[stylist] Holiday exercise, part 1: Schmanta Claus

Fri Dec 9 16:04:56 UTC 2011

Chris,

Man you write economically, that's what keeps 
your stories moving along nicely. Some general 
comments,  there ain't many :). When  Irv's wife 
turned to skowel,  I wasn't sure why, I thoght it 
had something to do with her wanting a coat like 
her pal. I really loved the intro though, the 
bland oatmeal like his mood and such, attaching 
physical stuff to emotion is powerful. You had me 
so in the story. It sort of reminded me of the 
Santa in the movie "The Christmas Story," the one 
about the BB gun haha ... "Ho ho ho, another wet 
one--get him off me" lol. You made Irv very 
believable. When it was done I wanted to know 
more about the boy, why he was so gun shy with 
people, there is obviously an ugly sad history in 
his short life so far. My first time through it, 
when Irv was talking to him about the various 
holidays and such near the end, I thoght it 
seemed a bit  too mature of a perspective for an 
8-year old  kid to identify with, but the second 
time it seemed OK to me. I liked the smoking elf 
bit, it, plus the push for parents to get a pic 
taken,  gave an insight to the store's 
perspective on money is more important than role models for kids.

I'll be looking to find out what happens to Irv next :). Excellent.

Brad

On 12/9/2011  08:54 AM Chris Kuell said...
>Here's my first submission for the 
>exercise--1400 words. I'm planning on another, 
>maybe 2, depending on how satisfied I am with 
>the work. All comments, suggestions, fan and hate mail are welcomed.
>
>
>
>Schmanta Claus
>
>By Chris Kuell
>
>
>Irving Nusinowitz shoveled another spoonful of 
>lukewarm oatmeal down his throat. The taste was 
>bland, a dull beige, perfectly mimicking his mood.
>
>His wife, Helen, was jabbering about the fur 
>coat Sylvia Goldbass was wearing at Temple 
>Saturday night. Something about her nephew Maury 
>knows a guy in the city and got her such a deal. She turned and scowled at him.
>""Irving, why the sour puss?"
>
>Without responding, he looked at her. 
>Thirty-four years of marriage allowed Helen to 
>read his thoughts through that look.
>"Listen, Irv, it's only for a short time. You've 
>been outta work for nine-months now, and we 
>really need the money. Winter is here, and we 
>need oil to heat this place. The kids and our 
>seven grandchildren are coming for Hanukah, and 
>I don't want them worrying about us."
>
>Irving dipped his head and forced another 
>spoonful of mush into his mouth. Helen took the 
>kitchen chair next to him and spoke softly. "I 
>prayed for God to help us find money to make it 
>through the holidays. He works in mysterious 
>ways, Irving. Swallow your pride and do a good job. It's only for a month. "
>
>Irving pushed his chair away from the table and 
>stood to go. Sylvia used a napkin to remove a 
>glob of oatmeal from his thick, white beard 
>before hugging him good-bye and handing him a 
>sack lunch. She offered him a few more words of 
>encouragement as he buttoned up his overcoat and 
>left the house for whatever the day wood bring.
>
>Parked a half-hour later at the Mall, he took a 
>long swig out of the pint he kept in the glove 
>box. Unemployment had not been easy for the 
>58-year-old ex-accountant. He grabbed his Dunkin 
>Donuts coffee and his canvas bag and locked up.
>
>Inside the security office at the Mall was a 
>nice changing room and a locker where he could 
>store his clothes. Irving was afraid Mr. Connor, 
>the man who had hired him, might smell the gin 
>on his breath, but he quickly reassured himself 
>that the coffee would cover it up and he 
>changed. The silly pants were elastic at the 
>waist at least, so they could close around his 
>62-inch girth. The red jacket was also tight, 
>and the cheap nylon fabric was probably going to 
>give him hives. He buckled the wide, black belt, 
>which was vinyl instead of leather, and 
>muttered, "And you Goyem are always calling us frugal."
>
>The final accessory was the red felt stocking 
>cap, which fit perfectly on Irving's snowy head.
>
>Mr. Connors introduced him to Dwayne Thomas, a 
>short black guy dressed up in a green elf 
>costume that matched his own in ridiculousness. 
>Elf Dwayne smelled like he hadn't had a shower 
>lately, and Mr. Connors was not the least bit 
>happy when the elf lit up a Marlboro.
>
>While they walked, Mr. Connors went through his 
>schpeal about proper behavior, never telling the 
>kids much of anything, keep it all open ended, 
>and push them into pressuring their parents for a photograph.
>
>As Irving took his seat in the large wooden 
>chair in the center of the Mall, surrounded by 
>Christmas songs, artificial trees and snow and 
>enough blinking lights to illuminate a major US 
>city, he thought back to his bar mitzvah. The 
>day he fully embraced his Jewishness and became 
>a man. How far he had come, and how low he had 
>sunk, to be sitting here representing a 
>capitalistic fantasy to all the bratty little gentile children.
>
>Irving played Santa to 43 children before lunch 
>break. You can take the man out of the 
>accounting office, but. 29 were boys; 14 girls. 
>Three kids couldn't work up the courage to get 
>on his lap, and one cried so much his mother had 
>to come and take him away after a grotesque 
>pleading session that made Irving want to throw 
>both the kid and his mother into one of the fake snow banks.
>
>For lunch, Irving went back out to his car and 
>polished off the gin with his tuna fish 
>sandwich. He ran into Dwayne the Elf as he was 
>walking in, and they both had a cigarette before heading back for Act II.
>
>The line of nervous children and cookie-cutter 
>parents depressed Irving as he took his throne. 
>The lies about being good, the greed of the 
>brainwashed little consumers and the idle 
>promises about bringing lots of toys carried on through the afternoon.
>
>Irving's lower back was killing him, his bladder 
>was about to burst and he nearly launched a fat 
>little girl onto the white picket fence when she 
>pulled hard on his beard, asking, "Is this fake?"
>
>He stood, massaging his sore chin and watched as 
>Dwayne escorted a lone boy over to meet Santa. 
>Usually the kids had a cheery, encouraging 
>parent observing from outside the picket fence, 
>but this kid was all by himself. Irving thought 
>he saw a slight trail of smoke escaping from 
>Dwayne's cupped hand as the kid stood before him.
>"Hello, Son. Is your Mommy or Daddy with you today?"
>
>The kid said, "My Mom's shopping at Filene's. 
>I've got a cell phone to call her if you try to 
>feel me up or anything like that, so don't even think about it."
>
>Taken aback, Irving sat down and stared at the 
>kid. He was maybe eight-years-old, had sandy 
>brown hair and reminded him a little of his own grandson Samuel.
>"Would you like to sit on Santa's lap, or is that a little too close for you?"
>
>"I'll just stand here, if that's OK." He said. 
>"I know you're not Santa anyways."
>
>"What kind of attitude is that? Don't you want 
>Santa to bring you lots of gifts under your tree come Christmas?"
>
>The kid looked at Irv with sad brown eyes." 
>There won't be any tree this Christmas."
>
>"What? No tree? Why not?" Irving asked.
>
>"My Mom and Dad got divorced. My Dad is Jewish, 
>and so is his new girlfriend. I'm going to spend 
>Christmas break with him in stupid Denver."
>
>"Well, then, you will be celebrating Hanukah, 
>the Jewish celebration of Lights,"" Irving said to the boy.
>
>"Hanukah is stupid. All my friends are home 
>having Christmas. I know Santa isn't real, but 
>I'm going to miss out on all the fun stuff." The 
>kid looked down and nudged the toe of one boot in the fake snow.
>
>"Santa, Schmanta, that's what I say," Irving 
>told the boy. "Listen, kid. I'm going to let you 
>in on a little secret. " Irving lowered his 
>voice and motioned for the boy to come closer. 
>The kid took a step closer and pulled the cell 
>phone out of his pocket, just to let Santa know he was serious.
>"All of your friends, with their presents and 
>reindeer, are missing the big picture. Santa 
>isn't about Christmas at all.  The Christians 
>stole him and a lot of other stuff from pagan rituals."
>
>"What's a pagan ritual?" the kid asked.
>
>"That's not important. What is important is to 
>know that Christmas isn't about gifts and trees. 
>It's about God, and God's gifts to the world. 
>God gave the Christians Jesus, to try to teach 
>them what is important in life, love and 
>compassion. The Jews, we don't need Jesus, 
>because we had Moses thousands of years before 
>Jesus came along. God gave Moses the gift of the 
>commandments, which he shared with us. God gave 
>us these things because he loves us, all of us. 
>Doesn't matter if you are Jewish, Christian or 
>one of those Hari Krishna's that parade around 
>in their bathrobes at the airport."
>
>The kid contemplated this while Irving continued.
>"Kid, you've got the best of both worlds. You 
>get to experience the rich traditions of your 
>Jewish heritage, and visit Denver where I hear 
>the skiing is fabulous this year."
>This got a smile out of the youngster.
>"Before you go, I'll bet your Mom will load you 
>down with lots of crap you don't need. Just like 
>an early Christmas. In fact, I bet she's out 
>buying you all kinds of fun junk that will turn 
>your brain into mush right now."
>A deeper smile rose on the kid's face, and Santa seemed to catch it.
>
>"Santa," Dwayne the Elf called, a wisp of blue 
>smoke escaping from his mouth. "We need to move along."
>
>The boy took two steps forward and hugged 
>Irving. He stepped back and said, "Bye, Santa."
>
>Irving smiled wide and answered, "Shalom, my friend."
>
>
>
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Brad Dunsé

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