God Rest Ye Merry Benjamin

God Rest Ye Merry Benjamin

Most seasons of the year typically found Ben Nutty short on cash and common sense, and the holiday season was no different. Working part-time as a contract writer for the Starboard Beef Company, where he pounded out the company organ proclaiming the latest births and deaths, along with the winner of the Best Tripe Recipe Contest, Ben normally approached the end of each month with trepidation; his bank account dwindling in direct proportion to his ballooning credit debt. At Christmastime, despite his extremely short gift list (consisting only of his aging mother and her equally ripened schnauzer, Mortimer), trepidation gave way to dread. The truth of the matter was that Ben compulsively hoarded handles of Stoli whenever the local grocery store saw fit to put them on sale. What with the country’s jittery relationship with Russia, Ben lived in a constant state of panic that one morning he would wake to the news that Putin and Trump’s on again off again bromance was once again on the skids and that each had retreated to separate corners of the playground. The result being that shiploads of Stoli would be anchored off the American coast and refused entrance to our harbors.

It was perhaps a result of this very concern that caused Ben to consume more than his fair share at the office Christmas party that afternoon. The way he figured it, why tap his own precious cache when he could get reasonably well lubricated drinking freely from the Starboard Beef teat?

“Well you certainly seem to be having a good time, Ben,” said a rather attractive, or so Ben thought, co-worker when the two met up at the bar.

“I bring the party with me,” Ben said, his enunciation just beginning to soften around the edges. “In my day we used to give the Xerox machine and the coat closets quite a workout during the Christmas party.”

“Yes, well. Times have changed a little, Ben. And I don’t need to remind you that we in human resources tend to frown on comments of that nature.”

“Lighten up, baby. It’s Christmastime, a time for merriment and good cheer! Where did they hang the mistletoe anyway?”

And so the merriment progressed until the CEO announced that, in the spirit of the season, everyone would be allowed to take the afternoon off “assuming you’ve finished your day’s work and you’ve received your manager’s blessing.” This caveat fell on drunk ears, and before the last of the big man’s parting holiday wishes had scarcely left his lips – along with his annual reminder that nothing brightens up a holiday supper table like Starboard Beef® - and Ben’s coworkers broke into the first of 12 stanzas of the partridge song – an annual Starboard Beef ® Christmas party wrap-up tradition – Ben had crammed on his fedora, deserted his fellow communication's team members who were still facing a 5 PM publication deadline, and lurched toward the elevators and the lobby’s revolving doors.

The cold December afternoon - its wintry wind blowing the holly wreaths affixed to lamp posts and the store windows painted with scenes of snowmen and Santas - all worked their seasonal magic upon Ben, and he allowed the wind to carry him forth, a teetering bounce in his step.

“Ah, Christmastime,” Ben said to no one in particular as he stepped into oncoming traffic and a cacophony of car horns. “They sound just like sleigh bells,” Ben opined, again to no one and everyone, before dropping a few coppers, a tube of Chapstik and a handful of pocket lint into the kettle of a bell-clanging Salvation Army Santa on the opposite corner.

The wreaths and the sleigh bells served as a reminder to Ben about the true meaning of the season, and he began to preach as he strolled, his cup beginning to runneth over with love, or at least less distaste, for his fellow man.

“At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time,” Ben croaked at passersby. “Rejoice with me and unshutter your hearts, for we are all but fellow passengers to the grave and must remember who made lame men hear and blind men walk!”

“Shat up, ya drunken bastard!” one man shouted in passing.

“You’re as good as gold and better, my good man!” Ben sang, swinging toward the man as he passed. “Come and dine with us tomorrow!”

Swinging full-circle, Ben collided with an ample woman, a small child in tow. Stopped cold by her unforgiving flesh, he found himself flat on his back staring into the winter sky.

“Watch where you’re going, you drunken fool,” the woman said.

Bleary-eyed, Ben looked up at the woman’s scowling, mug. Taking a knee before the boy he said, “Ah, my good lad. Do you know whether the butcher has sold the prize turkey? The one as big as your corpulent mother?”

The woman swung a meaty leg in Ben’s direction, catching him squarely in the holly berries. He collapsed onto the sidewalk, the young boy stomping his hand as they continued on their way.

“A remarkable boy. An intelligent boy,” Ben wheezed to the dirty concrete.

After contemplating the guano-pocked sidewalk for a spell, Ben picked himself up and continued on his weaving way in the general direction of the train station. He took a deep breath and looked up at the black night sky, the first of the stars just beginning to twinkle. A tear formed in Ben’s eye, slowly spilling down his cheek. "Your lip is trembling and what is that upon your cheek?” he said quietly.

He wiped his eyes and took several quick, deep breaths. He considered vomiting in the gutter before determinedly trudging on. “I shan’t let one beastly woman dampen my Christmas spirit!”

Making his way down the block he drunkenly bestowed the merriest of Christmases on all who crossed his path, patting the heads of children, and eliciting less than joyful responses from their parents.

“Get your hands off my child, you drunken cracker.”

“Wheat Thins are my favorite!” this with a tip of his hat followed by a graceless tumble into a large potted-plant.

And so it went. Ben spread his Christmas cheer to one and all and eventually found himself at the stairs leading down to the subway, two hours post-Christmas party departure.

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Ben’s head hurt. He closed his eyes to the bright lights of the station, but that immediately set his head to spinning, so he pulled his fedora low in an attempt to block the glare. As he stood there, wondering if vomiting on the tracks would somehow delay a train’s departure, a voice interrupted his reverie.

“What do you think about the homeless?”

Ben looked to his left where stood a woman, an obvious representative of the faction she had just inquired about.

“It’s unfortunate?” Ben offered.

“Can you spare any change?”

Ben slowly dug into his pockets and found nothing but lint, remotely wondering what became of his Chapstick.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said.

“Yeah, you are sorry.”

Ben’s head was beginning to pound. All he wanted was to collapse into a train seat and sleep or vomit. Maybe both. But still she persisted.

“What about a dollar?”

Reluctantly Ben took out his wallet. Opening it he saw only two bills, both twenties.

“I’m sorry,” said again.

“You’ve got your wallet out already. Can’t I just have a dollar?”

“I don’t have a dollar.”

“What do you got then,” she countered, her voice rising a little.

“Only a twenty,” his neck felt sweaty as he sensed people watching their exchange.

“Well it's the holidays,” she said as if the calendar itself offered a logical solution. Ben looked around sheepishly, hoping someone with small bills or at least some change would come to his aid. Nothing. Everyone was suddenly engrossed in their phones or else purposely looking away. The Christmas Spirit was nowhere to be found on the crowded 12^th street station platform. Ben feverishly prayed for the train’s arrival.

“You going to help me out or not?”

Ben craned his neck to look down the tunnel. He saw the distant glow of the oncoming train’s lights.

“Um. Do you have change for a twenty?”

“No I don’t have no Goddamn change, fool!” The train was fast approaching. “It’s Christmas. A time to give!”

“Yes, well…” Ben mumbled as the train entered the station, its rumble drowning out the woman’s haranguing.

Ben stalled and fondled his wallet until the train came to a stop. As the doors hissed open Ben said quickly, “I’m sorry, but Merry Christmas,” and forced himself onto the crowded train. But as the doors began to close, he fumbled his wallet and it fell upon the platform. He bent quickly in an attempt to retrieve it, but the doors closed, crushing his fedora in the process. The woman seized it and held it to her bosom. “God bless us, everyone!” she cried and stuffed Ben’s wallet into a greasy Popeye’s Chicken bag.

The End