Ho-Ho-NOOO!

by Bill Myers

  “Fantastic,” TJ said as they stepped around a miniature ice rink, complete with mechanical skating penguins (at least she thought they were mechanical). “Bags Fifth Avenue. I’ll go there right after school.”

  “Hm, what an interesting idea,” Hesper Breakahart said as she munched on her half stick of celery.

  “Oh yes, very interesting,” all the Hesper wannabes echoed as they munched on their own half sticks of celery.

  Chad Steel looked across the lunch table in stunned silence. Normally the only ideas his girlfriend thought were interesting were her own. But for some reason, she actually thought he might have one.

  “So, tell me more.” Hesper munched.

  “That’s right; tell us more.” Her wannabes munched.

  Chad explained, “Every Christmas Eve my church goes out to the homeless and serves them Christmas dinner. This year I thought maybe you could join us. You know, as a TV celebrity, you might draw attention to the cause.”

  Hesper frowned. “Homeless people, you say?”

  “Right.”

  “Will they bathe first?”

  “Yes,” her wannabes asked, “will they bathe?”

  “I’m not sure,” Chad said.

  “Hm,” Hesper replied.

  “Hm,” her wannabes said.

  Then, before Chad could explain how important her presence might be, Hesper’s face lit up. “Well, I think that’s a super fantastic idea.” Turning to the girls, she asked, “Don’t you?”

  “Oh yes. Super fantastic.”

  Chad was both pleased and alarmed. Pleased because Hesper had agreed to something that hadn’t been her idea. Alarmed because Hesper never did anything for others—unless it made her the center of attention. (She not only liked being the star of her own TV show; she liked being the star of everyone’s lives.)

  Still, people could change, couldn’t they? Besides, how could spending Christmas Eve feeding the homeless possibly turn into something only about Hesper?

  But even as Chad thought that thought, he thought that thinking that thought might be a little thoughtless.

  TRANSLATION: He should have known better.

  After school, TJ headed to Bags Fifth Avenue to apply for a job. She’d already swung by Dad’s office to get written permission from him, and now she was ready to go to work. The only problem was, so were 3,407 other people. (Well, maybe not that many, but close.) In fact, when she entered the employees’ lounge, she counted at least six other people . . . all on their best behavior, wearing their best clothes, and sporting perfect white smiles.

  (What is it with Californians and perfect white smiles?)

  Anyway, TJ grabbed an application form and had started filling it out when a large woman (at least she thought it was a woman) entered the room. TJ guessed her to be either the store’s assistant manager, a Marine corps drill sergeant, or the star of the next King Kong movie. And she had some sort of weird accent.

  “All right,” the manager/sergeant/ape bellowed, “lizten up!”

  Everyone smiled their perfect smiles a little more perfectly.

  “We’ve only got one opening left, for zee pozition of Zanta’z helper. I am not wazting time interviewing each of you. Inztead, you will anzwer my queztionz here and now.”

  “Cool,” TJ heard a voice beside her say.

  She turned to see Herby floating cross-legged to her right. “Oh no,” she groaned.

  “Oh yes,” Tuna said, floating at her other side.

  “Guys,” she whispered, “why are you here?”

  Tuna explained, “We’ve come to assist you in securing the job you want.”

  Herby added, “Even though your reasons are majorly zworked.”

  “I told you I wanted to do stuff on my own,” TJ whispered.

  “All right!” the manager bellowed. “I want everyone on zeir feet.”

  Everyone rose and stood in a row . . . while Herby reached for the Swiss Army Knife.

  “Herby,” TJ hissed.

  “Quiet!” the manager barked.

  TJ watched from the corner of her eye as Herby opened a blade she had never seen before.

  “You!” The woman pointed at the first girl—a pretty redhead in her late teens. “What’z your name?”

  The girl cleared her throat and cranked up her smile. As she did, TJ heard the knife’s blade begin to quietly

  A faint blue light glowed around it and quickly spread throughout the room.

  “Herby . . .,” she whispered.

  “Don’t worry, Your Dude-ness. It’s just an old-fashioned Truth Glow.”

  “A what?”

  Before he could respond, the redhead answered, “My name is Julie Stealublind.”

  The assistant manager leaned into her face. “Why are you qualified for zee job?”

  “Because I’m a great shoplifter,” the girl said. “I’ll steal all kinds of stuff and sell it on eekBay.” She threw her hands over her mouth in astonishment.

  “You zink zat’s funny?” the manager demanded.

  “Oh no, ma’am, it’s not funny—it’s the truth.” The girl’s eyes widened in horror as she continued talking. “I do this every year.” Desperately, she tried to close her mouth, but it just kept on moving. “Last Christmas I made over a thousand dollars by ripping off the drugstore down the street. And the year before that, it was the bookstore around the corner. And the year before that—”

  “Zilence!” the manager roared.

  The girl came to a stop. She gave the manager a pathetic little shrug, followed by a pathetic little smile.

  The manager slowly raised her hand and pointed toward the door. “Out.”

  The girl nodded, grabbed her stuff, and raced for the exit.

  “Pretty outloopish, huh?” Herby whispered.

  “What about you?” the manager shouted at the next person. He was a high school kid whose arms sported more ink than the L.A. Times.

  “I’m here to check out the babes,” he answered. “You know, get their phone numbers and stuff.” He stopped, as shocked at what he’d said as the redhead.

  “Get out!” the manager ordered.

  He turned for the door, shaking his head in confusion.

  Tuna whispered, “This is working out rather nicely, wouldn’t you agree?”

  TJ had no answer. She could only stare as the assistant manager moved to the next in line—a blonde beauty queen.

  “And what about you, cupcake?” the manager sneered. “You got any zecretz you feel like zharing?”

  The girl opened her mouth but did not speak.

  “What’z wrong?”

  “I, uh, er . . .”

  “Zpit it out.”

  “I’m sorry; it’s just that . . . I’ve never seen anyone quite as ugly as you.” She clamped her hands over her mouth but still managed to say, “Though I saw a Bigfoot drawing on the Discovery Channel once that reminds me of—”

  “Next!”

  A college student with enough grease in his hair to start a Jiffy Lube answered, “I’m looking for a job where I can slack without getting caught and—”

  “Next!”

  An older man replied, “My parole officer said this would be a good—”

  “Next!”

  A middle-aged woman answered, “I’ve got a crush on the store’s Santa Claus and—”

  “Next!”

  TJ glanced around and took a deep breath. There was no next, next to her. She was the last one there.

  The manager leaned in and snarled, “And what are your qualificationz?”

  TJ cleared her throat.

  “Well?”

  Before she could stop herself, the words spilled out. “I’m a hard worker, honest, and very considerate of people.”

  The manager leaned closer, suspiciously eyeing her.

  “And I really don’t think you’re ugly.”

  The manager continued staring.

  TJ swallowed. “Well, not ugly enough to be on the Discovery Channel.”

&nbs
p; The manager folded her arms.

  TJ fidgeted, grateful the woman didn’t ask her what she thought of her breath.

  “And why do you want zee job?” the manager asked.

  “I really need the money so I can give it to my dad, ’cause he really deserves it, and my sister Violet, she—”

  “All right,” the woman said.

  “—can really be a pain, and, I mean, I love her and everything, but she’s planning on getting him this real expensive—”

  “I zaid, all right.”

  “—big-screen TV and I want to give him something even better so—”

  “ZTOP!”

  TJ clamped her mouth shut.

  The assistant manager paused a long moment before finally speaking. “All right, you’ve got zee job.”

  “I do?” TJ croaked.

  “Go down to zee fitting room and get your elf coztume.”

  “What . . . now?”

  “Do you want zee job or not?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Like I said, my sister is buying him this—”

  “Go.”

  “—very expensive—”

  “GO!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you very much.” TJ turned to gather her things. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  And she was right. The woman would not be disappointed. Totally astonished, yes. Completely horrified, absolutely. But disappointed, no. That was far too mild a word for what was about to happen.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Zmile and Zay Cheeze!

  TIME TRAVEL LOG:

  Malibu, California, December 19—supplemental

  Begin Transmission

  Subject learning the joys of work. Still refuses our companionship. Reasons unknown as I actually showered this morning. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll try using soap.

  End Transmission

  After putting on an elf costume that was baggy in all the wrong places and tight in all the others (although the floppy hat with the white ball on top was cool), TJ headed into the store’s lobby to begin work as Santa’s helper. They’d decorated the area to look like a mountain forest, complete with rocks, fake trees, and fir branches around the floor.

  The good news was TJ had finally convinced Tuna and Herby to go home and leave her alone.

  The bad news was TJ had finally convinced Tuna and Herby to go home and leave her alone.

  Actually, the job was simple enough. She just had to make sure the kids sitting on Santa’s lap smiled when their pictures were taken.

  For the older kids, this meant something complicated like standing behind the photographer and saying, “Smile!”

  For the younger kids, she had a bright pink dinosaur toy that

  when she squeezed it. (A real sidesplitter if you’re four years old.)

  But for the youngest children . . . well, that’s where she could have used some 23rd-century help. Because little Jimmie Johnson was definitely not in the mood to grin.

  “Okay, smile!” TJ said.

  Little Jimmie Johnson began to cry.

  TJ grabbed the pink dinosaur and

  it.

  Little Jimmie Johnson began to wail.

  “Okay,” TJ said, trying to think of a solution. “Hey, check out my funny face!” She stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes.

  Little Jimmie Johnson looked at her, blinked, then screamed his lungs out.

  Unfortunately, Santa wasn’t so helpful either. “Shut up,” he growled at the child. And when Jimmie didn’t feel like shutting up, Santa tried a more sensitive approach by yelling, “Keep your yap shut or I’ll really give you something to cry about!” (It’s not that Santa didn’t have feelings for children. He had plenty. It’s just that none of them were good.)

  Glaring at TJ, he yelled, “Do something!”

  “Right.” TJ’s mind raced until she had another solution. She began jumping up and down while making funny

  sounds.

  That nearly did the trick. Little Jimmie grew quiet for almost a second.

  Almost.

  TJ shouted louder. She jumped higher . . . which made the little ball on the end of her elf hat begin to

  her in the face. This added feature should have sent Jimmie into hysterical fits.

  Unfortunately, he was too busy screaming to notice.

  Next, TJ added waving both of her arms to the routine. And we’re not talking a little waving. We’re talking out-of-control-airplane-propeller waving.

  Jimmie cranked up the volume from earhurting to earsplitting. (I don’t want to say he was loud, but the cars outside were pulling over for what they thought was an approaching fire truck.)

  “Do something!” Santa shouted at TJ.

  “I’m (jump jump jump) try(wave wave wave)ing!”

  TJ yelled as her little white ball kept

  her in the face and she kept

  “WELL, TRY HARDER!” Santa shouted.

  She shouted back, “O—

  “—KAY!”

  But nothing worked. Until Santa, being the seasoned professional he was, grabbed Jimmie by the shoulders, spun him around, and shouted into his face. “STOP IT, YOU LITTLE BRAT!”

  The good news was Jimmie Johnson immediately stopped screaming.

  The bad news was Jimmie Johnson passed out in fear.

  The baddest news was Jimmie Johnson’s mother (better known as Mrs. Johnson) replaced her son’s screaming with her own: “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BABY?”

  (I guess we know where her baby got his lung power.)

  And the fun and games weren’t exactly over. . . .

  Thanks to Jimmie’s screaming, Santa’s yelling, and Mommy’s shouting, every child in line was crying.

  “WILL YOU DO SOMETHING?!” Santa yelled at TJ.

  With no other plan, TJ grabbed the pink dinosaur and raced to the children,

  and of course,

  her heart out as she ran up and down the line making goofy faces.

  To be honest, she didn’t know if it would work.

  And when she reached the end of the line, she didn’t much care. Because there, holding the hand of his terrified little cousin, stood Chad Steel.

  Chad Steel . . . whose name TJ had scrawled all over the inside of her notebook.

  Chad Steel . . . who already thought TJ belonged in a mental hospital.

  Chad Steel . . . who

  was watching TJ with a sad little smile—the type you give crazy people on the street or prisoners on their way to being executed.

  It was 8:00 p.m. when TJ staggered home from work and opened the front door.

  “Hey, sport,” Dad said as he looked up from the TV remote, which he’d been trying to figure out since 2008.

  “TJ!” Dorie cried as she raced from the Christmas tree she was trying to decorate near the stairs.

  “No, Squid, don’t!” But TJ’s warning was too late. The little girl leaped into her arms, practically knocking her over.

  Meanwhile, Violet sat quietly in the corner, working on her laptop—no doubt selling stocks that would pay for Dad’s big-screen TV.

  But something was wrong. TJ could tell instantly. Why else would all of them be together in the same room at the same time? It’s not that they didn’t spend time together, but for them, “quality family time” usually just meant passing each other on their way to the bathroom in the morning.

  Dad did his best to smile, but it was more of a grimace—which meant he either had terrible news or a bad case of indigestion. “Sweetheart, you better sit down.”

  So much for the indigestion.

  Filled with dread, TJ headed for the sofa. The last time they’d had a meeting like this was when he told them Mom was sick. “What happened?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Once again Dad tried to smile . . . and once again he didn’t quite succeed.

  TJ braced herself for the worst as Dorie plopped down beside her and Violet actually paused from typing.

  He cleared his throat and began. “Remember I was telling you
how my company has been in bad shape the past few months?”

  TJ nodded.

  “Well . . .” He took a deep breath. “In order to cut back expenses, they had to let me go.”

  “Let you go where?” Dorie asked.

  Dad smiled. For real this time. “It means I was fired, honey.”

  “You lost your job?” TJ croaked.

  “Only for a little while. They promise to rehire me just as soon as things get better.”

  “So you’re, like, on a vacation,” Dorie said.

  “Sort of, yes.”

  “Cool.”

  Finally Violet spoke up. “But with no salary, no health benefits, and unemployment pay amounting to a fraction of your current gross income.”

  All three looked at Violet like she was speaking a foreign language.

  Dad slowly nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Is that a good or bad thing?” Dorie asked.

  Dad took another breath. “Actually, both. It means Christmas gifts are going to be real slim this year.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “But—” he returned to his smile—“it also means we’ll be able to focus on more important things, like spending time with one another.”

  “So you’re spending more time with us?” Dorie said as she hopped off the sofa and crawled onto his lap.

  “That’s right,” Dad said. He pulled her closer. “I’m going to have all sorts of time.”

  “But you’re still going to let us do the cooking, right?” Violet asked in alarm.

  “Oh, I don’t know. With all my free time, I might be able—”

  “No, Dad, please,” TJ said.

  “No offense,” Violet explained, “but if they had an event in the Olympics for awful cooking—”

  TJ finished her thought. “You’d bring home the gold every time.”

  “And the silver and bronze,” Violet said.

  “Please, Daddy,” Dorie begged. “Please don’t cook for us.”

  “For the good of your family,” TJ said.

  “For the good of the human race,” Violet added.