Cardboard Ocean

by Mike McCardell

  I could see the lights on the tree across the street. And then it was snowing. Christmas Eve and snow and we had a tree which really smelled like a tree and tomorrow Manhattans.

  “Come on, bulb. Be the right one.”

  I wanted to get this done so I could put the red glass balls on the branches and then the tinsel and then wrap my mother’s present and get to bed so Christmas would come and the family would come and I could go out in the street and find out what everyone got and then mix drinks.

  Woops, I forgot Jesus. There was the crèche and the baby and Mary and Joseph. I had to put those under the tree. I felt bad for Joseph. He never got sex.

  The next light lit and bingo, instantly the whole string lit up and I was so happy I dropped the bad bulb back into the box with the other spare. Darn. I’ll wait ’til next time to figure out which one it is.

  I put the tree in the stand. It weighed almost nothing. My mother did not have to help carry it. Then I screwed in the screws and it was straight enough to stand by itself. I wrapped the lights around it and it looked so good.

  The red balls were in another box, but when I opened them half of them were broken. They were just thin glass and sometime during the year someone must have moved something. But I still had four good ones. And there was leftover tinsel from last year which I took off the tree before we threw it out.

  And finally, the manger with Jesus and Mary and Joseph. They were wrapped in toilet paper and put in a tiny box all by themselves. They were made of plaster and painted and sold by the tens of thousands in the five and ten cent store, but once you got them home they were sacred. I saved the toilet paper. Once something touches something that is close to God you can’t throw it out.

  There was also some shredded plastic that looked like straw which the baby Jesus was supposed to lay in because that’s the way it happened in the first Christmas. I put them out under the tree and I could feel the meaning of Christmas. It was almost like being in church, except this was better because I didn’t have to pray and drink the grape juice that was supposed to be wine that they gave us during communion.

  I liked going to the Catholic church with Vinnie and his family because then you would go to the altar and kneel down and get real wine. It was just a sip, but it wasn’t bad. It didn’t taste like blood to me and I liked the tingle on my tongue.

  But in the Protestant church you stayed in your seat and they passed around trays with little shot glasses filled with grape juice. I figured they must really worry that we would get tipsy on one sip, and if they thought that, then they didn’t know anything about anything, not God and not people.

  Anyway, I put out Jesus and his mom and pop. When I was smaller I couldn’t figure out why Joseph was there at all because God had snuggled up with his wife. But now that I knew about sex I just felt sorry for old Joe.

  Now a present. What can I get for my mother?

  I looked through the drawer in my dresser where I kept my good stuff: a rubber snake, an ashtray that I stole from the variety store on the corner. That was from a bet that we could steal something and I ran by and grabbed it. Fifty years later I would remember that and feel bad because the poor guy selling it got hurt.

  I thought of giving it to my mother for Christmas, but no. You can’t put something you stole under the tree. That must be a sin.

  And then I found a scarf that Dorothy had given me when it was cold and she took it off her neck and said it would keep me warm. I didn’t want to give it away, but it was a girl’s scarf because it was from a girl and ladies liked girl things. It was made of wool and it was green and red and I guess I should have given it back to Dorothy but I forgot.

  I got some Christmas paper from the closet and folded the scarf and wrapped the paper around it. I taped it closed, tore off a piece of paper and wrote, “To Mom, Love, Santa,” on it and put it under the tree and then I looked in the refrigerator.

  There was peanut butter and Wonder Bread, which helped build bodies eight ways. I didn’t understand that, but I smeared a glob of Skippy on the bread and had a glass of milk and went to bed.

  I forgot to brush my teeth. I tried to scrape the peanut butter off with my tongue but I didn’t get very far before I fell asleep with visions of Manhattans dancing in my head. Of course they weren’t dancing. I was just thinking of how to make the best Manhattan ever.

  Then I thought of Rudolph and wondered why the other reindeer didn’t like him.

  In the morning it was Christmas.

  The Day After Christmas Eve

  “Wake up, Mickey, it’s Christmas morning.”

  My mother was standing at the door of my room wearing a bathrobe and holding a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. I didn’t often see her in the morning because she was gone to work before I got up.

  “Let’s see if Santa brought anything.” She seemed excited.

  I followed her to the living room and she had plugged in the tree and the lights were on.

  “Look, Santa must have come. And the tree looks very nice.”

  There was a small pile of presents on one side and my one little package on the other.

  “Well, open one,” she said.

  I was dying to pee, but I didn’t want to disappoint her. I sat down on the floor and opened the first package. I knew it was a book; I hoped it would have pictures.

  “Gee, thanks,” I said.

  It was a birdwatching book, filled with pictures. I skimmed through it. Lots of birds. Later I would look for pigeons.

  “And I see Santa left something for me,” she said.

  She opened the package.

  “Oh, how nice, a scarf. But you know I don’t like green.”

  I wanted to ask for it back, but I thought you can’t do that with a Christmas present. Then I thought I might swipe it from my mother’s dresser in a week or so, and give it back to Dorothy, but my mother might see her wearing it and think she broke into our home. Christmas was a difficult time.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said. “Then I’ll open the other one.”

  “Hurry,” she said and she took a long drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke up to the ceiling.

  I could just smell it as I hit the bathroom. I went. I flushed. I waited for the toilet tank to fill up. It didn’t. It kept running. I took the top off the tank and saw the chain was wrapped around the stopper that went into the hole that the water went out of.

  I unwrapped the chain, put the tank top back and listened for the hissing of the filling to get lower. It did.

  I went back to the tree and Santa and the cigarette, which by now I was wishing I had one because every time I saw Santa with the Camels, I wanted a smoke.

  “See what else Santa left for you,” said my mother.

  I saw one box, wrapped in Christmas paper. I picked it up.

  “What the heck is this?” I asked. “It’s heavy.”

  “I’ll tell you it’s heavy. I had to carry it home on the subway and it almost pulled my arm out of its socket. But I did it for you.”

  I opened it. That is what you do with a Christmas box that almost pulls the arm out of the socket of Mrs. Claus. You unwrap it. It had pictures of a man with muscles and dumbbells on the box.

  “Well?”

  My mother was excited.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “What do you think?” she said. “It’s heavy and it’s small, so what do you think it is?”

  I was looking at a picture on the box of a man flexing his biceps. He had no shirt. Above it were the words: Weider’s Barbells, with the word “Barbells” slashed out with a broad black line of ink and below it “Dumbbells” was written in.

  “Gee, thanks,” I said.

  But inside myself I was the most excited guy in the world. I was looking at a picture of Joe Weider who I had seen on the back of comics with his shirt off, flexing his arms and chest and saying, “You too could have arms of steel in only six weeks.”

  Joe had arms of steel. They lo
oked greasy, but I thought that was the way you looked when you had arms of steel. He had biceps that looked like boulders under his skin. That’s what I wanted. In six weeks I could have that.

  “Thank you.”

  The words came out extra strong, I thought.

  “I hope you like them. I had to carry them home myself with no help,” said my mother. “They were very heavy. I didn’t think I would make it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I had to put the box down several times. Some man asked me if I needed help. I wish I could have said yes. He looked big and strong.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I thought of all the things you wanted and I thought you would like this but I didn’t think it would be so heavy to carry.”

  “Thank you.”

  I opened the box and put my fingers around one beautiful piece of iron with bulges at each end. It was cold and smooth. I lifted it up and held it over my head.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Thank you. Thank you. It’s what I always wanted.”

  “But do you really like it?”

  I took the other one out of the box and lifted it and held both of them up.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t drop them.”

  I lowered them and looked at them. Each had a number 5 engraved in one end. Five pounds. That’s ten pounds together which means I would have arms like ten pounds of steel in six weeks.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you really like them?”

  I had a dumbbell in each hand.

  “Yes, and can I go out now? I want to show the other kids.”

  She took another drag and blew the smoke into the tree. I thought it looked like a real forest with mist rising through the branches, except I had never seen mist rising in braches. But I figured that was what it looked like and so the tree in the living room looked real, and I wanted to take a drag so I could blow smoke and make it look more real. That was a good reason for smoking.

  Then she smiled. Good, she wants me to go out.

  “I’m glad you like them. They were very heavy to carry.”

  I looked down at the box with Joe Weider on the front flexing muscles bigger than I could hope for, but they would be mine in six short weeks.

  “Don’t you want breakfast?” she asked.

  “No, later,” I shouted as I ran to the door. I tried to grab the doorknob, but my hand was around the bar between the bulges and the five pounds of steel slammed into the wood, bang.

  “Careful,” she shouted. “If you break something with them, I’ll take them back and they are very heavy for me to carry. So be careful.”

  “I will.”

  But I still could not get my outstretched fingers around the knob and I was turning my hand and arm and the steel was scraping over the door.

  “What’s going on down there?”

  I could hear Mrs. Kreuscher shouting from upstairs.

  “Nothing,” I shouted back through the door. “I’m just trying to open the door.”

  “Is it stuck?”

  “No,” I shouted louder. “I’ll get it.”

  “I’ll send Mr. Kreuscher down to help.”

  “Noooo.”

  I didn’t want an old man to help me open a door when I was about to have arms of steel that could break anything I wanted.

  “Noooooo.”

  I heard him coming down the stairs. I put one dumbbell down on the floor and opened the door, bent down and picked the dumbbell up, grabbed the door with my foot and tried to close it as I stepped out of the doorway. But I wasn’t quick enough – the door hit me in my arm and hit the steel again. Bang.

  “Careful there, son,” said Mr. Kreuscher.

  He looked at the dumbbells, and started to say, “You will get mighty strong with . . . ”

  But then my mother shouted again.

  “One more time and I’m taking them back, and I’ll just have to carry them all by myself.”

  I put one down again and closed the door.

  “Can I feel that?” Mr. Kreuscher asked.

  Give up my dumbbell before I even had a chance to get strong? My lifeline to my future and he wanted to try it before I had a chance to lift it and flex my muscles?

  “Okay,” I said.

  He cradled it in his yellow-stained fingers, then raised it up to his shoulder.

  “This is called ‘curling,’ you know. It makes your biceps strong.”

  I nodded in total amazement. He knows? He knows the secrets of getting strong?

  “I used to use these every morning. I had arms of steel,” he said.

  I just stared at this skinny old man with sunken cheeks. He knows.

  “And you can also put them behind your head and lift them backwards. That builds the triceps.”

  He put his fingers around the back of my arm searching for muscle. He found only bone.

  “Good luck with them, Mickey,” he said as he handed my future back to me.

  I walked quickly down the hallway, but this time I put one of the weights down before I opened the door, then I picked it up and stepped outside and put it down again and grabbed the handle. I stuck my head inside the door. Mr. Kreuscher was watching me.

  “Thanks,” I said. He was better than Joe Weider. I didn’t have to send him ten cents for the secret.

  Outside the kids were already gathering. I saw Dorothy talking to Tommy. Someday, I thought, I will hammer Tommy right across the street and she will be in love with me. And there was Joey coming out of the house with Junior following behind him.

  “Whatjuget? Whatjuget?”

  “I got a basketball,” said Joey.

  “What are we going to do with the old one?” Tommy asked.

  “This is a good one. This one is rubber so you can grab it.”

  “I got jacks and a book of romance stories,” said Dorothy.

  “What’s jacks?” I asked.

  “Don’t you know nothing?” she asked, and suddenly I wished more than anything in the world, including more than having arms of steel, that I had not opened my mouth.

  She held out a small rubber ball and some little pieces of metal things.

  “You drop those on the ground,” she said as she bent over and dropped half a dozen of them, “and then you bounce the ball and try to grab as many of them as you can before you catch the ball.”

  “Oh, yeah, I knew that,” I said. “I just forgot.”

  “It’s a girl’s game,” said Dorothy. “It’s because we’re very quick.”

  “What’s those?” asked Tommy.

  “My dumbbells. That’s for guys,” I said, then I saw Dorothy’s face with a look that was not loving and sweet and I wished more than arms of steel I had kept my mouth closed again.

  “Let me try,” said Joey.

  This time I did not mind. This time I wanted them to try because they would know that in six weeks I would have arms of steel and then they would know who would back down to no one.

  Joey took them both.

  “They’re not so heavy, I can lift them.”

  “They’re not supposed to be so heavy. They’re supposed to be just this size and when you use them, when you curl with them, your arms will get stronger than steel.”

  “Let me try,” said Tommy.

  He took them and started lifting them over his head. “I could do this a hundred times,” he said.

  “Yeah, but do you know how to curl?” I asked. I was getting angry. They were taking away my strength.

  “Yeah, I know how to curl,” said Tommy. “But I don’t want to do it right now.”

  “Give me them,” I said. “I’ll show you how to curl. That makes your biceps big.” I saw that Dorothy was watching.

  I started to move them like Mr. Kreuscher had done.

  “Feel my muscle in the front.”

  I wanted Dorothy to do it but Tommy felt it.

  “Mine’s bigger,” he said. “Feel this,” he said to Dorothy.

  She
put her hand over his arm and even with a coat keeping them apart I was dying.

  “Feel mine,” I said.

  She looked at me then, and I could see that it was almost out of pity that she touched me.

  “Whose is bigger?” asked Tommy.

  Dorothy looked at me, then him. “Tommy’s is bigger.”

  I died.

  “But Mickey’s is harder.”

  Heaven and earth opened up. The angels sang. I heard them. I really heard them. I know it says in comic books that the angels sing when something good happens or when someone dies and no one can see them, unless you were reading the comic, but I saw them. Dorothy said I was harder. I moved those dumbbells up and down and up and down until it felt like my biceps were going to snap. In six weeks, six short weeks, I would pick her up in my arms of steel.

  “I gotta go back,” said Joey. “My mother’s making breakfast and Junior and me gotta eat.”

  Junior was skipping around on the other side of the street.

  “He got a teddy bear,” said Joey. “Let’s see your teddy bear, Junior,” he shouted.

  Junior kept jumping around. He was not going to show off his present.

  I went back in after watching Dorothy walk down the street to her front door.

  “We’ll let Mickey make the drinks,” my mother said.

  My mother bought a canned ham. My uncle brought the rye and the vermouth. Family gatherings happened once or twice a year, and the only difference was each time I made better Manhattans.

  “You make them very good,” said my Aunt Betty, who was old and who lived with her father who was also my mother’s father. It seemed always one sister in each family would have to take care of the very old mother or father and never get married.

  But she did like my Manhattans.

  “I need some cloves for the ham,” said my mother.

  I knew cloves were some tiny, dirty sticks that you stuck in the ham after you got the can open and the gelatin washed off. The can opening part was the hardest because the key that was attached to the bottom of the can would break by the second turn as you tried to unwind a metal strip around the can.

  “Darn,” said my uncle when the key broke. He was a Mason and never used profanity.