carnal about this arrangement: Mr. Laughton is a perfect elderly gentleman; his full costume is on, even his cap with the pom-pom, and his boots are laced up. Seeing me enter, he places his index finger to his lips and whispers: “She’s dreaming!”
I mouth the words “Thank you so much for filling in for me tonight!”
And he shakes his head, holds up his right hand and sez: “Not a problem.”
I mouth the phrase “I’ll take it from here!”
He nods and begins to leave. Then I say:
“Psst!”
Mr. Laughton turns around, his brows are raised.
“Where’d you put the pillows that I had here?” I mouth.
“They’re back in the guest-bed,” he makes a motion with his thumb, indicating the adjacent room.
I pantomime wiping my brow with my sleeve and exhale: “Whew!” Then I mouth: “Thanks again!”
He waives off this extra thanks and makes his exit. He climbs out thru the chimney and I can hear him clamber into his own reindeer-sleigh. A whip cracks, and there’s a clutter of hooves on the roof, then they’re airborne. I crane my neck a little to see if I can glimpse Mr. Laughton thru the window. I see a graceful arc of glitter leading back to the magnetic North Pole.
Now closing my eyes, I fold my hands, and voice a prayer:
“Dear LORD, thank you for sending us your Santa, Mr. Laughton. He is the chef-d’oeuvre of this universe. Bless his soul.”
“What’s that?” sez my wife, Mrs. Ray, rolling over to face me.
“Nothing, dear; you can fall back to sleep, I was just saying my prayers.”
She yawns and stretches, “No, I need to get up and make breakfast for the children. Adam has his flute lesson at eight today: we had to bump it forward an hour, because his teacher has an appointment to get her motorcycle serviced. And Eve needs to be at Lilith’s by ten; they’re throwing another garden party. So I need to hitch the horse trailer to the Cadillac, because she wants to bring Lucy along for the dog and pony show.”
“Alright,” I say. “Sorry I woke you.”
“No, this is the time I had my alarm set for anyway — it was just about to go off…”
We now hear a tinny, stiff, electric rendition of “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas”, which abruptly stops when my wife picks up her portable phone from the nightstand and presses its touchscreen.
“See? That was my alarm right there,” she sez.
“Alright,” I yawn. “Do you mind if I stay in bed a little longer?”
“Not at all; suit yourself,” sez my wife. “It’s the Christmas season. Carpe diem.”
“Thanks. I’ll probably only sleep for about fifteen minutes.”
§
Four hours later I’m awakened by a delectable aroma. I open my eyes and behold the sight of you, my wife, standing before me with a food tray:
“Breakfast in bed,” you say. “I was growing worried — it’s not like you to sleep so late, so I brought your first course up here. You’re not feeling ill, are you?”
“No, no,” I rub my eyes. “I was just having the most exquisite dream, and I didn’t want it to end.” I now gaze upon the cuisine that my wife has set before me. “Wow, this looks good!”
“It’s your favorite,” she sez.
I devour this initial course with more appetite than I’ve had in years. (I blame the midnight reindeer-run.) Then the subsequent courses are served to me likewise in bed, and I savor them intensely.
“You’re spoiling me,” I remark, as my wife delivers the grand-finale dish, “I feel like a king.”
“Well you ARE a king, to us,” sez my wife, referring to herself and our two kids who make up the Ray Fam.
So this is one of my favorite things about Christmastime: everyone is kind to each other; everyone’s actions are charitable and harmonious. (It’s not a bad way to run a country.)