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,” a rather attractive, or so Ben thought, co-worker said 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 last 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 co-workers 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; the store windows painted with scenes of snowmen and Santas, all worked their seasonal magic on Ben, and he allowed the wind to carry him forth, a rickety 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.
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