A Plague Year

thing going this year. We got a prime lot in Orlando on a main thoroughfare, right on Colonial Drive. That’s the main drag. We’ll be the only tree sellers in a five-mile radius. It’s gonna be all gravy, bro!”

But the man was not buying it. He told Warren, “I talked to Mr. Levans about you guys, too. He said he never got paid from two years ago.”

“No, that’s a mistake.”

The man picked up the phone. “Let’s call him, then.”

Warren backed down quickly. “No. No. Look, all we need is twenty-five Frasiers and twenty-five Douglases to start. Then we’ll take fifty of whatever you got for the rest.”

The man set the phone down hard, like a gavel. He thought for a moment, then told us, “No way. I’m not fronting you any Frasier or Douglas firs. I should just say a flat-out no, but I’m trying to do the Christian thing here. I’ll tell you what I will do: For no money down, I got fifty Scotch pine you can have. They’re already cut and ready to load, but the buyer never picked ’em up.”

Warren sounded offended. “Scotch pine?”

“Sorry, but that’s what I got. You can take them or leave them.”

Warren raised up both hands as if to say, Whoa. He told the man, “We’ll take them.”

The man stood. “All right. Who’s loading them up?”

Warren turned to us. “We all are.”

So we trooped back outside. Jimmy and Arthur quickly unhooked the Geo Metro from the truck. We climbed back into our cab while the tree man got into a small white pickup.

He drove over a low ridge and out into the fields, so we followed. We passed many acres of small trees. Soon we were bumping past taller trees, though—very attractive, well-shaped trees that I figured were the Frasier firs and Douglas firs.

The white truck veered left and crawled carefully down a hill to a grove of pine trees. They were not as beautiful as the Frasier firs, but they weren’t bad-looking, either. And they would certainly work as Christmas trees.

Nobody was saying anything. I guess Warren, Jimmy, and Arthur were disappointed at this turn of events, but I didn’t know any better. I was excited.

A row of trees had already been felled—sliced off at the bottom with a chain saw—and were now lying on the ground. The tree man leaned out of his truck window and pointed at them. “There you go, cut and ready. You can take all fifty.”

The four of us clambered out.

Warren shook his head. He muttered to Jimmy, “They’re kinda puny.” To prove his point, he picked one tree up off the ground and hoisted it high over his head. He carried it like that to our truck and tossed it casually over the railing. He came back and told us, “All right. Toss them in there any way you can. We’ll straighten ’em up later.”

So that’s what we did. Jimmy and Arthur were able to do that tree-over-the-head, heaving-over-the-rail thing. I carried my trees waist-high to the back of the truck and slid them under the netting. Still, I was able to carry my share, and we soon had fifty trees on the truck. Warren and Jimmy climbed into the back and arranged them in neat rows. Then we took our places in the cab and followed the white truck back toward the highway.

Jimmy and Arthur hooked up the Geo Metro again while Warren and I sat in the cab. Warren told me, “We still have room, so we’ll pick up some Frasier firs down in Pine Grove. I know where we can go.” He looked in the rearview mirror. “I’m wearing my magic jacket today, Tom. All will be well.”

We took Route 81 south for about fifteen minutes. Then we pulled off the highway into a similar-looking wooden barn. This one had a cement-block gas station and convenience store next to it.

Warren went into the barn and, not five minutes later, came out all angry and upset. And empty- handed.

He shouted, “Mr. Christian Thing To Do back there must have called ahead. He bad-mouthed us all over the county. Nobody will do business with us.” Warren decided, “You take the wheel for a while, Arthur. Pull up to the pump there. We gotta gas up.”

Warren fished something out from beneath the driver’s seat. Then he disappeared behind the block building. Jimmy and Arthur paid no notice, so neither did I.

He came back a few minutes later with a new attitude, smiling and flopping into the backseat next to me. As Arthur pulled out and we headed south, Warren started talking loudly. “These trees are total crap, man! Scotch pines? Well, hell, we’ll just tell everybody they’re Frasier firs and Douglas firs, and—I don’t know— Pennsylvania firs. Those dumbasses down in Florida don’t know the difference. They’re just pretending it’s Christmas down there anyway. It may as well be the damn Fourth of July!”

Warren poked Jimmy. “Put in the classic Christmas cassette, bubba. I need to hear that while we’re still in cold country.”

Jimmy snorted, “Those cassettes must be twenty years old. I’m surprised they’re not eight-tracks.”

“Every one of them is a classic,” Warren insisted. “There is no need for anyone, ever, to put out another Christmas album. All the classic Christmas songs have been recorded. Mission accomplished.

“Check it out: The Christmas season runs from Christmas Eve until January sixth, technically, although most people have gotten sick of it by January first. But the stores start playing Christmas songs the day after friggin’ Halloween. Why is that?”

Arthur interjected, “It’s all supply and demand.”

“There you go! There you go, Coach Malloy. I remember that lesson. Christmas demand is for two weeks. But the Christmas supply lasts for over two months. Go figure that one out.”

He leaned forward. “Put on that Burl Ives cassette, Jimmy. Gimme some ‘Frosty the Snowman.’ Gimme some ‘Holly Jolly Christmas’ before we hit that Florida heat.”

The music started, and Warren whooped his approval. “Yeah! Frosty. There’s my man. Frosty!” But he soon turned philosophical. “Man, listen to that. Tell me: What did old Frosty get out of the deal? You know what I’m saying?”

He turned to me. “The kids let him dance and sing and tell jokes and… amuse them all day, and then he dies. He freaking melts, man! He’s effing dead. And what did he get out of it?”

Jimmy drawled, “Why, the pure joy of amusing children.”

“Screw that! What good is that? You can’t take that to the bank. You can’t make your car payment with that. Believe me, I have tried.” Warren pointed forward again. “And Rudolph? Him, too. They were plain ugly to him his whole life. They treated him like a townie, bubba. A townie with a big red nose.”

“I hear that.”

“So what does he think is gonna happen after he… pulls their nuts out of the fire on Christmas Eve? After he friggin’ saves Christmas? Does he think they won’t make fun of his nose anymore? Does he think they’re going to let him play their reindeer games?”

Jimmy and Arthur shouted out, as if they were at church, “Hell no!”

Warren continued: “For that matter, what does Santa Claus get out of the deal? He spends three hundred and sixty-four days making toys. He makes millions of toys, at his own expense. Then he travels by friggin’ open-air sled! Does he have a heater in this sled? Does he?”

This time, I joined them. “Hell no!”

“He drives ten million miles. And then, does he sell these toys? Does he get a good price for his labors?”

“Hell no!”

“That’s right. Hell no again. He friggin’ gives them away! Then he starts all over again the next day. What kind of life is that? He may as well be a coal miner,” Warren concluded. “He works like a devil, and he gets no money. He may as well be a damn coal miner.”

Arthur contributed, “Santa gives bad kids lumps of coal.”

Warren laughed. “What?”

“Kids who have not been good? Like me when I was six? They get coal instead of presents.”

“Really? Are you serious? That happened to you?”