Does anyone still dream of a “White Christmas”?
I certainly do not. Like most seasonal classics that are regurgitated ad desperatum, “White Christmas” makes the hearer sentimental over sentiments. It leads the hit parade of warm, fuzzy favorites that tease the mind with the most delectable nonsense. Like sleigh bells and sugar plums and mistletoe and roasting chestnuts (Who eats chestnuts???) and presents up the ying-yang.
But hark, all you cherishers of cherishable things, cherish this: Someone has to pay for this stuff.
Even now, herds of yuletide zealots are working overtime, battling traffic, elbowing their way to the checkout, racing about decking halls, breaking balls, and rum-pum-pumming themselves into a nervous breakdown. Before we realize it, Christmas has exited our system, like the eggnog we barely tasted, leaving behind a heap of crumpled gift wrap, stale leftovers, and broken toys.
The only “white” many of us will likely see is the blizzard of debt that follows us into the New Year.
As such, Christmas is almost all preparation and no payoff. Hype without substance. What’s missing is the personal experience—that kernel of seasonal bliss people crave but rarely capture.
Well, friends, I’ve invented a program that’s going to change all that.
Introducing “Virtual Holiday” (VH): THE ultimate high-tech solution for every celebrant who has longed to bury his famished fangs into the pure meat of Noel. Imagine: two thousand years of Christmas history and tradition—900 teraquads of sensory input, distilled from music, art, literature, folklore, and religion; every artifact, every cookbook, every gift catalogue, every freaking toy ever produced—painstakingly reprocessed, digitally enhanced, and compressed into one four-minute episode. Whew!
VH involved years of grueling research, working with the most brilliant scholars and computer wizards I could find, to design a working prototype of the world’s first “Extreme-Dream Machine.” On paper, it looked perfect. All we needed now were four human guinea pigs to help us test it. And where better to recruit our subjects than the local mall, two days before Christmas?
The four individuals we harvested from the slush pile of shopaholic, sensory-deprived humanity fit the basic profiles of a typical family: a Mom, 37; a Dad, 41; a daughter, 16 (“Sis”); and a son, 13 (“Li’l Bro”). Our test chamber was arranged like a living room: soft lights, plush carpet, and four comfortable armchairs arranged in a semicircle. Hidden mikes and cameras enabled our staff to monitor our subjects’ reactions from behind a two-way mirror.
“Please relax while we hook you to the system,” I told our guests. “The electrodes we’re attaching to your temples won’t harm you. They’re connected to the machine’s neuro-cortical interface module. Don’t fiddle with them. Breath deeply, stay in tune with your feelings. Feel free to share your impressions with one another.”
The moment of truth had arrived. I gave the nod. Hank, my chief engineer, threw the switch, and the Christmas juice started to flow. Our subjects tensed, bolted forward, then fell back into their chairs.
MOM: Hark! Do you hear what I hear?
DAD: I hear…
LI’L BRO: …angels on high…
MOM: …sweetly singing…
SIS: Glo-o-o-o-ri-aaaa!
DAD: …sleigh bells jing-ling..
MOM: …ting-ting-tingl-ing…
SIS: Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ri-AAAHHH!!!
DAD: I see three ships.
MOM: I see three shepherds…a host of angels.
DAD: I see a manger.
SIS: I see Grandma’s house!
LI’L BRO: I see Figgy pudding!
MOM: Watch your mouth!
DAD: There’s Santa’s Workshop!
MOM: I’m…walking in a winter wonderland.
SIS: I’m dashing through the snow.
LI’L BRO: I’m Prancer! I’m Dancer!
SIS: I’m stopping by the woods on a snowy evening…
Verbal communication gave way to a polyphony of “oohs” and “ahhs” and giggles and gasps. Everyone’s breathing increased. Body language, Sis’s in particular, became freer, more expressive.
“I’m glad that girl’s wearing pants today!” my secretary remarked.
I called to Hank. “Crank up the power!
Our subjects lurched again, then swayed in unison, first to one side, then to the other. They bounced. They shrieked. They gripped their seats. They shivered and whistled like the wind. Cheeks turned rosy. Arms flailed like flurries. Feet trampled the ground like so many reindeer paws.
“They’re sleigh riding!” said one of my assistants.
Someone corrected him: “They ARE the sleigh.”
Dad worked his right arm as though he were cracking a whip. With the other, he laid a finger by the side of his nose and broke into a thunderous “Ho-ho-ho!”
“Observe,” I remarked, “the way his fat gut heaves up and down like a canister of fruit preserves!”
My secretary leaned over and whispered, “I think the phrase is ‘bowl full of jelly.’”
Suddenly, Hank leapt from his console. “Something’s the matter with the girl!”
Sis was hyperventilating. Sweat rolled down her face. She began to convulse, screaming “Fa-la-la-la-la-la!” over and over again. An argument broke out among the staff.
“She’s speaking in tongues!”
“You fools, she’s going into a seizure. Cut the power!”
“Leave it alone, Hank!” I said.
“She thinks she’s bird.”
“A bell ringer.”
“A church choir.”
“Dammit, somebody cut the power!”
“Touch that switch, Hank,” I said, “and you’ll never work for me again!”
In her passion, Sis had dug her nails into the armrests, punctured the upholstery, and grabbed two fistfuls of stuffing.
“Look, it’s snow!”
“It’s angel dust!”
“It’s sheep dung! She’s back in Bethlehem with the shepherds.”
Thirty seconds remained. Passions soared to new extremes. Sis’s blather, now punctuated with obscenities, became shriller, more frantic.
Her brother went from popping like an air rifle, to belting out “O Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine blatter!”
Mom stood on her chair hair, arms raised, to impersonate a Scottish pine. Or was it a spruce?
“She’s a spirit.”
“She’s an ornament! See how her eyes flicker…”
“…like a snowflake.”
“…like a star.”
“…like some ditzy chick at the annual Christmas party who’s had too much rum!”
Ten more seconds to go. One final power surge. A climactic burst of Yuletide ecstasy. Sis screamed “Oh God!” and passed out on the floor. Li’l Bro wet his pants. Mom rent the $7.99 blouse she’d bought at the JC Penney “After Christmas Closeout Sale” last Winter. And Dad cracked a fart and nearly burst his jelly laughing.
“Test’s over!” I announced.
Three of our subjects went limp, like puppets whose strings had been severed. A fourth remained unconscious.
“Somebody, get the girl some smelling salts,” I said.
Mom, sensing a draft, ran her hand over the shredded remains of the ugly pastel top she’d been wearing.
“Cover that woman,” I told my secretary. “And find the boy a change of clothes before he stinks up the place.”
We gave our subjects time to pull their wits together before asking them to describe their experience.
Dad was first. “It was definitely…an out-of-gut experience! Belly Christmas!”
Li’l Bro gave it two thumbs up. “Totally awesome! I gotta get me one of those machines!”
Li’l Sis sobbed and rubbed her arms. He face was flushed. “It was…incredible! Like everything, all at once! I’ve never felt like that before, I swear.” She punched her brother’s arm. “Breathe a word of this to Brad and you’re stuffing!”
Finally, it was Mom’s turn. We expected a string of superlatives we could use to headline our new company brochure. She hemmed for a moment. “It was okay, I guess.”
“Just ‘okay’? What part of the experience didn’t you like?”
“The turkey was too dry.”
“Dammit, Hank,” I said, “this is unacceptable. What went wrong?”
“Must be a coflagellant phase inversion in one of the primordial subroutines.”
“Try purging the memory buffers and rebooting the system.”
“Can’t do that. I gotta reload the entire program.”
“That’ll take a month!”
Groans from the staff. Another hullabaloo erupted.
Mom cleared her throat impatiently. “Uh, excuse me…”
I looked up. “I’m sorry, was there something you wanted add?”
“Yeah. If you’re done with us, we’d like to return to the mall.”
* * *
Ted Gargiulo’s stories and essays have appeared in The San Jose Mercury News, The Monterey County Herald, Wilde Times, The Gamut, and The Fringe. Born in New York City, the former stage actor and prize-winning author now lives with his wife in Seaside, California. Ted is currently working on a collection of short stories. He In Me, available from PublishAmerica, is his first published novel.
