Harold's Holidays (Part 3): Why Does This Always Happen?

Greetings and happy holidays, WYMOP readers!

Harold is back, with part three of his holiday misadventures!

You don’t know what I’m talking about? Hmm. You might want to go back to the beginning by clicking HERE—part three of a four-part series is kind of a strange place to leap into a story. Not to worry, part three will be right here when you get back.

On with the tale!

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Why Does This Always Happen?

(Harold’s Holidays—Part 3)

“Why does this always happen when I try to look out for myself?” said Younger Harold.

“I don’t know.” Older Harold shook his head. “But I’d better start learning from my mistakes.”

“I mean, this was supposed to be so easy,” Younger Harold complained. “All I wanted was to get a little recognition. A little thanks. Poppa was fine with that, although I think he was a little miffed that I brought it up at Thanksgiving dinner.”

Older Harold tapped him on the arm with a warm, calloused finger. “I know. I was there, remember?”

“I got myself moved off the workroom floor and onto the Big Run, right? But it was a tough month, all that training with the sleigh and the reindeer. And then I almost got in a fight with the original Saint Nick. How was I to know he had a grudge against Poppa?”

“Look,” said Older Harold. “All that has nothing to do with our current predicament.”

“Fine,” said Younger Harold. “Just explain what I’m doing wrong now, so I can explain it later, when I’m you, all right?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Older Harold. “But you do need to listen to me now, and listen close. Rupert tried to explain all this to you before you left, but you weren’t paying attention.”

“But that means neither were you!” sputtered Younger Harold.

“Yes,” admitted Older Harold. “But when I figured out what trouble I was in, I called Rupert.”

“You called Rupert?” wailed Younger Harold. “I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

“Yes, I called Rupert. And he explained it to me again. In detail. And very colorful language. So you pay attention now,” he pointed to Younger Harold, “so you’ll remember it now.” He pointed at himself.

“Fine.”

“All right.” Older Harold paused to organize his thoughts. “Right. So, you know the reindeer are magical creatures, and can fly.”

“Duh.”

Older Harold ignored him. “Well, the sleigh itself is a magical construction. As I understand it, it’s a simple spell that affects the quantum existence of the sleigh.”

Younger Harold squinted at Older Harold. “Unless I get a lot smarter in the next ninety minutes, you don’t even understand the meaning of the word quantum.”

“Okay, fine,” said Older Harold. “Forget why the sleigh works. We’ll concentrate on how it works.”

“Fine.” Younger Harold folded his arms across his chest. “You may continue.”

“Thank you. Look, all you have to know is the spell affects the way the sleigh moves. It’s sort of been split in two, in what Rupert referred to as a ‘quantum fashion,’ and then put back together with the two parts facing in the opposite directions. Because of this, when the sleigh moves forward in space it moves backward in time. So all you have to do is match travel time with delivery time. Got it?”

“Clear as mud,” announced Younger Harold.

“Okay, look,” said Older Harold. “When the sleigh is flying through the air, it’s going backward in time. How the blazes do you think Poppa gets to every house in just one night?”

“Okay . . . wait, I think I get that. Sort of.”

“Okay. So, while the sleigh is flying, it’s going backward in time. But while it’s parked on the roof and Poppa’s in there dropping off toys or eating cookies, time is rolling forward as usual. Because the sleigh isn’t moving. Okay?”

“Following you so far.”

“Good. Now, all you have to do, as the driver, is keep track of how long Poppa spends in each house, and make the travel time to the next house in line take about that long.”

“Huh?”

“Look, if you land on a roof at, oh, let’s say midnight, and Poppa takes five minutes to deliver the presents and ten minutes to belt down some milk and cookies, then you’re leaving the house at about 12:15, right?”

“Right. Does he ever share those cookies?”

“Now,” Older Harold went on, doggedly. “If it takes him fifteen minutes per house, he’ll never finish. Ever. Right?”

“Right”

“But, if you take fifteen minutes to drive the sleigh to the next house, then you’ve gone backwards in time for fifteen minutes, and you get to the next house at midnight again.”

“But that means we’re stopping at every house in the world at the same time?”

Younger Harold’s mind was boggling.

“You could,” said Older Harold, “but then you’d be seeing yourself arriving and leaving all the houses around you, and things would get confusing. And according to Rupert that would stress local space-time too much. It can handle being bent, for the small stuff like this”—he indicated the two of them again—“but too much bending and it’ll break. Rupert’s got a route worked out so that some deliveries are close together, some farther apart, and the whole thing takes all night long. He’s even worked time zones into the equation, but don’t ask me how!”

“Well, then how did I wind up falling behind? And how did this happen?” Younger Harold said, pointing at himself and Older Harold.

“You’re driving too fast between deliveries. You’re taking too straight a line, and the delivery times are taking longer than the travel times.” He reached behind himself, pulled out a fairly large book, and began leafing through its pages. “You are, you said, on delivery number 4,917,830, right? The Johnson home at 173 Mulroony Street, Rome, New York?”

“Right,” said Younger Harold.

“Well, according to the schedule”—Older Harold held up the book—“you’re supposed to be here at about 12:03 am local time, give or take five minutes, but you got here at 12:15. I realized I was running about a half hour late somewhere around delivery 5,000,000 and started to hurry, trying to make up time, but that only made things worse. I’m on delivery 6,334,219, and I’m supposed to be at 1:17 am local time, but I didn’t get there until 3:25. I opened a calculator we were delivering—thank God for nerds—and did some math. At the rate we’re going we’ll be done at 4:15 pm December 26. Of next year.”

“But . . . but we have Poppa with us! Didn’t he notice how far behind we were?”

Older Harold made a face. “Sometimes they leave him hard cider rather than milk, and after a few hundred thousand deliveries he gets a little . . . uh . . . lax about the schedule. That’s why he has a driver in the first place.”

“Oh, I see! No wonder he doesn’t share the snacks, the old so-and-so!”

“Exactly. Now, do you think you have a handle on all this?” said Older Harold.

“I think so. But Rupert is never going to let me live this down.”

Older Harold leaned in with a sly expression. “If you start fixing the problem now, at 12:15, then you’ll never get as far behind as I was for 1:17. Then I’ll never have called Rupert in the first place.”

Younger Harold brightened. “Will that work? Will I even remember this if you never had to come back?”

Older Harold shrugged. “How should I know? Do I look like Rupert? All we can do is collect our respective Poppas and give it a try. According to the schedule, we’re supposed to be back in this area at 12:37 am, plus or minus five minutes. I don’t want to take a chance on bumping into myself again and messing this up any further.”

“I’ll be along in a minute,” said Younger Harold. “I just want to have a quick peek in the fridge. He is really bad about sharing the snacks, and I’m getting hungry.”

Older Harold walked out of the kitchen, and Younger Harold opened the refrigerator door, poking about and coming up with a cold chicken leg and a couple of pickles. As he closed the fridge door, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Oh, good, I caught you.”

He turned to see another Harold, but it didn’t look like Older Harold. This Harold was bleary-eyed, and seemed to be weaving while standing still, which is a neat trick unless you’re drunk. Then it just comes naturally.

“Are you the 12:37 me?” said Younger Harold.

“No, no, no,” slurred the other Harold, finishing with a slight hiccup. “I’m the, uh, wha’ time izit? Uh, wait, I know this. 3:45. Yeah, thazzit. I’m the 3:45 Harold, and I’m glad I found you.”

Younger Harold looked at himself in horror. “Holy Christmas, what happened to you?”

“Put that snack away.” 3:35 Harold waved a hand. “Put it away. Poppa started sharin’ the snacks at about 1:45. Ish. 1:45-ish. Especially the cider. Good cider. I had to catch you to tell you. What was I gonna tell you? Wait—Oh! I got it! Start working on him way back at 12:15. Ish. Maybe we can get him sooning sharer. Sharing sooner. Whatever. That is all.”

3:45 Harold spun on one wobbly heel and strode from the room. It only took him three tries to get through the open door.

Younger Harold stared after him, groping for just the curse word to sum up his feelings, then put a hand to his brow, where he felt a headache forming.

“Oh, quantum.”

~ ~ * * ~ ~

Harold seems to be having a bad time of it. And a good time of it. He’s having lots of times of it. I just hope he makes it through the big night intact.

Stop by next week and find out!

Happy holidays! Talk to you later.

Back to Part 2

On to Part 4

Harold's Holidays (Part 2): Old Saint Nick

Greetings and happy holidays, WYMOP readers!

This week brings part two in the short saga of the hapless Harold and his holiday misadventures. Warning: If you've not read part one, then you might want to start there, by clicking HERE. Not to worry. We'll wait.

All caught up? Excellent! On with the story.

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Old Saint Nick

(Harold's Holidays—Part 2)

Cold air blustered in with Harold as he staggered into the tavern.

“Well, Harold! We don’t usually see you in here for a few more days. The twenty-fifth on the nose, year in, year out. What’s going on, don’t they need you at the factory?”

Harold looked up at the barman as he climbed onto the tall stool, hooking his curly-toed shoes in the chair rungs, and resting sore forearms on the smooth oak bar top. The proprietor of The Christmas Spirits slid a foaming mug in front of his customer, then lowered his powerful eyebrows almost to his handlebar moustache as he frowned, watching Harold grope clumsily for the beer, then pick it up with both hands to drink like a child.

“For goodness sake, Harold, what’s going on? You’re in here almost two weeks before Christmas, when I know the factory’s running full swing, and if you show up on the workroom floor with anything stronger than reindeer milk on your breath Poppa Kringle will can you for sure! Your hands are swollen—and I’m sorry to point it out, but you look like badly-used wrapping paper and smell like a barnyard. Is everything all right?”

Harold carefully placed the now-empty mug back in the ring of beer dribbles it had left on the bar, stifled a prodigious belch with the back of one hand, and took a deep, steadying breath. “It’s my own fault, Ben. I went and opened my big mouth and started making demands, and this is what I get.”

“What?” Ben’s caterpillar eyebrows shot up in surprise, pushing his forehead into a serious runkle. “You’re being punished?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Harold sagged against the bar again. “I complained at the Thanksgiving Day feast, and Poppa was all kinds of accommodating. He gave me exactly what I asked for.”

“Well,” said Ben, drawing another mug from the tap. “What did you ask for?”

Harold took the proffered beer with a grateful nod. “I asked to drive the sleigh this year. I thought it would be easier than working in the factory. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

“It’s hard?”

“Rupert’s been training me to handle the reindeer. Those brutes are strong! And stubborn. And when I mentioned that in front of them, Rupert reminded me that they understand English. Now they don’t like me. I’ve spent the week trying to wrestle them into harness so I can practice with the sleigh, and they’re not making it easy! I’m exhausted, and sore, and my hands are killing me from pulling at the halters and harness—and don’t even get me started on the rope burns. I tell you, Ben, I regret ever saying anything to Poppa last month.”

“You regret?”

The voice, rough and slurring, came from the other end of the bar. Ben looked chagrined, which is tough to do through a moustache that covers fully half your face, and Harold looked toward the source of the voice. The man leaning on the bar was tall and thin, black bearded and dark eyed, and his expression was one of liquor-induced belligerence.

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” murmured Ben. Harold was about to ask done what? but the dark man continued in a drunken shout.

“You regret! I regret! ‘Oh, please Kris,’ I said. ‘Oh, please, I can’t get out this year, can you take the gifts to the children for me?’ ‘Why, sure,’ he said, ‘I can help you out this one time.’ ‘One time,’ he said!”

The man threw his head back, downing his drink in one gulp, then slammed the empty glass onto the bar.

“Boilermaker!”

Ben moved off to comply as the man went on. “After that I couldn’t even get back in on my own gig! I mean, seriously! It’s been over a hundred years! Like Christmas could go on without me? What, is everyone insane?”

Rather than one, Ben placed three glasses on the bar in front of his raging patron, then made his way back toward Harold. The first boilermaker disappeared into the great black beard.

“Me! Everyone’s talking about me Christmas morning and they don’t even know it! That son-of-a-gun even stole my name! Sure, he used to be the patron saint of children, but his name is Kris! Kris Kringle! How the hell did they get ‘Old Saint Nick’ from Kris? From me. ‘Saint Niklas. . . Santa Claus’ get it? But does anybody ask about that? No! Instead they put him on the side of Coca Cola cans! He got Coke cans! Coke cans, cookies, guys dressing like him at the mall . . . and what do I get? One pink bunny. That’s it? People are going to be invoking me left and right come Christmas morning, and that’s all I get?”

The second boilermaker followed the first, and the third was clutched in one unsteady hand as the man angrily turned to lean back on the bar, muttering darkly to himself. Harold, swollen hands forgotten, looked at Ben with wide eyes.

“I’ve never seen him in here before,” he whispered. “Who is that?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t see him, normally,” Ben murmured back. “He’s usually in here from December first right through to the twenty-fourth. Non-stop. Then he sleeps it off until mid-to-late January, and you miss him entirely.” He shook his head, his eyes sad. “Does this every year, poor guy. The worst part is, he has a legitimate beef.”

“But, who is he?” said Harold, peeking down the bar.

“That, my friend, is Saint Nicholas Cadmium, patron saint of batteries . . .”

~ ~ * * ~ ~

Well, Harold's not having the best holiday season, is he? Make sure you stop by next week to see just where the poor little bastard goes from here.

Happy holidays! Talk to you later.

On to Part 3

Back to Part 1

Harold's Holidays (Part 1): Thankful

Happy holidays, WYMOP readers!

Thanksgiving morning I woke happy, looking forward to dinner while my head was still on the pillow, and actually wondering what I was going to do for a blog post this week. I was going to start something early, I really was, but when I sat up in bed and pulled the Chromebook onto my lap, I decided to check FaceBook first—and what to my wondering eyes should appear? One of those FaceBook Memories things, showing a link I’d posted to a holiday story way back in 2011.

A holiday story from 2011? I clicked the link and read on. It seems I had a Thanksgiving story I’d forgotten all about, buried in the depths of my somewhat labyrinthine website. No, wait, it was a whole series of stories, I recalled, and as I clicked through the connecting links, I saw I’d remembered correctly.

Five years ago I accidentally wrote my first episodic story. I don’t mean I wrote the stories by accident, like I tripped on a stick and a short tale fell out; but for a little while that year, every time I sat down to write, this character Harold showed up. I kept thinking I was finished with him, but then he’d turn up again. And then again. When it was all said and done I had four stories, running poor Harold from Thanksgiving to Christmas.

This year, in honor of poor little Harold, I’m updating the stories (five years ago my editing was terrible) and sharing them with you, one per week, the same way they were written. I hope you enjoy them, and I hope you all—and Harold—have happy holidays.

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Thankful

(Harold’s Holidays—Part 1)

Poppa stood looking out over the great table. Better than three dozen faces looked back at him, each scrubbed shiny and rosy cheeked for the occasion. Food spread before him in an almost panoramic display; each year Momma tried to outdo the last, and as far as he could tell, she always succeeded. Turkeys—not one or two but six, each huge and golden brown—were spread evenly along the board, hemmed in by great bowls of everything she had been able to think of. Potatoes (baked, mashed, and au-gratin), vied for space with sweet potatoes, squash, and corn. Huge baskets held breads and rolls, there were tureens of gravy scattered about, and more little side dishes than you could shake a stick at.

Poppa had quite a honker, and he made use of it now, taking in a great pull of warm air so thick with good smells it was almost a meal unto itself. He gazed about the bright, festive hall at all of his family. He ran a business, but it was a family business, and if you worked with Poppa you were his family. A slow ripple made its way around the table as, according to their tradition, each member of the family stood to say one thing they were thankful for this year.

“Football!”

“Ice skating!”

“The Malibu Barbie DreamHouse with the attached garage and swimming pool that comes with a—”

The ripple passed around the horn as he liked to say, the small extra table set at the far end of the main table, where all the newer additions to the family sat. It continued on up the side of the great dining room toward Poppa, but hit a snag about halfway. It stuttered, then continued, folks rising, speaking and sitting—all except the reason for the stutter: Harold had thrown thrown the people around him off a bit by refusing to stand and give thanks. There was no time to think on it, however, as beside Poppa, Momma spoke.

“I’m thankful for all the happy faces I see at this table every year!”

She sat down, beaming. Poppa cleared his throat, smiled, and then his rich tones rolled out across the gathering.

“I am thankful for all you here with me today. I am proud to work alongside each and every one of you, and I am extremely thankful for all the good that you all help this organization do every year, and all the good it lets me see in the world.”

They applauded his words, and Poppa smiled widely, but as he sat there was one of those strange coincidences that sometimes catch people unawares. Everyone stopped clapping at almost exactly the same time, and in the sudden silence a voice could be heard.

“—unch of bullfeathers.”

Poppa recognized the voice. “Harold? Is there something on your mind, son?”

Halfway down the table, Harold, who had refused to rise during the speaking of thanks, now shot to his feet. “You bet there is.” He glared at Poppa, and the folks to either side of him looked disconcerted.

Poppa raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

There was silence in the hall. Harold looked nervous, but serious. “Well, it’s just that . . . it’s just that you’re all happy with our good works, but I don’t get to see it the way you do.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but—”

“I don’t feel thanked! This is a pretty big operation, and we do an awful lot. You know that.”

“Of course I know that,” sputtered Poppa. “I work right there beside you!”

“Yes, you do, and I don’t fault you for that, but I never feel thanked by the people we work so hard for. They thank you all the time; we see it in the press you get.”

“But Harold, this is a not-for-profit outfit for kids! It’s not like the children we work for are going to know everyone in the business! I’m the boss, so I’m the front man. They get to know me, but it’s not like a child is going to search out everyone involved!”

Harold fumed. “Well, it’s not fair. You know what we do! You know we’ve already worked hard all year, and our busiest time of that year starts tomorrow! We’ll all work through it, and then you’ll collect all the perks. What about us? What do we have to look forward to?”

“Look, Harold, I’m sorry you feel this way.”

Poppa looked about the table in frustration, seeing the disagreement had halted the festivities. All up and down the table eyes looked studiously away, their owners obviously uncomfortable and wishing they were anywhere but where they were. This was not something Poppa wanted for his Thanksgiving dinner! He looked back to Harold, who still stood, staring at Poppa, arms folded angrily across his chest.

“Harold, I am sorry. Is there anything I can do to show my appreciation for all the hard work you do?”

Harold was the one who looked away now. “Well . . .”

But Poppa saw Harold watching him out of the corner of his eye and knew that Harold did have a specific aim, a particular goal in starting all this. He dialed for his command voice.

“Out with it, Harold.”

“I want to drive the sleigh.”

“What?” said Poppa, caught by surprise.

“You heard me. I want to drive the sleigh.”

Poppa looked down the table at Rupert, who cared for the reindeer and had been his regular driver for years. He raised his eyebrows. Rupert shook his head and shrugged, then shot a glance at Harold’s thunderous expression. He looked back to Poppa and nodded energetically.

“All right, Harold. Thirty nights from now, you can drive the sleigh.”

“Thank you.” Harold sat. His arms were still folded over his chest, but Poppa thought he saw the ghost of a smile touching the elf’s lips.

Honestly, Poppa thought as the sound and energy of the festivities began to crank up once more. I’m thankful it was something that simple. Imagine if he’d wanted to make the deliveries!

And with that, the Kringle family Thanksgiving Day feast continued into the night.

~ ~ * * ~ ~

And so it begins . . .

Come back next week for the second installment of Harold’s Holidays: “Old Saint Nick.”

(If you like serialized stories, check out my other 4-episode tale, A Fortune in Ink, over at The Storyside.)

Talk to you later.

On to Part 2