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The Ultimate Christmas Story

Mark Pearce

    Mike Preston sat in his office at the Preston Literary Agency and looked forward to the weekend. He and his wife would be spending Christmas with her parents in Vermont. Just a couple of minor business details to finish up and his desk would be clear. From the outer office he could already hear the sounds of merry-making that indicated the office Christmas party had begun. He had a small staff, and every year they exchanged gifts, played Yuletide songs, and drank a little nog before going off to their families for the holidays.
    Mike looked out the window. A moderate snow had left the sidewalks seasonably white, and garlands of holly along the buildings gave the street a festive air. There had been a competition this year among the area merchants to see which business could mount the most impressive display, and the street had become a veritable wonderland of lights and candy canes and elves.
    Off in the distance, a human speck grew slowly larger as it approached. If he had not been lost in Yuletide reverie, Preston might have made a getaway, but too late he realized the speck was Addison Dean. When this alarming fact hit his brain, he considered a quick escape, but the opportunity had passed. His office was on the second floor, there was only one stairway, and Dean had already entered the building.
    For a second, Preston considered the sturdiness of the drain pipe outside his office window, but the idea of plummeting to the cold sidewalk below was even more repulsive than the thought of a story conference with Addison Dean–but just barely.
    The door to the office opened, and his secretary entered.
    “Mr. Dean is here,” she said with heavy Christmas sympathy. “He says he won’t go away until he gets to see you.”
    Before Preston could answer, the portly form of Addison Dean had pushed its way into the office.
    “Mike!” he said cheerfully, grabbing the agent’s hand. “Solicitations of the season, and all that.”
    Preston pulled his hand free from the man’s grip and wiped his palm on his shirt. He wondered how the porcine author managed to work up a sweat in the middle of December. He quickly grabbed his coat and hat.
    “Actually, I was just on my way out,” he said. “My wife and I are going up to Vermont for Christmas, you know, and we really wanted to get started before the traffic turns bad.”
    “Sit down, Mike,” said Dean, enthusiastically ignoring the agent’s pleas. “I’ve got an idea for a story that’s going to make us both a fortune.”
    Preston looked at his watch. Addison Dean was the oldest client of the Preston Literary Agency. Preston had inherited him from his father along with the business. In no one’s memory had he ever made a sale–it was not even certain he had written a single line since Preston had
assumed the helm of the agency–but several times a year he would burst into the agent’s office with an idea for a story he was confident would make them both rich.
    “What does everyone like?” said Dean, rubbing his palms together. “Everyone likes Christmas, right? And what kind of story sells better than any other? Christmas stories. So I’ve decided to write the ultimate Christmas story.”
    Preston listened wistfully to the sound of carols from his outer office.
    “Think of all the Christmas stories out there–Scrooge, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ the Bible–all of them big money makers. But what if someone were to write the ultimate Christmas story, something that had everything? It would be the biggest seller of all time.”
    Preston looked out the window. The drain pipe really did appear sturdy.
    “Look,” said Dean, “in Scrooge you’ve got the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, right? And in the Bible, you’ve got the baby Jesus in the manger. In ‘Wonderful Life’ you’ve got an angel showing the world what it would be like if Jimmy Stewart had never been born. Then you’ve got the O’Henry story where the wife cuts off her hair to buy a fancy chain for her husband’s watch, and her husband sells his watch to buy a comb for her hair.
    “Okay, here’s my idea; how about this: the ghost of Christmas Past takes Jesus and shows him what the world would be like if he had never been born.”
    Preston looked at the sidewalk below. It was really not all that far.
    “Wait, listen,” said Dean. “It gets better. The ghost of Christmas Past is taking Jesus around, see, showing him what it’s like at Christmastime if he had never been born. They go visit a family–Mr. and Mrs. O’Henry–to see what they’re up to at Christmas. Only there are no
presents, see? Just this man and this woman sitting there with no Christmas presents. Then we overhear, real angry like, she says, ‘Why didn’t you get me a comb?’ and he says, ‘What’d you want me to do, sell my watch?’”
    Dean was blocking the door. The window seemed to be the only way out. Preston edged closer to the sill.
    “Now here’s the climax,” said Dean. “They go to the North Pole. And there sits Santa and the elves. Only they’re not making toys. They’re all eating venison. But something seems wrong. All of a sudden, one of the elves looks down at his plate and says, ‘What’s this, a cherry on top?’”

*        *        *

    They say the suicide rate goes up around Christmastime. But who would have thought you could kill yourself by jumping from a second story window?

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