How I Saved Christmas

Things to do today:

• Get laid
• Wake up Clarence
• Make better friends with the BJS!
• Go to dentist
• Go to drum dance

Well, I’m just groovy. Believe it. I’m in shop right now, finishing off a ring. It’s simple really, how it’s done. You take a hollowed out aluminum rod and you saw off an inch from the end and you buff it, sand it, shine ’er up and that’s it. The shop teacher, Koala Mercier, is a burn out. Mostly we just leave him alone cuz we know he’s about three months away from his pension.

He says my ring is by far the best. I engraved “S.O.P.” on the ring in cool gothic letters. “S.O.P” stands for “Soldier of Passion.” The chalkboard reads: “ONLY 14 MORE WELDING DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS!” and I have to get out of this town: my moshing is at an all time high and my soul right now is a caved-in dog cage. But enough about me.

See, I’m writing lots these days and I’m really hoping it’ll take me places. I hand all the finished products to my new English teacher, Mr. Ron, who truly believes in me. He says I should explore other media and that I got what it takes. Oh yeah, I should tell you: I got stabbed in the back as well. See, when I hand in my stories, they’re pretty Barbara Psychedelica and I got assigned to a counselor. His name is Mr. Williams. He has pens and posters in his office that read, “THEY HAVEN’T BUILT AN AX THAT CAN CHOP DOWN A DREAM.” He tries and all. I just can’t get into it. He talks about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and priorities and setting goals while I look out the window to the far surrendered sky. It’s sad really. But what can you do?

All I know is, I went into the bathroom, right outside his classroom and wrote on the wall “Last Chance For Doggy Style—200 Meters.” And I signed it: “Mister Williams, Guidance Counselor Extrordinaire.” Then I added: “God Bless the BJS!”

The new English teacher, Mr. Ron, says if I can do prose, a play, some poetry and fiction, I’ll be able to get into this writing school down south. You’d swear my teacher has nocturnal emissions about my potential because he’s already called and requested pamphlets. Here is an example of the poetry I’ve done so far:

Girls

• Double jointed
• Best spellers around
• Always remember birth dates
• Want to know your middle name!

Groovy, hey? That was written for this babe called Dedrie Meddows who has chrome submission tits. All I know is I ended up in Clarence’s bathroom playing rock-paper-scissors with him for the best condoms. Clarence got the Crown and scored his first cousin. That was the night we were stoned on shrooms spitting apple juice at each other. It was sloppy lumberjack magic and I got to listen to Clarence’s ass hydraulics slap his wet playdough balls off her ass for an hour. They sounded like this: slap! slap! slap!

When I fooled around with Dedrie, she kept asking, “What are you thinking? What are you thinking?”

I was just so amazed with her full, high, self-supporting breasts and hollow head nipples, I cried with delight: “Look at them biscuits! Look at them biscuits!”

“Don’t make it dirty!” she cried back and pushed me away. And I, under the Jesus Cameras, could not perform.

“Go,” she said. “Just go.”

“Well could we spoon?” I asked. Banished, I ended up doing a black-out dance with a sock around my neck. An hour later, Lila showed up and I’m talking straight funkadelic.

So here’s two little quickies that can sum up my winter so far:

Video Games

• If you kill these men
• you can touch this woman

Pornos

• The gentle things
• they shove into each other

Which reminds me. It’s 3:30. Almost home time. I have to look at my list:

Things to do today:

• Get laid
• Wake up Clarence
• Make better friends with the BJS!
• Go to dentist
• Go to drum dance

“Gentlemen!” Koala calls out from his office, “if your work stations are clean, you may leave!”

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!

That’s the buzzer. I grab my parky and pull on my Kamiks. It’s time to wake up Clarence.

God really worked it out this year: Christmas is gonna be on a Sunday and New Year’s Eve is gonna be on a Saturday. It’s the coldest day of the year by the way: minus 45 degrees. That’s not including wind or A-hole factor. You may have heard of the SAD syndrome. I think it’s “Sloppy Lumberjacks and Depression” or somethin’, but what it boils down to is a lack of light: Death by darkness. We are humans but we are also plants, and if a plant cannot get enough light, it cannot grow. Simple. When humans can’t get enough light, they swallow shotgun barrels and pull triggers. That’s my buddy Clarence if I’m not careful.

The good thing about it being minus 45 degrees is that the sunrise is spectacular. It’s a Physics 30 orgasm. The light from the sun, which is low to the horizon, hits the ice-fog which hangs over this little northern town and you have rarefaction, refraction and some fancy light that makes you ache. Too bad you can’t enjoy it without your cheeks splitting, it’s that cold. And you would not bleed blood, either. You would bleed purple purple steam.

And something else: the snow here is as white as the milk of apples and the trees look like snapshot explosions. Wow, hey?

Dogs

Let’s talk about ’em! I finally figured out why they’re on this planet. They are the Jesus Cameras. What they see, Jesus and all the angels see. If you’re smoking up with Nostradamus, for example, he’d be quite a party pooper. He’d be droning on and on a little like this:

NOSTRADAMUS: “You guys are dead. You’re so dead.

Millenium, baby. Get ready. Bombs. Fire. Cannibals. Cockroaches. One from the lesser tribes will acquire arms and toast your ass.”

ME (AMBASSADOR OF LOVE): “Hey, Nos, quit hogging the hooka and shut your mouth, bee-otch!”

Anyways, the point is that if you were smoking up and you were on parole and a dog was in the room, it would really be Jesus and all the angels watching. That’s the scoop, Jupe! And cats are Devil Cameras; they’re Satan’s little helpers. From their eyes, Satan and all his minions watch with drooling lips. And now you know why dogs and cats hate each other. The light and darkness war continues!

The BJS

I guess I should divulge the best kept secret in Simmer: The Blow Job Specialist! I don’t know where she learned her oral techniques, but I sat at the base of Clarence’s steps one night listening to him get a “Cosmic Blowjob” (his words) from her. I don’t know if she took both of his jobbles in her mouth and sucked at the same time; I don’t know if she stroked his prostate with her longest finger; I don’t know what she did but he was wailing like a horse lit on fire. He still can’t talk about what she did without twitches and spasms. All I know is he slept for days after and the BJS had vanished long before he woke up.

She isn’t the prettiest girl in town, and I think that’s why she had to go beyond the norm. Who taught her? Porn? Who?

Eight months black for slaves

Did I tell you I woke up to the sound of sizzling hash between the blades of squeezing knives? My Uncle Franky, a good man with a dependency problem, was hooting away and rolling fatties. No breakfast! Not even coffee! Just some black hash for a broken god seeking collision.

“Mornin’,” I said as I got up and jumped into some long johns. “Howshegoin?”

“Pretty purple,” my uncle said, meaning “hazy.” “Jed and I were up ’til two last night making Grizzly patties for this catering gig he got for the drum dance.”

I watched Uncle Frank brace for the smoke.

“Wanna know what?” He hooted. “Clarence (hoot) lost his birthday money to Tarvis last (hoot) night (hoot) at the bar.”

“Fuck sakes,” I said. “That damn Clarence.”

Before I was out the door, my Uncle coughed, “Sal Bright (hoot hoot) don’t wanna be Santa no more!”

But I didn’t listen. I had to get my sweet ass to school.

Clarence

Now let’s take a look at how the eight month winter of the NWT affects mammals. Let’s start off with Clarence Jarome who I have known since I moved here. After I lost rock-paper-scissors to him for the Crown condom, we kind of looked at this little bottle of baby oil on the sink, and I asked, “Well, should we play for it?”

Hell yes! We played best out of three and I lost, I lost, I lost. That party was absolute monkey house trauma. We had Slayer, D.R.I., Monster Magnet and Danzig on CD shuffle. I was a sunshine cannibal moshing it up in my toque and mukluks.

“I didn’t know you were a thrasher,” Lila smiled, standing there in her bizarre purple sweater and her sweet little ABBA shoes. I danced, sized her up, looked into her mouth and thought YES!

Clarence yelled. “Play Slayer’s ‘Mandatory Suicide’!”

Oh how we moshed. No Pink Floyd please. No Jimmy H. Just some kick ass hard core. To make a long story short: I had to stickhandle around Lila’s Jackie Chan boyfriend who was selling “White Widow” out of his I-ROC. He left to make the deal of the century and I took full hunger advantage. Slap, slap, slap…

This was a great year for the alternative lifestyle by the way: Great porn courtesy of Andrew Blake, great music courtesy of Napster, and I’ve just made friends with the BJS.

But enough about that. Let’s get back to the quest.

Clarence had a tape of mine, which I stole off Eric. Eric and Clarence aren’t speaking to each other anymore cuz Clarence puked on Eric’s back. Such is life!

Here’s who Eric puts on his tapes: The Cranes, The Prodigy, Afghan Whigs, Dead Can Dance, Slowdive, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Kate Bush, Jonathan Richman and The Modern Lovers. The best the best the best!

He calls this tape “The Grinder” and I’ll need it as I nurture the sacred bond between the BJS and moi.

Anyways, I ran over to Clarence Manor cuz I’m his human alarm clock. He’s kind of depressed lately and Prozac lets him sleep fourteen hours straight. It was his birthday yesterday. It even said so on the green screen. His house is across the potato field and I froze my ass off—even with added protection like woollies and long johns. I pulled my toque all the away down so I could see through the wool mesh and still I froze. Nobody on the streets but me. No parka queens to wave to. Eyes so cold they water. Snow piled high like thick, white mattresses, burying the hoods of trucks. It’s like walking into a frozen marshmallow. Everything outside was so suddenly still and the air hung like a pregnant moose. One false move and the trees would shatter.

There was Clarence’s house. I let myself in.

Clarence, as usual, was in his coma deep sleep. He’s on pogey and doesn’t have to work.

“Mono Boy!” I called as I barreled up the stairs. No answer, the chronic. Man, I swear Clarence was born tired.

“Lost your money last night, hey?” I threw his gonchies from the floor to his face.

“What!” Clarence sat up. “How the hell do people know these things?”

“Just do, now where’s my tape—what the…?”

Something had changed about his room. It was still a mess with his CDs and tapes piled all over the place. He had posters up of Morrissey, The Cure and The Smiths. There were also pictures of Bat Girl all over the place with loving attention on her latex ass. His laundry basket was overflowing and my porno mags were fanned out all over his floor. What the hell? There were bullet holes in the walls!

There were about 20 bullet holes peppered all over the far walls and ceiling. It was his .22 caliber AR-7 survival rifle that he cradled in his arms. He had his banana clip, which meant he was capable of 33 semi-automatic shots as fast as he could pull the trigger. I won’t go hunting anymore with him because of that gun.

“I thought you sold that,” I said.

He looked at me. “Your tape is on the top shelf, by the shotgun. Now who the hell told you?”

“Clarence,” I said, “what the hell happened here last night?”

“Spiders. I hear them in the walls.”

I stared at him, hard.

“I know I know. I gotta get outta this town.”

I looked for my tape. He pulled on his Sisters of Mercy T-shirt. “I swear to God this house is haunted. I gotta get out of here.”

I found the tape. “Gretzky!” I put it in his ghetto and played it. It was Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers: “I go to bakeries all day long; there’s a lack of sweetness in my life…”

“Lare!” he ran his hands through his hair. “Last night I turned 21. It’s almost Christmas. I looked around, I looked at my friends and I just wanted to cry. I gotta get a job. I miss it. Oh God, I miss working.”

I turned it down. “Give it time.”

“Time? I don’t got time! You know how close I came to pulling the trigger last night?”

I stuck my finger in one of the bullet holes. “Not worth it, man. Besides, who will the spiders play with?”

“I walked around the bar,” he continued. “Yelling across the tables made me deaf, so I danced on the floor all by myself. I looked at the moose and caribou heads above the bar with their mouths open. I just walked up to them and said I was sorry. Somebody stuck red pool balls in the eye sockets of the buffalo skulls. I saw all the fish mounted on the walls, those big pikes and whitefish. I just walked up and said I was sorry. I poured beer in their mouths and got kicked out. On my birthday! It’s Christmas for chrissakes.” He paused. “I seen Sal Bright there. He don’t wanna be Santa anymore.”

“Look,” I held out my hand. “We’re making a deal right now. We won’t deal with lotteries under 30 million.”

“30 million!”

“Yeah,” I grinned, “cuz we’re worth it.”

“Can’t do it, man. There’s a bingo in Hay River next week.”

“Clarence,” I said, “God won’t give us this forever.”

“What?”

“God gave us today and I’m gonna use it. I’m going. Don’t forget about the drum dance tonight.”

“Where?”

“Friendship Centre. Eight o’clock.”

“Let’s have a coffee,” he said. “Then we’ll play crib.”

“No time, partner!” I said. “I got my tape, now I gotta see Eichman!”

“Eichman? Jesus! Isn’t he secretly the lead singer for Rammstein? Hey! Don’t you wanna hear how I lost my birthday money?”

“Naw,” I got up. “You did it last year and you’ll probably do it again next year—”

“But, Larry!”

“Sol later, man!” I yelled. “Happy Birthday!”

That’s what I did in front of the Jesus Cameras and everyone: Tough love, baby!

“I deserve to be loved by a beautiful and intelligent woman,” I said to myself as I made a break for it. “I deserve to be loved by a beautiful and intelligent woman.”

It was so cold out I cut through the old folk’s home. Here the elders had all this tinsel and Christmas propaganda happening around them and they looked sad. Some of them were reading the paper and shaking their heads. Man, the old people in this town smoke like chimneys. Crazy coots!

On to Eichman

I gotta tell you about the dentist here. He’s cold: a true technician of terror and torture. He’s the type of guy who probably laughed when Old Yeller took a bullet in the head. Anyways, I walked into his chop shop and somebody had been hard at’er decorating the place for Christmas. There was music coming from the office and, sure enough, it was Boney M singing “Faleece Navee Datt!!” Along with the punishing sound of a drill from the operating room, there was a coffee machine hissing out a fresh pot. There were charts all over the wall saying, “Gum Disease: prevention is the key.”

The whole place smelled like cinnamon slaughter. There was a pile of Reader’s Digests in a pile on a coffee table. I sat down on the couch. Over to the far left, under the coat rack, and beside the coffee machine, was a pair of white Kamiks standing in a puddle. Above them were parkas and a pair of big-ass caribou mitts. There was this little kid there, looking at me. Beside him sat his dad. The kid was reading a book. I poured a cup. My hands were a bruised purple. I’m surprised they just didn’t seize. There was the latest Slave River Journal and the cover reported: “Sal Bright will no longer be Santa!”

What the!?—I picked it up and read it.

His quote: “Due to the politics, I cannot remain true to the cause. If I spend too much time in Indian Village, the Metis get mad at me; if I spend too much time near the church, the Dene get mad; if I don’t spread myself around, the non-Natives get mad and that isn’t what Christmas is about. Besides, why not have someone else give it a try?”

The article went on and on. I couldn’t believe it. That’s what my uncle and Clarence were talking about. That’s why the elders were shaking their heads and looking sad. I was going to steal the article to read later but a woman came out of the operating room looking pale and wobbly. Half her face was falling off by the look of it.

“Hullo,” I said and took off my jacket.

“Honey,” the father greeted.

“Mum, can I have some ice cream?” the little guy asked.

She said, “Asha Ukka Ukka!”

Her face was so frozen!

“Are you okay? Here’s your jacket.” Her husband said. She looked wasted. From behind her came Eichman himself. “Next week, Barbara. Ten o’clock, Tuesday?”

Barbara turned around and floppily waved at him, kind of groggy like, and kept rambling, “Alsha Ulsha Uka Uka.”

The family left. Eichman stared after them, smiling. I could hear his assistant washing up for me. I heard from the scurvy dogs in the high school that she was a sweet little honey who didn’t drink or go out at all. The first week she got here, the meat hooks were out. Guys got all dressed up and cruised in their trucks doing a smoke show at the four-way by spinning out. When she went to do her shopping at the Bay, all the packing boys tripped on their dicks rushing to be the one to pack for her. Clarence said the boys were being shot down on all fronts and they were too devastated to call a retreat. And now I’d have my moment in the sun—with what? A damn drill in my mouth and a needle sliding through my gums.

“Larry Sole?” she called out. Eichman was still staring off as Barbara and her fam wobbled through the snow.

“C’est moi,” I said and hung up my jacket.

First I saw the hair, then her bust which heaved like war cannons under her lily white suit. What a presence! I looked at her slim trim tummy and bet she had a six pack. I sat down on the seat. Sure I did. It had this rattly white paper that wrinkled and crackled whenever I moved. I was getting settled when she came from the office with a file. Wow! A brunette with straight hair tied in a bun. She was trying to be professional and all by tying this bib around me, but she had to lean her chest near my face and I wanted to snap my teeth and hang on like a wolverine.

Eichman came in and looked at a file she handed him. I leaned over and checked out the feet. Moccasins! The beadwork didn’t look Dogrib, Slavey or Chipewyan. Where was she from?

Eichman perused my file, probably plotting the best routes for attack and carnage. Ever since I can remember, Eichman had this one poster on the damn ceiling. It’s this witch with a warty nose and most of her teeth are missing. The tooth stubs she does have left are black and yellow. She’s green and spooky and she’s holding a lollypop as big as your ass. She’s asking, “Care for some candy, my sweet?”

And in the back of her, there’s more candy and mountains of lollypops. I remember we were talking one day at school, me and the boys. We all agreed this poster has created more nightmares, more trauma, more scorched shorts than The Exorcist. I mean, what kind of sick bastard puts up that kind of poster for children, elders and expecting moms to look at while he solders their teeth shut or slices into their gums?

“When was your last checkup?” Eichman asked.

“Six months ago,” I lied.

“Bite on this,” he said and put something in my mouth that bit with plastic teeth into my gums. He aimed a magnificent rifle at my face, near my cheek and I checked out the Dene honey as she put this heavy blanky on me. A heart shaped ass. Sweet! Sweet!

The blanky was lead insulated, I guess, with a big flap meant for genitalia. The way she was putting it on was like she was tucking me in and I was tempted to say, “Night, Mommy,” but, instead, being Big Daddy Love and all, I leaned forward and sniffed her hair and she smelt like something blue and lush and bright, like the water children are baptized with.

“Where you’re from?” I asked.

“Hold still!” Eichman ordered and felt my cheeks.

“Deline’,” she said darting her eyes between Eichman and I. Nervous, I guess, cuz she was working.

“You know Jed?” I asked. He was from Franklin.

“Jed!” she beamed, “Yes I do! Where is he?”

“Cember, please,” Eichman said, meaning “Shut up,” and to me: “Will you hold still?”

“He’s going out with my mom. He’ll be at the drum dance tonight. He’s doing the catering.”

Eichman man-handled me into silence. Can you believe it? What a power freak. There was the crinkle of the paper beneath me, and my feet were getting hot as I still had on my boots and woollies. The scent of a cinnamon death soaked into my clothes and skin, suffocating the small mouths of my pores. He and Cember left the room. I heard, “Clear” and the magnificent rifle went “Brr” and that was it. I looked up to the old hag with the crumbling teeth gurgling. “Care for some candy, my sweet?”

“Open,” Eichman said and held out his white-gloved hand. With my white froth cow tongue, I pushed it out and there was a stringy slug trail of spit, which he lassoed around the plastic blade. He handed it to Cember who took it and left the room. He put the plastic blade on the other side and did the whole process again.

I stared into the mouth of the hag on the ceiling and plotted erogenous camera mischief: (Me, Cember: slap! slap! slap!)

When Eichman and Cember were finished, they whispered tiny black secrets back and forth. I started thinking about Sal Bright, Simmer’s Santa. He just had to be Santa this year. For as long as I can remember, he would always dress up and have his wife pull him on a sleigh with their car. He’d crank up a huge generator for the thousands of lights and blaring music to announce Santa’s arrival on your street. It was like the hand of God when he appeared. The lights, the music, the magic of it all with him waving and smiling.

You could always hear him “HO HO HO’ing” all over town through his megaphone and the dogs would howl and chase him like some parade of beast demons trying to tear a holy man down. Kids would all run up to their windows and wave like convicts. Even parents shoveling their driveways would wipe their runny noses on the back of their woolly mitts and smile.

If he wasn’t Santa this year, the whole damn thing wouldn’t work. I knew it. Even if I was a preaching hypocrite most of the time and even if there would always be a “Care for some candy, my sweet?” poster up in the dentist’s office, you just had to have Christmas to stretch out and wiggle your toes. There were 2,500 of us humans here in Simmer and the year had been so hard with all the lay-offs and cutbacks.

Eichman stood above me. Cember sat beside me. He was gabbing on and on: “…cap has fallen out and we’ll put it back on for you.”

I guess I was thinking so hard I didn’t notice Eichman was already greasing up a Q-tip with some paste and squeezing my cheeks together so I’d open up.

“We’ve also found a small cavity on your…”

“Aw who cares,” I thought. “Do your job, eh? You’re going to hurt me either way.”

It never failed. Every time I came in, I knew I was gonna suffer. Eichman never failed to incinerate my central nervous system with a blade or needle. He swabbed my lower back gum and I looked at Cember.

“If anything happens, baby,” I wanted to say, “tell ’em I cared. Tell ’em I was a bright light in a two dollar town.”

So I took notes of everything that went on in my head while they drilled, sucked and needled my teeth and gums. Here it is and it’s important that I document how the government and the dentists are taking out the Soldiers of Passion: I’m not going to change a damn word. You deserve the pure octane, unadulterated, calligraphy-on-Wednesdays truth. Here it is: “FASCIST ROOT KILLER! I HAVE THE HUGE WHITE EYES OF BISON BEFORE THE BULLET SPLITS THE SKULL THEY MIGHT AS WELL BE STICKING A BARREL IN MY MOUTH I CAN’T IT’S NOT NO FROZEN HURTS HURTS HURTS I’M A RATTLESNAKE MY VENOM HE’S TRYING TO GET AT THE MAIN TRUNK NERVES THAT HAVE FUNNELED AND TUNNELED INTO THE ROOT SYSTEM OF MY FACE OH JESUS JESUS PLUCK ME YOUR BRIGHTEST FLOWER FROM THIS YOUR TRAUMA GARDEN MY TONGUE THE NEEDLE COULD TAKE YOU SO EASILY STINKY GLOVES NOW I’M DELIRIOUS TEN YEARS OF THERAPY AND I MIGHT JUST MAKE IT I’M GURGLING BLOOD PLEASE STOP PLEASE STOP THE WHITE PAIN FROM MY MOUTH EXPLODES BUTTERFLY SNOW FROM IT FALLS I’M…”

“Care for some candy, my sweet?”

All done. They wiped their hands of cold medical slaughter. I needed some water to gurgle the spit and blood. “Who,” I thought, “who has placed a burning stalk of rhubarb in my mouth?”

Eichman beamed. “You had quite the little nap.”

Cember undid my bib and looked at me with her teardrop eyes.

“I deserve to be loved by a beautiful and intelligent woman,” I tried to say but alls that came out was: “Alsha alsha uka aka.”

“Eeeeeezzzzyyy,” she helped me get up. I wobbled out of the room and there was somebody else waiting.

Floppily, I got my coat. Floppily, I looked at Cember and wove a little kiss, which I summoned from my dry throat, past my swollen moose lips, through my teeth towards her. But she looked away and was on to other things.

“Too bad, baby,” I thought, “we coulda’ been good together…”

I practically fell down the stairs I was so weak. I pulled on my mitts and toque. “Wait a minute,” I thought. “Wait one rattlesnake minute.”

I turned around. Eichman was staring at me through his window, smiling.

I got the hell away.

I guess while me and my moose lips are walking home, and while I’m having my ears stung by a thousand invisible snow bees, I should tell you about me trying to get laid all the time. I’m really quite reckless about my sexuality, and I’m ready to rock any day of the week, but that’s only because I’m a product of a lonely town. I mean this town is full of flatliners. A soul hits the ground here every seven seconds.

I realized last Tuesday how lonely I was and it hit me. Hard. So I put some condoms by my bed and I gave all my porno mags to Clarence. Some people have to walk off hangovers or bouts of fury; I have to walk off The Heat. With leather suit shoes through knee high snow, I walk, patrol and search, led by the heavy eyes of hunger, looking for love. Damn this sexual peak! Damn it straight to hell!

This town. Home of the big diesels, big track pants and big bad booze faces. I know every inch of this cage and it’s only getting smaller—and I refuse to play Bingo! Don’t even get me started about Bingo. I want to kill that game! And come to think of it, when was the last time a woman seduced me? When was the last time someone spent hours plotting how to get me into the sack? When was the last time someone came up to me and said, “Larry, I think you’re funnier than a French tickler! I think you’re the only one who hasn’t been on empty for the past three years!”

I mean, these topics have to be addressed.

And I’m a good lay. I’m officially a good lay. After all, my blood is loaded with Testosterone making my balls 340 twin overhead cams jacked to the nuts!

And this town doesn’t help. They take with their teeth here. There should be a sign on the airport road that reads:

"

WELCOME TO FORT SIMMER

PUMPIN’ CAPITAL OF THE NWT

IF WE CAN’T KNOCK YOU UP WE’LL KNOCK YOU OUT!

"

And when you leave this little hellhole, there should be a sign on the highway that says:

"

THANK YOU FOR VISITING

COME AGAIN

IF WE COULDN’T BREED YOU WE PROBABLY BEAT YOU!

"

Yes, yes, they may have labeled me a failure in physics; they may have called home because I have four lates, but they did not see me for the gift of spirit and breath that I am.

I went home. It was my turn to cook and I couldn’t wait until the drum dance to eat. I wrote one outstanding poem thinking about the Old Folk’s Home. It went like this:

"

The Breath Of Elders

The breath of elders
like the breath of elephants close
fear mouse and his dream
for mouse has the dream of flight above snow
and mouse has the nightmare of teeth and steel
and steel is the cage of dog
and dog is chained
dog wants pussy
pussy is eating its cold bald litter
and the litter bald has the dream of nipples
and nipples love the taste of teeth
and teeth are the embrace for cannibals
and cannibals have to eat their buddies
and buddies never talk of love
and love is a porno with the sound turned low
and low is the swoop from hawk to mouse
and earth has risen to taste rain’s skin
as skin is a field of dying flowers
and flowers are felt like God’s fine hands
as he steals and holds the breath of elders…

"

After I finished, I just sat in the hallway with my purple ears defrosting from the sting of invisible snow bees. As the windows fogged up, I could smell the caribou hamburger sizzling in its sauce and in ten minutes the spaghetti would be ready. I kept thinking about passion, about how it was the last clean thing I had. I started thinking about how horribly pathetic this year would die if Sal Bright didn’t play Santa. What about the kids? What about the elders? What about guys like Clarence or Uncle Frank? What about the community? What about the government workers? Any minute, something in their backs could blow. Even Eichman, what about him? I thought of all the seized metal engines outside and the seized human engines inside. And I thought of me. I needed it, too. I guess I had a grand mal seizure about the whole thing and decided it was up to me. I mean, didn’t sometimes…didn’t you ever think that you were dead, that you were already buried, but you were given one day to come back and make things right? One day—through the politics, lies and the sloppy lumberjack butchery, God’s permission was yours to come back to bring light to the world and add another color to the rainbow?

No bullshit. This is how I saved Christmas on the coldest day of the year. I called Sal Bright up.

“Lo!” He called as he answered the phone.

“Hello, is this Sal Bright of Fort Simmer, Northwest Territories?”

“Yes it is.”

“Sal, my name is Tarvis Marvin calling from Emmunton, Alberta.”

“Zat right, eh?”

“Yes, Sir, and I represent the Canadian Council of Moments.”

“The what?”

“Canadian Council of Moments. It’s an international organization to honor and commemorate Soldiers of Passion.”

“Izzat right?”

“Yessir, and, Sir, it is my sincere pleasure to award you with the Canadian Council of Moments Award.”

“Oh?”

“Yessir and your name has also been put into this year’s awards as well for your involvement as Santa Claus.”

“Well,” he breathed, “we might have a problem—”

“Sir,” I interrupted, “I understand you are thinking of not being Santa this year.”

“Yeah,” he began, “see, we got so much politics here.”

“I read.”

“You did?”

“Yessir. We have eyes in the most unique places and we understand your feelings on this matter. That is why I decided to call you up myself and ask you—no—beg you to keep up the good work.”

“Wow…”

“Yessir, we here at the Canadian Council of Moments have applauded your efforts from the very beginning and we are all holding our breath that you continue.”

“Really?”

“Yessir, I want to tell you that you’ll be receiving something very special in the mail.”

“Oh?”

“Yes! A customized ring just for you that boasts ‘S.O.P’ for ‘Soldier of Passion’ and a thank you note from myself representing the council.”

“Hey that’s great!”

“You’ve earned it, Sir.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I should tell you that it sure is wonderful being Santa.”

“I bet!”

“Yeah, you see the kids and you see them waving and you know they might not get a thing for Christmas but you gave them this. You gave them something. I sure am glad you called,” he continued. “I was thinking of taking the wife and kids up to Yellowknife for a break, but I think I’ll stay. I just wish there wasn’t politics.”

“We know,” I said. “We’re only too aware of the situation and we sympathize with you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

“So you’ll do it?” I asked. “You’ll be Santa?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes I will.”

“Mahsi cho!” I yelled. “Woo hoo! You’ll get your ring in the mail, Sir. And we’ll be watching you this Christmas!”

“You bet!” He yelled. “Hey, honey! Hey, kids! I’m gonna be Santa again!” and I heard a cheer from his family.

And I heard a cheer from me. I had found another Soldier of Passion. And that, dear brothers and sisters, is how I saved Christmas.

O-lay!