Canceling Christmas
The Prologue
In which a daughter exhausts her quota of questions, a father suffers minor brain damage, and secret lives are eluded too.
Children ask a lot of questions. My daughter asks more than most:
“Daddy, why isn’t the sky burgundy?”
“Daddy, why can’t I drink juice upside down?”
“Daddy, where is this farm all the pets keep going to live at?”
“Daddy, when you become an astronaut do you get your spacesuit or your Tang first?”
“Daddy, what is the name of the process by which nuclear fusion happens at room or close to room temperature.”
Now, being a well-traveled man of the world, I answered such questions deftly and with much enthusiasm:
“Ask your mother.”
“Ask your mother.”
“Ask your mother.”
“Ask your mother.”
“Cold fusion.”
Amidst the constant barrage of random queries from my daughter, that bombarded the encampments of my patience one question fired from her lips like a cannonball, set fire to the sky, and blew a hole in that softest of brain areas: the hippocampus*.
“Daddy, why is it that every Christmas Santa never leaves anything for you under the tree?”
As this question proceeded to ricochet through the well-guarded but recently obliterated memory warehouse of my brain, long and intentionally forgotten misdeeds crept out of the darkness, rubbed their eyes, and wondered why their clothes were no longer in style.
“Well baby girl, that is a bit of a large question, and daddy is not sure if you are ready for the life lessons that you will inevitably learn from such a question,” I stated dryly. I was hoping the prospect of learning something would put her off the scent of my past misdeeds.
“You did something really bad to Santa didn’t you?” My daughter’s tone was saturated in condemnation.
“If you’re insinuating there was some terrible incident that put daddy on the naughty list permanently young lady, you would be wrong…it was actually several incidents. All right, sit down, cancel any play dates, and try to keep an open mind about the tale I’m about to tell. You might view your old man differently afterward.”
At this point, I realized there was no reason in sugar coating my tale. It happened, It was a reality, and now I was going to have to face up to it. I could only hope at my story’s end the two very judgemental eyes of my daughter would change from their current state of cold, calculating scrutiny to empathetic understanding.
I grabbed a pillow (to scream into if necessary), put my hand under my chin, looked at the ceiling and waited for the wavy dream-like imagery of a flashback. When that didn’t occur disappointed reality set in, and I proceeded to tell my story.
“Are you sitting comfortably?” I began. “Then I shall begin. When I was a young man, I attended a very special school for young adults. It was a place for visionaries, unkempt genius**, and possible though not yet confirmed super-villains. It was a well-hidden college tucked away in the often snow-capped mountains of the Jimalaya’s. It was called…”
“Daddy, don’t you mean the Himalaya’s?” my daughter interrupted.
I quickly responded “Did you not get the part about well hidden? Everyone knows the Himalaya’s. Why would anyone put a secret school there? Consider the Jimalaya’s to be the Himalaya’s less responsible but cunningly secretive younger brother***. Equally mountainous, equally snow-capped, but hidden well enough to avoid annoying adventurers and an overabundance of flags. We’re getting off track. As I was saying the school was called Lord Jarvis’s College For the Unconventionally Talented and the Possible Though Not Yet Confirmed Supervillains.
“Hold on one-second daddy.” My daughter replied. Her scrunched up face was processing the information laid before her. Under the two fraying ponytails of wound wavy brown hair and lurking behind the almond shaped deep brown eyes, was a brain filled with cogs, wheels, and the occasional Unicorn. All of them working in unison to unravel the knot before her.
“You went to school for Supervillains?” her question hung in the air equal parts fear and curiosity.
“Possible though not yet confirmed Supervillains baby girl. To be confirmed they first have to do something super followed by some villainy. Don’t forget there was also a lot of the unconventionally talented. Lord Jarvis was a bit of an optimist, so he liked to give most people the benefit of the doubt. We’re getting off track again." I continued, “Anyway, daddy attended this school as one of the unconventionally talented. You see your old man had a knack for communicating with animals. From the top of the food chain, all the way down to the bottom. I had a way with all of them. Now being young and perpetually short-sighted I had a gift that had potential. Unfortunately, I used it mostly to annoy people. I guess to be more honest; Daddy was more of an unconfirmed super villain."
*The Hippocampus is the part of the brain that controls memory. I have neither Hippos’ nor a campus in my head at which the Hippos’ might attend and study such subjects as Criminology, Wood Shop, or frightening the locals.
**For some reason, at the time, the geniuses had a prerequisite of sleeping in one’s clothes, competing for the most unique aroma, and collecting stains. They considered the rules of personal hygiene more like guidelines and the guidelines more like unsubstantiated gossip.
***You also would never catch the Jimalya’s offering to pick up the check or leaving anything not bolted down or monogrammed in a hotel.