Tidings of Comfort and Joy

[newsmanfan]

Author's note:

YES, it's a Christmas story. Why am I posting it now, when it isn't even July? Well, because it's hot here, and I've been thinking dreamily of snow; and because I just woke up yesterday with the entire story in my head, and thought it'd be a shame not to go ahead and write it. This won't be another epic, just a short story in a few parts.

I know another member here wrote a short piece about Newsie's night on the Christmas everyone gathered at Bear Farm for a celebration, a' la MFC; however, the problem of HOW Newsie even gets to the farmhouse had me frowning and thinking...and this is what I came up with. Hope you like.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part One

Christmas Eve, 1987.

The Muppet Newsman wrapped the brown-and-tan scarf his Aunt Ethel had knitted for him some years back around his neck, appreciative of its heavy warmth. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, wishing he’d thought to bring gloves; the weather report tonight certainly looked accurate. Snow was coming down by the bucketful, and the fierce wind blew it sideways, piling it up rapidly. Already, in the parking lot, several cars shivered under heavy wet drifts. The Newsman was glad, for once, he didn’t own a car; those people might have to dig their vehicles out days from now. He squinted up and down the empty street, his glasses fogging over so as to be largely useless. Annoyed, he pulled them off, cleaned them with the soft tassels of the scarf, and reset them on his prominent nose. Someone else left the station behind him, wrapped in a parka like an Eskimo, and Newsie wished he had a coat like that. His ears and now his nose were freezing. For the twentieth time tonight, he muttered imprecations against the weatherman who’d called in sick at the last possible minute, forcing Newsie to stay later than usual to deliver the weather report as well as his usual news work. Christmas Eve! Bad enough he’d argued with his mother upon leaving the apartment about going to work at all; now she would be doubly irritable since he was late…and he still had one errand yet to manage, somehow, in this blizzard.

His head still hurt, too. Who knew barometers had such sharp edges? Huddling his head into his broad shoulders as much as he was able, eyes almost shut against the merciless wind which battered him with thick snowflakes at each step, he trudged along the sidewalk toward Seventh Avenue, hoping to reach Macy’s before the store closed. He’d had his eye on a delicate china teapot with peonies embossed, enameled and gilded all over for his mother’s gift for weeks, and now with his Christmas bonus in his pocket he could actually afford to get it. Leave it to their station manager to withhold the bonuses until Christmas Eve…again.

What was normally just a little over a fifteen-minute walk became a horrible struggle of almost half an hour as he fought the wind constantly. Maybe he should’ve taken the subway back at Times Square…but the lowlifes hanging around the station entrance just to keep warm had looked somewhat intimidating. The last thing he wanted was to be mugged with a hundred dollars cash in his pocket, and show up empty-handed… He hoped to pick up a few edible treats as well, for dinner tonight or breakfast tomorrow, besides the elaborate teapot. Mother was so hard to buy for, but she loved peonies, and she loved chamomile tea, so Newsie was fairly sure he’d made a good choice this year…unlike the previous year, when his attempt at impressing her with a diamond brooch which had cost all his bonus plus two weeks’ salary had been the start of a screeching fit. He flushed, recalling some of what Mother had said then about her only son not having the brains to spend wisely. He’d been unable to return it, and wound up selling it for less than half what he’d paid to a pawnshop.

He paused in the partial shelter of a swaying overhang to glance up and around, getting his bearings. He could see the distinctive lights around the top of the Empire State building; almost there… On another night, he might have gazed at the lights as he walked along, especially this time of year when it seemed like every high-rise and landmark lit up the sky with festive décor. He liked light displays, very much; but the whistling sheets of cold whiteness slamming into him all down the avenue prevented his enjoying much of anything. He was definitely taking the subway home. Assuming, of course, the storm didn’t cause havoc with power outages. At that thought, he made a mental note to pick up more candles and other supplies in case the electricity went out for any length of time. For someone who complained about vision problems (and pretty much every other possible health complaint), his mother had a distinct aversion to the dark. Normally, Newsie didn’t care for dark rooms either; he was sure they tended to attract monsters. He’d pick up some tea candles, in case his teddy bear night-light went out. Of course, it was hard to think of scary things on what was supposed to be a peaceful night.

Macy’s was about to close, but he slipped into the door, calling over his shoulder at the doorman’s objections that he’d only be a minute. Hurrying downstairs, he was elated to find the teapot still there. He paid for it and an armful of candles and a gift basket of breakfast things (coffee, waffle mix, syrups, jams, bacon and cheeses, and it even came with a dishtowel embroidered with a peony!) and hastened back to the cold street. Again, his glasses fogged over. Muttering to himself about the endless nuisance of being near-sighted, he took them off once more to polish them, and didn’t see the man hurrying by at the top of the subway steps. The Macy’s bag with the boxed teapot on the bottom went flying as Newsie was bowled over by the rude stranger.

No! Newsie flung himself beneath the bag just as it came down on the icy subway stairs. He caught it, but his relief was shortlived as he then skidded down the entire flight of stairs on his back...headfirst. He was fairly sure his head bumped every last step on the way down. When at last he lay winded on a landing, he barely had time to blink and try to reorient before several people came bustling down the steps, not looking at their feet; Newsie scrambled out of their path, trying to juggle his precious bag while grabbing the stair railing to avoid falling again. He caught his breath only after they’d passed, and checked the contents of the bag. Nothing had fallen out. Relieved, he cautiously walked the rest of the way down into the subway station and queued up with the crowd of last-minute shoppers hoping to catch the B-train uptown. The tight crowd of people discomfited him, especially as he seemed to be the only Muppet present.

Well, that was hardly surprising; he knew almost everyone else had accepted Fozzie’s invitation to go upstate to the Bear family farm. The Newsman had been touched, and not a little surprised, when the bear had handed him the red construction paper invite, spattered with green glitter in a vaguely star-shaped pattern. He would loved to have accepted, but knew Mother would be angry and spend the rest of the year making him feel guilty if he left her home by herself on Christmas. Actually, she’d probably come up with enough guilt trips to keep the fire going right through his birthday in mid-January.

The Newsman didn’t get a seat, forced to cling nervously to a pole in the center of the car, both arms through the handles of his bag of treasures, his eyes constantly searching the car for any sign of muggers the further they went uptown. He checked his watch; he was already late for his usual dinnertime, but the lack of food didn’t bother him too much. He was accustomed to going without, quite often. At least it had allowed him to maintain a decent shape while his station manager seemed to have ballooned, always going out wining and dining with local ad execs. Despite the fact that this train ran along Central Park West, some of the most tony addresses in the city (at least, west of the park), no one riding it looked like they made much more than he himself did. And tonight, it seemed, all his fellow passengers shared a similar wish: to get home to their families. He noticed several of them bore packages or bags, gifts wrapped in colorful papers with trailing ribbons. One man carried a small tricycle. Newsie smiled at that, then felt a pang of wistfulness. It had been a few years since he’d left milk and cookies out for Santa. He used to sneak up to the roof, too, and lay a bunch of carrots or apples out for the reindeer. He hoped some other resident of Mother’s apartment building had taken over that happy task. Newsie hadn’t wanted to stop doing so; every year, the food vanished, so he knew his continued belief in Santa Claus wasn’t misplaced, although some of his colleagues claimed the whole thing was a childish myth. However, about six years ago, his mother had wandered out to the kitchen in the middle of the night for a glass of water and found the plate of molasses cookies, glass of milk, and note for Santa which Newsie always left (just to make sure the jolly old elf knew it really was meant for him specifically). What a horrible Christmas Eve that was…not only had she berated him for clinging to childish things (“always hanging around those darned Muppets, that’s what they’re encouraging, this sort of ridiculous behavior!”), she’d told all her friends from the beauty parlor and her crocheting circle and her sister Ethel what a dupe her son was.

Humiliated afresh at the memory, the Newsman kept his eyes down for the remainder of the ride. He disembarked at 96th street, not even pausing as he usually did to admire the Art Deco buildings fronting onto the vast park, too cold and now depressed as well. The wind hit him afresh as he emerged from the relative shelter of the subway, and once again he had to walk counter to it, heading south two blocks and over another to reach the nondescript apartment bloc where he still roomed with his mother. He spent as little time actually there as he could get away with; having work almost daily at the TV station and at the Muppet Theatre meant he could claim to be busier than he actually was. The guilt he sometimes felt at the mild subterfuge was offset by every argument, every cold shoulder, and every outright screaming fit his mother threw regularly. At the same time, he couldn’t just move out; who would look after her? Newsie hefted his bag, fighting his way along the sidewalk in a wind which seemed even stronger up here along the darker streets, away from the pizzazz of midtown. I really hope she likes the teapot. I am NOT going back out in this!

The apartment was dark, but a lone lamp in the inner hallway guided him the familiar route through the rooms from the front door. “Mother? Uh…Merry Christmas, Mother!” he called out, then paused, worried, when not a sound came in reply. Had she fallen? Was she hurt? He set the bag down and quickly searched the apartment, panicking when he found no sign of the elderly lady. What if she’d gone out in this weather? He’d been buffeted mercilessly by that terrible wind, and she didn’t have even half his strength! She knew he was going to be late coming home…but the past months, he’d noticed worrying signs she might be forgetting things, like where she’d laid her crochet needles, or what days he had off (neither of which had changed in years). Could she have gone out looking for him, or off to find her own dinner because he hadn’t been there to prepare it for her?

Newsie searched once more, and this time noticed Mother’s closet door stood open, and several hangers were bare. What? Where on earth would she have gone? Perhaps she’d headed over to Jersey, to her sister’s, for the holiday? She hadn’t mentioned any such plans to him… Newsie picked up the phone, relieved to hear a dial tone, and was about to call Aunt Ethel when he saw the note tacked with a big smiley-face magnet to the refrigerator door. The spindly, uneven handwriting was definitely Mother’s. Amazed, he held it close to his nose to read it carefully.

“Son: Ethel and Joe won a cruise for four to the Virgin Islands. The boat leaves at eight.” Newsie checked his watch: seven-twenty! Maybe, if he hurried, he could make it…but reading on quickly, he had to stop, adjust his glasses in consternation, and reread to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood. “I invited Harriet to go with me. Should be a blast! Be back on the 3rd of Jan. at the Trendycruiseline docks. Don’t be late picking me up! I’ve no wish to stand around in the cold for hours while you’re off gallivanting around with those seedy friends of yours! Love, Mother.”

Newsie stood there, stunned, the information sinking in. She’d…she’d been invited along on a cruise by his Aunt Ethel and Uncle Joe, and hadn’t told him, and had…had invited her gossipy friend Harriet along instead of him as the fourth guest? Feeling a bit hurt, he realized there was a postscript at the very bottom of the note. He looked at it. “P.S. Merry Christmas. Your gift is on your bed.”

Slowly, still holding the note, the Newsman walked into his bedroom and stared at the plain white box on his neatly-made bed. He sat down, picked it up, and gently opened it. Another tie. Another brown tie with diagonal tan-and-brown stripes, just like the one he usually wore. Rayon, even. Newsie set it aside, feeling the emptiness of the whole place sinking down around him like the snow outside.

“Merry Christmas, Mother,” he said quietly, and sat there a long time, looking at nothing at all.



Christmas Day, 1957.

The eleven-year-old (almost twelve, in a few weeks) pushed his chunky hornrims farther up his nose, blinking awake slowly. There it was! On the end of his bed, there was the stocking he’d hung up on the shelf over the radiator in the living room (the closest he could find to an actual mantel, as they didn’t have a fireplace) after Mother had gone to bed. She’d griped at him they couldn’t afford extra treats, and he should be grateful for the one present he’d be getting, but Aloysius knew better: Santa was responsible for filling stockings! Why, the poem even said so! And here was undeniable proof: his red-and-green knit stocking, full almost to bursting with goodies! Excitedly, he emptied it all out on his quilt, poring over the root beer barrels, the peppermints, the flavored taffies; he almost exclaimed aloud at the Hershey bar, then shushed himself, not wanting to wake Mother. A whole chocolate bar, all to himself! Well…maybe he’d share some of it with Herbert, his only friend. Herbert kept a pigeon coop on the roof of the apartment building, and sometimes would let Aloysius feed the pigeons with him, although at school, the other boy pretended not to recognize Aloysius. He knew Herbert only did that so he wouldn’t get pounded by Mean Franklin, the terror of the fifth grade. No one knew Mean Franklin’s first name, but everyone knew he was old enough to be in eighth grade and kept getting held back; Aloysius was just grateful he was in sixth this year, on schedule and with good grades, and so only had to endure Mean Franklin’s tender attentions on the playground.

Hmm, that was a good point. He shouldn’t take any of this wonderful hoard to school. Mean Franklin could smell candy like a bloodhound after a fugitive. Aloysius looked through the rest of the goodies, pleased to find a small plastic telescope. He tried it out, looking through his window at the roofs of the buildings across the street. This would come in handy when he was looking for news! Oh! And there, almost hidden by the taffies at the bottom of the small pile, there was the one thing he’d asked Santa for: the Official ‘Daily Planet’ Press Badge, just like Jimmy Olsen had! Thrilled, he immediately clipped the brass-and-tin toy badge, with its big letters spelling out PRESS, to his pajama shirt. Someday, he thought, I’ll wear a real suit, just like the grown-up reporters do, and I’ll clip my very own real press badge to my breast pocket! Proud of this giant step toward actual journalism, he quickly swept the treats into his nightstand drawer, remembered to hide the badge as well, and went into the living room to see what Mother had wrapped for him under the tree.

Mother’s gift proved to be a new jacket, brown plaid like his last one which was now looking a little scraped at the hems. He’d grown a whole inch this year, so a new jacket wasn’t a bad thing. Besides, he could clip his PRESS badge to it…at least, while he was outside playing. He doubted Mother would think the badge was as nifty-keen as he did. He put the jacket on, thanked her, then handed her the gift he’d laboriously wrapped into a perfect paragon of tight corners and sharp ribbon edges. “This is for you, Mother,” he said tentatively, “Merry Christmas.”

His mother sniffed at it. “I hope it’s not another ashtray! I still don’t understand why you gave me such a thing when you know I can’t abide cigarettes!”

Embarrassed, Aloysius clasped his hands together, head down. “Um, no, Mother.” He knew it would be pointless to remind her the object he’d made in shop class last year had actually been a spoon rest. He’d worked very hard to get the glazing on it the exact shade of brown that she liked, only to have her insist it was a filthy ashtray and chuck it into the garbage. This time, he’d planned ahead, saving his allowance for months to get her something professionally made. Something nice.

She unwrapped the gift, opened the box, and held up the pretty stained-glass butterfly. She stared at it silently a long minute while Aloysius fidgeted, unable to read her expression. “Um…do you like it?” he asked finally.

She looked hard at him. “What is it for?”

“It’s…it’s called a suncatcher. It’s glass…”

“I can see that. What does it do?” Mother demanded.

At a loss, the boy shifted uncomfortably. “Uh…um…it…it turns the light colors. You hang it in a window, and it looks pretty.” When she kept staring at him, he pointed to the living room window, the only one which actually let in any decent amount of sunlight. “I…I thought maybe you could hang it up there.”

“And then what, let it collect dust? Who’s going to hang it? You? You know I can’t go up ladders, I have the gout in my right knee!”

“I’ll hang it,” he tried desperately. “Don’t…don’t you like the colors?”

“How much did you spend on this?”

“Uh…”

“Don’t you ‘uhh’ me, young man. How much?”

“T-two dollars...”

“Two whole dollars?” Mother shrieked. Aloysius cringed.

“It was my allowance! I didn’t use any of the grocery money!”

“You wasted two whole dollars on…on a silly piece of glass that doesn’t do anything useful?” she yelled, still holding the butterfly up. Aloysius wanted to take it from her, to protect it, but didn’t dare move. She seemed to have forgotten she was holding it, preoccupied with haranguing him. “Do you know what two dollars could have bought us? That could be bread and milk and oatmeal for a week! That could be a new pair of gloves for me!”

“M-mother, please…”

“All these years, trying to hammer into you what it means to be grown-up and practical, and you turn around and spend good money on a ridiculous trinket?” she yelled, realized she still held the glass bauble, and threw it aside in contempt. Aloysius dove, catching it before it hit the linoleum kitchen floor. “Did I just see you sliding on the FLOOR in your NEW jacket?” she shrieked, her voice rising in pitch.

Oh, no…

Locked in his bedroom without breakfast, the boy clung to the glass butterfly, tears running down his face, sniffling. He wrapped the suncatcher in his Christmas stocking and hid it in a shoebox in the back of his closet. At least she hadn’t smashed it. Returning to his bed, he opened the nightstand drawer and took out one of the taffies – a vanilla – and unwrapped it silently. Sucking on it, he cleaned off his glasses and wiped off his cheeks, and reflected that he’d just received further proof that Herbert and the rest of his classmates were completely wrong when they said Santa didn’t really exist. He had received the one thing he’d asked for, and some treats besides…

And he knew for a fact his mother wasn’t responsible for them.



Christmas Eve, 1987.

The facts were as such (Newsie ticked them off on his fingers as he paced the living room):

One. Mother knew perfectly well he had to work this evening, but that he’d be home only a little late, and bringing Christmas things.

Two. She had to have received the cruise invitation ahead of time; he doubted this was a last-minute arrangement, especially if the perennially-procrastinating Harriet was involved.

Three. She had purposely not asked him to come along.

Four. It was Christmas Eve, and he was all alone.

Five…wait. Where was that invitation?

Newsie sprang to his feet, hurrying into his room. He’d saved Fozzie’s invite even though he thought he couldn’t attend, just because it was so remarkable to have been invited to something. Besides, it was obvious Fozzie had made the invite himself, and, well…Newsie couldn’t bring himself to toss out anything like that. Not when he’d seen more than a few of his own craft-table efforts get pitched into the garbage. He remembered being astounded at the one slumber party he’d gone to as a boy (only because the kid throwing the party had the sort of parents who insisted he invite all the other boys in his class) when he saw upon the family’s ‘fridge numerous fingerpainted doggies and houses on sturdy construction paper. He’d never known anyone kept their child’s artwork. Pulling out the small red paper, some glitter dusted his sleeve. He almost brushed it away, then decided what the heck, it’s Christmas.

“Christmas Family Get-together at my Ma’s Farm!” the invitation read, in large letters scrawled with a magic marker. “All Muppets invited! Just come out to the Farm! You don’t have to bring anything but your Pajamas and slippers, but it’s Okay if you want to bring food or anything else too. Follow this Map to get to Bear Farm!”

The map was a crudely drawn sketch. Newsie squinted at it, removed his glasses to hold it right next to his eyes, and replaced them, peering again, but it made little sense either way. Best he could tell, the farm was somewhere up the Hudson valley, possibly around the Saratoga Battlefield or Stillwater. He knew there were a number of lovely farming communities up that way, having traversed it once in order to report on the bicentennial of the battles of Saratoga ten years previously. No doubt, everyone else had already headed up; possibly they were already there. Newsie frowned, considering it. How would he even get there, in this storm? He didn’t have enough money for a taxi, at that great a distance (and he wasn’t entirely sure exactly what the distance was), didn’t own a car, couldn’t drive even if someone loaned him their car…a train? Would Spamtrak even be running in that rough a storm? What about a bus?

Newsie sat and thought about it a long while, studying the innocent red paper with its green glitter. He looked from it to his mother’s note. With a deep scowl, he crushed the note, threw it into his wastebasket, and yanked open his nightstand drawer.

Beneath a spare pair of glasses in their soft case, beneath a pile of clean white handkerchiefs, he found the faded red-and-green stocking. Unwrapping it carefully, he held up the glass butterfly. Perhaps, after all these years, he could find it a good home with someone who’d actually appreciate it. Maybe Fozzie’s mother would like it? Nodding firmly, swallowing back a twinge of guilt, he rewrapped the bauble and placed it inside a small box. Then he dug out the overnight satchel which he’d bought in college, in anticipation of overseas assignments for major network news which had never materialized. He’d never used the tough, all-weather bag, but this seemed like a good excuse to break it in. Rapidly he packed a change of clothes, his favorite flannel PJs and bunny slippers, his spare glasses (one never knew) and the small box, then hunted for his winter gloves. He spotted them finally at the bottom of a dresser drawer. Pulling them out, something clinked oddly inside the drawer.

Newsie reached beneath other old mittens and socks until something poked his fingers; he jerked them out, sucking on the injury a moment before curiosity again made him reach into the drawer. He pulled a tarnished brass-and-tin badge from its long-forgotten hiding place, staring at it in wonder.

He wasn’t the type to believe in signs and portents. Not him, the eminently rational Newsman! But…then again…

He polished it a little with the end of his scarf, and then clipped it to his breast-pocket. The tall letters spelling out PRESS looked very smart against his plaid sports jacket, he thought.

Smiling, he pulled on the gloves, bundled up his coat and scarf once more, gripped the handle to the satchel firmly in his left hand, and tucked Fozzie’s invitation into his right coat pocket. He didn’t need a cruise. He was going to go find the Muppets, and spend this Christmas, for once, with friendly faces.

 

[Katzi428]

Excellent story! Sad that the Newsman's mother is like that though;going off at the last minute with her daughter and not inviting newsie. Also not accepting the suncatcher when Newsie was a kid. But I'm glad that Newsie went to Fozzie's for Christmas.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part Two

Christmas Eve, 1967.

“Hey, kid, where’s that file from the morgue I asked for?” the reporter shouted at the bewildered young man with short reddish hair and large hornrimmed spectacles.

“The morgue? The file?”

“Yeah, Jimmy Olsen. C’mon! The file! Everything we got on Grosse Oil Imports! I told you to go fetch it for me an hour ago!”

Baffled, the young man looked around. The main floor at the Daily News building seemed cavernous with almost everyone gone. With the sun already set, he’d been about to leave work for the day when this reporter yelled at him; he honestly had no idea what the man was referring to. “Uh, Mr Greenlea, sir, that wasn’t me…” he tried to respectfully correct the national-affairs lead.

“Sure it was! Short kid with glasses! How many a’you we got around here?” Harry Greenlea snapped, puffing on a cigarette which looked about to capsize under its long end of ash. Aloysius grabbed a dirty ashtray, lifting it underneath the cigarette just as the gray snake disintegrated. “Thanks,” Greenlea muttered, peering more closely at the young man. “Say, you’re not the same kid! Well, I’ll be darned. We do have two cub reporters, huh?”

“I’m only a printer’s devil, sir,” Aloysius murmured, abashed. The title was largely honorary, a holdover from the origins of newspapers when all the type was hand-set. Now large machines did most of that. His job was largely as a gofer, a runner, carrying files up from the paper’s basement “morgue” of records to the floors of actual journalistic staff, or bringing news copy from reporters to editors for approval, or from editors to the print office to be put to press immediately. As a fresh college graduate, he’d been lucky to get even that much of a foot in the door at such a prestigious newspaper.

Greenlea scowled at him. “Well, I’m supposed to be working up an exposé on the motherflippin’ Grosse company! Christmas Eve, ya believe that? But old Bill, he wants this thing like yesterday, so here I am, still.” He lit a fresh smoke from the cherry of the old one before grinding the butt into the ashtray. Aloysius tried not to cough. “Tell ya what, kid. You go to the morgue and find out where the flamin’ heck my file is! Okay? Great. Scoot!” He turned away, distracted by the laughter of one of the other reporters and a secretary at the far end of the room. “Yeah, yeah, party’s already startin’, and I’m stuck with this bull…” Greenlea muttered.

Uncertainly, but feeling dismissed, Aloysius headed for the back stairs which led down to the dank, dimly-lit basement, hoping he’d find whichever other person had been assigned this task originally, so he could go home. Mother would be waiting, he knew all too well. She’d done nothing but gripe every day, it seemed, since he’d graduated last spring, complaining he wasn’t home often enough, he didn’t make enough money, what sort of a career was journalism anyway, why hadn’t he gone into accounting like his Uncle Joe… Aloysius sighed, plunking his feet methodically down the sometimes-treacherous stairwell. Well, he’d show her soon enough. He’d impress one of the reporters, or maybe even an editor, with his efficiency, his knowledge, his eagerness…wait. Maybe this could be his big break! He paused, considering that. Yes! He’d take charge of this Grosse Oil Company research! He’d ferret through every old file in that awful basement and find the…the darning evidence Mr Greenlea was looking for, to drag that evil company screaming out into the stark light of truth! He’d…he’d…

He pulled up at the door to the morgue. It was closed, with a sign taped to it reading: CLOSED FOR XMAS.

What? No! Dismayed, Aloysius tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked. Now what? Should he simply go back up and tell Mr Greenlea there was no way he could get the file because the morgue was closed, locked, abandoned? Then Mr Greenlea would have to make some excuse to his editor, who would no doubt yell at the reporter, who would undoubtedly take it out on the kid who had failed his mission… Aloysius leaned against the stairwell wall, seeing all his reporter dreams dry up and whisk away.

What would Jimmy Olsen do? No…what would Edward R Murrow do?

Well, they’d find a way in, of course.

Aloysius thought hard. He’d memorized the layout of the building within his first week on the job, a necessary skill when one had to run all over the place taking copy from one floor to another. This building dated from 1930, he knew, and still had not only the grand main elevator but a freight one as well, used for carrying pallets of newspapers ready for distribution…and that elevator went to the basement.

He raced back up the stairs, heading for the lobby. The gorgeous globe and all the weather instruments displayed on the walls begged to be studied, but he didn’t have time right now. He swung around a little-seen hallway, deserted completely on this holiday eve, and called the freight elevator up. Wheezing, creaking, it arrived, and he stepped inside, opening and closing the shaky vertical and horizontal gates as little as possible. Slowly, groaning, it trundled back to the basement. As he’d feared, the gates at the bottom were locked…but just beyond them, in darkness, lay all the stacks, the vast graveyard of old stories and moldering cabinets of every issue the paper had published this century. Somewhere in there was the information Greenlea needed, and he, Aloysius, the youngest Newsman in the building, would find it! Determined, he opened the inside gate of the elevator, then studied the locked gate to the basement. This one was also horizontal, opening the opposite direction from the one which folded inside the elevator car. However, there was a tiny bit of space right at the top…

The young Newsman set aside his jacket, although the basement was chilly, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and began to climb the diagonal fence of metal slats. At the top, grunting, puffing, he squeezed himself slowly between the gate edges and the concrete ceiling. His shoulders became stuck, and it took a minute of wriggling back and forth for him to work them free – and then he fell.

“Whoof!” he grunted, laying on the floor. At least he was inside the morgue. But it was awfully dark in here. How was he going to find anything? He tiptoed along the first long row of shelves, one hand ghosting on the edge of a shelf his height, seeking the door, where a lightswitch ought to be. Old childhood fears of monsters snuck into his thoughts; he beat them back angrily. There’s no such thing as monsters! Stop it!

Had something just rustled, back there in the stacks?

Moving faster, he found the door, then the lights. A sparse handful of hanging bulbs came on here and there. Wow…this room was a lot bigger than he’d thought… Shaking off his fears, the Newsman went right to the news catalog, an enormous collection of little drawers full of index cards. Supposedly, the custodian down here went through every single issue of the paper, cutting out and filing every single story, and putting a card with the specifics of the story into its proper place alphabetically in the catalog. It sounded like tedious work, and he was glad someone other than he was doing it. He rifled through the “gr” cards until he found the listings for Grosse Oil. Happily, he tugged his notepad and a stub of a pencil from his back pocket and copied down the issues cited. Now to get the actual clippings…

Five minutes later, he had three of the six articles cited in the catalog tucked into a manila folder, when he heard a shuffling noise a few rows over. “Hello?” he called out. No one answered. Maybe he’d imagined it. Uneasily, he checked his list. The next article should be one row over, in the issues from 1964…where, he realized, peering into the darkness, he was going to have a hard time determining if he even had the shelf with the right month’s clippings, it was so shadowy. Taking a deep breath, the Newsman stepped out of the light…another step, and another… He reached what he thought might be the right shelf, and picked a folder at random from the endless books of them, carrying it back to the nearest light to read the title. April 1964. Well, close; he’d wanted May. Trotting back to the dark shelf and replacing the folder carefully, he pulled out another, holding it up and peering hard at it. He could just make out the title; it was the exact story he wanted! Pleased, he wasn’t at all prepared for the cold touch of something on his arm.

Startled, Newsie jerked back. Two large eyes glowed at him. “Uh – sorry! You…you scared me,” he confessed, wondering whether the custodian had grown so accustomed to the darkness his eyes were compensating in odd ways. “Um. You…you are the custodian…aren’t you?”

The eyes blinked. A low, guttural growl came from a throat right in front of him. Then the eyes rose, and Newsie realized the thing was standing up…and up…and up…

It glared down at him. Backing away, heading for the light, the young Newsman stared up at it in complete horror. It followed, and right before all the lights went out, Newsie caught a glimpse of the thing’s form. It seemed to be made of ragged globs of stuck-together newsprint.

Then darkness engulfed the morgue, and Newsie screamed, and the thing banged against a shelf, sending books of old newspapers crashing down atop him. Fighting free, clutching the folders, Newsie fled.

He ran blindly, thinking but it’s Christmas! There can’t be monsters at Christmas! Whatever the thing was pursuing him, it clearly hadn’t heard that rule. It snuffed the air, hunting him by scent, and he realized in anguish he was wearing the same cologne as the general editor of the paper, a move one of the printers had advised him might dispose the notoriously acrid editor to favor the young man. Oh no, oh no, if I get out of this I am NEVER wearing cologne again! He suddenly emerged from the shelves, crashing head-on into the elevator gate. Staggering back a step, he threw his folders in first, then wedged himself sideways between the metal gate slats, not caring how badly it hurt. His glasses knocked against the gate, flying off. At the moment he didn’t care. Maybe it would be better not to see the thing about to eat him! Crying out, he forced his body through the small opening, landing painfully on the wooden floor of the old elevator. Roaring, the newsmonster crashed into the gate, sending loud reverberations through the entire basement. Newsie jabbed the UP button, not bothering with the inner gate; fortunately the elevator was too old for safety standards, and began wheezing upward. Newsie scrambled away from the opening as the monster, frustrated, tried to stick its paws through the gate, giving up finally when the car pulled up on it. Shivering, Newsie stared at it, baleful eyes watching his escape just out of the faint illumination of the elevator light, grateful it wasn’t stronger than the creaky old cables hauling him to safety.

He’d only managed to get half the articles on the Grosse Company, but perhaps Greenlea would understand, given the circumstances. Shaking, he pulled his jacket back on, unable to find his glasses. They must be still in the basement. He scraped together the scattered clippings into the manila folder, tried to straighten his tie, and hoped he looked braver than he felt. He couldn’t stop shivering. He rode the elevator up to the newsroom floor and squinted around upon exiting, looking for Mr Greenlea.

The Newsman counted his way down the rows of identical desks, thinking he’d found the correct one when he stopped, but no one was there. He leaned over the surface of the desk, searching with his fingertips as much as his poor eyes until he found the small, upright sign all the reporters had on their desks. Sure enough, this one said “Greenlea”, but the man himself was nowhere to be found.

Confused, Newsie stood there, unsure what to do. He heard a squeaking noise, and whirled around, but it was only a gray-haired, bent-over man in a dull-colored coverall pushing a mop bucket. “Whadda you still hangin’ around for, kid? Go home!” the man groaned at him.

“Er…have you seen Mr Greenlea?” Newsie asked, indicating the abandoned desk.

“Who?”

“The reporter who works here, at this desk!”

“Oh, oh yeah. Yeah, he left a while ago with that blonde chickie from the classified department. Went out to that party, I guess,” the janitor said, shrugging.

Puzzled, Newsie looked from the desk to the balding man now slowly pushing his mop bucket along the aisle toward the back hall. “But…but…he told me to go get these files for him! He said he had to work on a story tonight!”

“Beats me, kid. All I know is everyone went to the staff party out at O’Riley’s, and I’m stuck here moppin’ the danged floors! Some Christmas, I tell ya!”

“Staff party…?” No one had told Aloysius about a party. No one had asked him along. Wasn’t he staff too? Admittedly younger than the rest of them, and only on the job a few months, but… Dispirited, he stood there, gazing at the desk. With a silent sigh, he put the hard-won clippings upon the desk for Mr Greenlea, and slowly looked around the blurry, dimly lit, and now completely deserted newsroom.

Quietly, walking slowly, unable to see well, Aloysius left the building and headed through a bitterly cold night for home. His mother, he reflected, was going to kill him.

He jumped at every odd sound behind him on the walk home.



Christmas Eve, 1987.

The Greenhound bus station had carols playing scratchily over the PA system in between reminders for all passengers that the last bus to Lake George and the Adirondacks would leave exactly at eight-oh-five. Buses heading farther northeast, and off to the midwest via Chicago, had already departed, and the station was largely empty. The Newsman sat by himself on a cold tall bench, his feet dangling uncomfortably above the floor. He wished more things in this world could be Muppet-friendly. Hmm, maybe there’s a story in that. ‘Muppaphobia: the Hidden Discrimination’? He turned the concept over in his mind a while, waiting for the all-aboard call. The ticket had cost most of his remaining cash, but if Mother could treat herself to a holiday vacation, he didn’t see why he couldn’t take a short jaunt upstate for once. He cupped both hands around a styrofoam cup of bitter black coffee, the sum of all the amenities offered here at the close of business before the holiday. He sipped it only a couple of times, more out of anxious habit than appreciation. At least it kept his hands warm in the chilly terminal.

He checked Fozzie’s rough map again, comparing it to an area map he’d purchased for the Hudson Valley stretch above the city. The only town marked on Fozzie’s map north of Manhattan was someplace called Bear Corners, which didn’t show on the commercial map, but if Fozzie’s mileage estimate was close to correct, the Newsman should get off the bus a little north of Albany. Hopefully, someone there would know where Bear Corners was. It looked to be a journey of about two and a half hours, provided the bus didn’t break down; his keen reporter’s ears had picked up a low conversation between two of the drivers earlier, concerned about the snow and possible ice on the roads upstate. Newsie checked his watch again, worried about such a late arrival; he hoped this wasn’t a bad decision. Well, at least it was the weekend, and he wasn’t scheduled back at the station until Monday afternoon – and he’d be blissfully unavailable if someone else called in sick! Now that thought made him smile. Let someone else fill in for once!

At last, the driver called for everyone northbound to pile into the small bus, which steamed and rumbled like an aging dragon which would rather be out to pasture than hauling passengers through the blowing snow. Newsie gave it a wary look as he boarded, but it seemed normal enough. He’d had enough experience with monsters to know you couldn’t trust anything on sight. At least there were a few empty seats, so he didn’t have to sit next to anyone; he placed his satchel next to him on a worn-down, barely-padded bench, gazing out the window. His stomach growled quietly, and he wished he’d thought to find something to eat on his way to the terminal. He hadn’t wanted to risk missing the bus. Well, perhaps they would stop on the way up, and he could find a sandwich or something; he wasn’t going to presume there would be any food left when he reached Bear Farm. Especially as he knew the appetites of some of his colleagues; he hoped the monsters were all too busy too attend…

Fifteen minutes later, as the bus trundled slowly up I-85, the night outside resembling the backdrop for “Pigs in Space” with snow hurtling past like stars, the Newsman shivered within his wrapping of coat and scarf. The bus didn’t seem to be heated. The driver, a rotund man with an unlit cigar sticking out of his mouth, stared straight out past the straggling sweep of the half-broken windshield wipers. “Uh…excuse me?” Newsie called up to him. The driver didn’t so much as glance in the mirror. Newsie tried again, louder: “Excuse me…do you think you could turn the heat on? It’s rather chilly in here!”

The driver shifted the cigar to one corner of his mouth long enough to call back flatly, “Heat’s busted.”

“I see,” Newsie muttered. The few other passengers looked even more bundled up; did they ride this route all the time, and dress accordingly? He did a double-take upon seeing a large polar bear in a mountaineering jacket and long wool scarf a couple of seats back. “Uh…pardon me…are you going to Bear Corners, by any chance?” he asked.

The bear glanced at him, raising scornful shaggy brows. “That hick burg? I should say not! I’m expected in Albany, at the Governor’s mansion.”

“The Governor’s mansion?” Newsie stared at the bear, befuddled.

The polar bear held his black nose up haughtily. “Quite. I’m performing a Christmas pantomime for the children tomorrow morning. Snow White, you know.”

“Uh,” Newsie said. He couldn’t recall a polar bear mentioned anywhere in the story of Snow White. Then again, he really didn’t understand revisionist theatre… “Right. Of course. Well, Merry Christmas to you, sir.”

The bear merely nodded, not returning the sentiment. After a minute, Newsie realized the bear knew where Bear Corners actually was! Turning back to face the winter-attired creature, he spoke up once more, humbly, “Pardon me again, sir: can you tell me where exactly Bear Corners is?”

The shaggy brows rose again, in clear disdain. “You’re not a bear.”

“Uh. Well, no. But I was invited to attend a party there by one.”

“Really.” The polar bear gazed at Newsie as though the journalist might possibly be a salmon he’d let slip by, and Newsie trembled. If the bear tried to eat him, would the driver even stop the bus? “Well, it’s about fifteen miles north of Albany, up a hill. Lots of pine trees. Can’t miss it; just follow your nose.” With that, the bear turned away, pointedly gazing out his window.

“Thank you,” Newsie said, but the bear gave no sign he heard. Newsie sank back into his own seat, rewrapping his scarf to partly cover his ears and keep his cheeks warm down to his wide jaw. That doesn’t sound too bad…but does he expect me to sniff out other bears? Or the pine needles, maybe? He doubted he’d be able to smell much at all, with the biting cold freezing anything not protected in layers of clothing. At least the temperature was equalized within and without the bus, so his glasses weren’t fogging.

When they left the lights of the city behind, heading into darker roadways, the snow picked up. Newsie watched out the window, worried. He couldn’t tell if the road was slippery, or if the bus was simply so decrepit it shuddered from side to side like that normally. Suddenly he became aware of singing. Frowning, puzzled, he looked around. A woman in the rearmost seat of the bus was singing, and after a second he recognized the tune: “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the Yuletide gay…”

“From now on, our troubles will be far away,” Newsie murmured, slowly giving in to the appeal of the song. “Here we are, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore…” His voice rose in volume, the appeal of singing with a total stranger taking hold of him, a smile slowly stealing across his features as he continued: “Faithful friends, who are dear to us, gather near to us, once…more…” Everyone was glaring at him. Even the driver. He looked again at the woman in the back, confused; she glared too, readjusted the headphones of her Walkman, and fell silent.

Embarrassed, the Newsman cleared his throat, sank down into his coat, and held his satchel more tightly. He never could tell when something was supposed to be a sing-along…

Several miles farther on, he realized having the coffee at the bus terminal had been unwise. “Uh…excuse me, when’s the next stop?” he asked the driver.

The driver glanced once around the scattered passengers, each quietly keeping to themselves. “No one’s getting’ off ‘til Juhlsville, so we’ll stop a minute there.”

Newsie consulted his map. No Juhlsville was listed anywhere along the route. “How far is that?”

“Another hour.”

Great.

He tried to hold his limbs tightly against his body, watching the flurries shoot by outside. Mind over matter, right? I am NOT cold, I am NOT hungry, and I do NOT need a restroom… Sighing deeply, Newsie closed his eyes, unsure about the wisdom of this entire venture now. This was doing nothing to contradict his opinion of impulsive actions as terribly bad ideas. Well, would you rather be sitting at home, cheerless, knowing everyone but you was having a great holiday? He considered that. No…this had been the best decision he could’ve made, given the circumstances. He only wished he’d accepted Fozzie’s invitation much earlier and caught a ride with someone else heading north to peaceful farm country. He wished Mother had bothered to tell him of her plans ahead of time, so he could’ve gladly left for Bear Corners hours ago! Maybe he’d even have missed the storm!

That would’ve been far better. Looking out the window again, it seemed to him the snow had thickened, and the bus wheezed slowly along, moving at barely a jogging pace. Newsie’s head fell back against his seat. This was going to take all night.

And he did really need to get to a rest stop soon.

Juhlsville proved to be a gas station, a 24-hour greasy spoon which had obviously once been a Doc Hopper’s (they’d just painted over the frog legs sign, and now the place advertised itself as ‘The Crunchy Wishbone’, although the giant frog legs painted white really looked nothing akin to a wishbone), and a lone stoplight. Newsie hurried off the bus, hearing the driver call out “Five minutes!”

It took him three tries before the surly waitress at the Wishbone even noticed him below the high counter, and he practically had to yell at her to gain the key to the restroom. The tiny, unclean room made him think twice, but he decided unhappily that it beat standing behind the gas station in the cold and wind, which seemed to be the only other option. They were still miles from Albany. The sink gurgled fitfully, the water half-frozen, when he tried to wash up. Shaking badly, fumbling fingers trying to pull his gloves back on, Newsie emerged from the cold restroom to hear a growling, jerking sound. Looking out the dirty front window of the fast-food place, he saw the bus pulling out. “No, wait!” he shouted, dashing out the door.

“Hey! I need that key back!” the waitress yelled behind him.

“Wait! Hey! Wait!” he shouted as loud as he could, waving his right arm, clutching his satchel in his left, a glove flying off and swooping away in the wind immediately. He saw a giant white shape moving inside the bus, and then two sharp eyes peered out at him from a window. The polar bear smirked at him, then turned around and looked unconcernedly ahead. The bus sped up, bouncing back onto the highway which led to the interstate. Desperately Newsie chased it a few paces, but quickly the wind pushed him back, whipping his scarf around, its intensity making him wince. Forced to abandon the chase, he walked back to the Wishbone, almost unable to make it the last few steps. When he grabbed the doorhandle, it tried to stick to his bare fingers. “Ow! Stop!” he protested, pulling the door open and wrenching himself loose painfully.

The waitress blocked his path, glaring down. “Hey, buddy! You tryin’ ta run off with our key? Other people gotta use that, ya know!”

“The...the bus left,” Newsie panted, handing her back the key. “They left without me! I was supposed to ride up to Bear Corners!”

“Well, tough luck, pal. No more buses tonight. Doncha know it’s Christmas Eve?” Shaking her head, the waitress sulked her way back to the counter, slapping a wet rag down and rubbing it angrily over the faded tiling.

“Yes,” Newsie said, trying to get his breath back. If he’d had teeth, they’d be chattering. “That’s…that’s the point! I’m trying to get to my friend’s family farm up there for a Christmas gathering! Do you know any other way to get out of here?”

She barked a harsh laugh. “Man, if I knew that, ya think I’d still be slingin’ greaseburgers at this joint?” She shook her head. “Look, we’re closin’ soon, so figure it out. Ya can’t stay here.”

Dismayed, he stood shivering, watching her half-heartedly clean the register with the sopping rag. The door opened again, cold swirling through the room, and the waitress cursed. “Dangit, Bobby Lee, quit trackin’ that snow in here!” The Newsman looked up at a mild-faced, middle-aged man with black hair, bright eyes, and fat cheeks in greasy dungarees and a flannel shirt showing under a puffy vest.

“Hi, Sharee. Just dropped in for an order of fried radishes before I head on up,” the man said, then noticed Newsie. “Well hey there! Don’t see too many strangers ‘round here! What’s your business in Juhlsville, mister?”

Grateful to be noticed, the Newsman wondered what sort of person would actually order food from this establishment. The waitress was grudgingly doing something at the deep-fryer. “Uh, hello, sir. I’m only passing through…I hope.”

The man laughed heartily. “Oh, no need to ‘sir’ me! I’m just a plain ol’ transportation facilitator!” He stuck out his hand. “Bobby Lee Retsnom, at your service.”

Newsie shook hands. The man’s palms were coarse-skinned, but his manner so friendly, especially in contrast to almost everyone else he’d encountered tonight, that the Newsman wasn’t about to get stuffy over any perceived class differences. “I’m the Newsman. What, uh, what sort of transportation?”

“He means truck driver,” the waitress snorted, shoving a paper fry carton of odd little pink things at the large man. Newsie caught a whiff of the food, and sniffed deeply, unable to keep his mouth from watering; whatever it was, it did smell good. Granted, he thought, mushrooms would smell good to him at this point, and he was allergic to them.

“Hey, you look like a guy who could use some hot grub,” Bobby Lee said, and gestured at the waitress. “Sharee, another for this hungry fella!” When Newsie began to protest, and then fumbled for his wallet, the trucker waved him off. “Naw, don’t worry ‘bout it. Passin’ through, huh? Where ya headed?”

“North of Albany…a place called Bear Corners,” Newsie said, fishing out a couple of dollars anyway. When the waitress scowled at him, handing down another container of the weird little fried things, he gave the money to her. She didn’t appear mollified, but then Bobby Lee had his attention again.

“Oh, yeah! I know where that is. I’ll be passin’ by on the east side of it up the highway,” Bobby Lee said, and Newsie brightened.

“Really? Uh…I don’t want to inconvenience you, sir, but might you take along a passenger? I…I could pay my way,” Newsie said, checking to see what he had left in his wallet.

Bobby Lee waved him off again, crunching a mouthful of the fried radishes. “Aw, ain’t no trouble. I’d be glad of the company, night like tonight! You ever see such a snowstorm?”

Deeply relieved, Newsie tried a bite of the radishes, finding them more crunch than anything else, but at least it would shut up his stomach for a while. “It’s the worst weather locally in fifty years,” he said, remembering the bulletin he’d delivered before he’d left the news station earlier.

“I don’t doubt it,” the trucker agreed. “Lemme just go see a man about a horse, and we’ll truck on outta here, okay?”

“A horse?” Newsie couldn’t imagine hauling livestock on a night like this. “Won’t it be cold?”

“Clearly, you ain’t had the pleasure at this wonderful rest stop,” Bobby Lee said, grinning, then snatched the restroom key off the counter before the waitress could object. Newsie waited, quietly crunching the odd veggies and swallowing dryly. He didn’t feel like risking the waitress’ ire or the food safety standards any further here by asking for a drink. When Bobby Lee returned, he grinned broadly at the Newsman. “All right then! Head ‘em up, move ‘em out! Seeya on the turnaround, Sharee!”

The waitress only glared, and the Newsman followed the friendly trucker into the bitter wind once more, embarrassed at having to accept a boost up to the cab of the semi truck. He found the seatbelt and buckled in, his mood improving greatly as they pulled out of Juhlsville. Maybe he’d make it to the Bear farm before the night grew too late!

“So, not to offend or nothin’, but you seem a little on the short side. Are you, uh, with a carnival or somethin’?” Bobby Lee asked.

“Er…I’m a Muppet.”

The trucker frowned briefly. “Like…like on that kids’ show, with the guy in the trash can, and the blue guy who eats all the cookies?”

“Um. Not like them. But they’re, uh, they’re friends of my boss’,” Newsie offered. He didn’t really feel like trying to explain the ins and outs of Muppetdom. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely sure he understood all the distinctions himself. He certainly had nothing in common with Grouches or monsters!

“Oh, gotcha. So where ya headed in Bear Corners?” Bobby Lee peered closely at him a moment, making Newsie nervous as the wheel swerved slightly, but then the driver stared back out at the endless snow slapping wetly against the windshield.

“A friend’s mother’s farmhouse. It’s…it’s sort of a party, for Christmas.”

“Oh, heck, yeah! Can’t beat that!” Bobby Lee grinned. “Happy Christmas, by the way!”

“Oh,” Newsie said, taken aback. “Are you British?” He wouldn’t have thought so, given the backwoods accent.

“Huh? Naw,” the trucker chuckled. “I’m Tennessee born an’ bred! I just do this truck route right now ‘cause I kinda like the solitude, ya know? ‘Course, it does get lonely sometimes.” He smiled at the Newsman, who returned it uncertainly. “Hey, I know! Wanna play a game?”

“Uh…”

“Here, I’ll hum a song, and you guess what it is. Then you go the same. Okay?”

“Uh, all right,” Newsie agreed, hoping the driver wouldn’t pick something from recent pop charts. He hated modern music, far preferring classic Broadway. Nor country; aside from the few guests who’d graced the Muppet Show, he really knew very little about the genre.

Bobby Lee didn’t so much hum as sing wordlessly: “Hum, hum, hum hum; hum hum, hum, huuuuummm…hum hum, hum hum, hum hummm!”

“Joy to the World,” Newsie said, pleased at such an easy contest.

“Good, good! Now your turn!”

“Uh, okay…” He wasn’t sure how difficult a tune he should pick. He liked carols, and knew a wide repertoire of them, although he rarely had the chance to actually sing them…or to listen to them without Mother either singing loudly and overwhelming the record, or else complaining the noise gave her a headache. This was rather enjoyable, by comparison. He cleared his throat, and copied the trucker: “Hum hum hum, hum hum humhumhum, hum humhum hum hum hummm…”

“God Rest Ya, Merry Gennlemen,” Bobby Lee said, pointing at him. Newsie nodded, relaxing. “Uh, okay, I got one: Hum hum hum hum, hum humhum; hum hum humhum hum hum hum…”

“Angels We Have Heard on High,” Newsie said immediately.

“Oh, yeah…I guess you’re right. I always just called it ‘Gloria,’” Bobby Lee said, his brow wrinkling.

“A lot of people make that mistake,” Newsie assured him.

“Yeah, that’s a pretty one, ain’t it? You go.”

Pleased, Newsie tried ‘The Wassail Song’, which Bobby Lee guessed. Bobby Lee offered ‘White Christmas,’ which Newsie nailed. They continued the game for miles, the lights of Albany distantly visible off to the left; Bobby Lee must’ve been using the smaller highway which ran close along the Hudson River instead of the slippery interstate, which struck Newsie as a wise choice. The trucker’s ‘The Christmas Song’ was followed by Newsie’s ‘Rudolph’. He knew it was an easy choice, but he was feeling so relaxed in the warm cab, with something in his stomach and friendly company and the assurance of reaching his destination, that he was momentarily stuck for a good choice. Bobby Lee frowned. “Do that one again?”

“Huh?” Newsie blinked, realizing he was drowsy, shaking himself fully awake.

“That song. I didn’t get it. Do it again?”

Newsie obliged, thinking he must have messed up the tune by not paying enough attention himself. “Humhum, hum hum hum humhum, hum humhum hum hum hum hummm…”

Bobby Lee shook his head. “Nope. I give up. What is it?”

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” Newsie said, surprised.

“Huh, okay.”

“You…you’ve never heard that song?”

“Nope. Don’t think so. Okay, ya stumped me. You win that round,” Bobby Lee said, grinning. Newsie’s eyes widened; had he just seen sharp teeth? He stared openly as the trucker looked back at him again. “What?”

No. Just a man. Perhaps he, like some lower-income people, had neglected dental visits. Telling himself he must have simply seen some bad teeth, Newsie shifted uneasily under the seatbelt, which was a little tight. “Uh…I didn’t know anyone hadn’t heard that song. Sorry.”

“Ah, I’ll get the next one.” Bobby Lee upended his carton of fried radishes, then tossed the empty container down into the darkness beneath the steering wheel. “Dang, those things never fill me up. What about you? You still hungry?”

“Er…no,” the Newsman managed, suddenly noticing the driver’s hands seemed a good bit hairier across the backs than he’d previously realized. He edged closer to the door.

“Well, I am positively starving,” Bobby Lee said, flashing a grin, and this time Newsie didn’t imagine a few points showing among the teeth. There seemed to be quite a lot of teeth…

“Um…what did you…what did you say your last name was?” Newsie managed.

“Retsnom. It’s, uh, kind of an ol’ hillbilly name,” Bobby Lee said. “You said yours was just Newsman, right? You like a reporter or somethin’, gotta get ever’one’s name correct for your reports an’ all?”

“Something like that,” Newsie croaked out, fumbling with the seat belt lock. It seemed stuck.

“Hey, careful there. Safety first,” Bobby Lee laughed, then narrowed his eyes at the Newsman. Those eyebrows looked larger and blacker than he remembered in the rest stop. “Or are you the kinda guy who likes a little…danger? A little scariness now and then?” He laughed.

Newsie shook his head frantically, clinging to his satchel with one hand, trying desperately to unlatch the seatbelt with the other. Outside, the snow flew by even swifter. How fast were they going?

Bobby Lee grinned at him. Those were definitely fangs. The Newsman choked back a cry, cringing against the cab door. “Well then,” the trucker said, his voice turning gravelly and deep, “wanna see something really scary?”

 

[newsmanfan]

Part Three

Christmas Eve, 1977.

The Newsman had serious doubts about having agreed to participate in the closing number. Kermit and Miss Mousey were singing their duet, “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” in front of the holly-swagged main drapes while Scooter and the stagepigs dashed around backstage setting the scenery in place for the last number in this special Christmas Eve show. Newsie jumped out of the way several times, his discomfiture growing, unsure where he was supposed to stand. “Er…excuse me?” he tried to stop the young man in the green jacket and fake reindeer antlers.

Scooter paused only an instant, grabbing Newsie’s shoulders and stepping with him a few paces stage right. “Stay right there, Newsman! You’ll be Parson Brown. You know the song, right?”

“A parson?” Newsie gave the boy a look of total confusion.

“Yeah, you know, from ‘Winter Wonderland’? ‘In the meadow we can build a snowman, and pretend that he is –‘”

“I know the song,” Newsie said. “But –“

“Great! Okay, dump the snow!” Scooter whispered loudly, and before Newsie could even point out that he didn’t have the right costume for a parson, just his normal plaid sports coat, what felt like a half-ton of fake snow was unleashed upon him from above. “Perfect! Newsman, don’t move! All right, the tree goes over there –“

The snow, which felt like some kind of slightly sticky foam, and slid down inside his shirt like tiny bits of packing peanuts, completely covered Newsie. The downpour had knocked his glasses off. He could feel the stuff piled atop his head, his shoulders, and glomped around him to the chest; he doubted he could move much even without the admonishment. He was forced to stand motionless another few minutes while the song out front ended, the audience applauded, Scooter rushed the pigs offstage, and the band struck up a musical flourish while, presumably, the curtains opened. The set must’ve looked splendid, as he heard murmurs and scattered applause from the house. He couldn’t see a thing. Gently chiming bells sounded somewhere off to his left, and as the music shifted smoothly into “Winter Wonderland,” he heard Gonzo begin singing in front of him: “Sleigh bells ring – are you listening?”

Fozzie picked it up. “In da lane, snow is glist’ning!”

Kermit and Piggy strolled on, arm in arm. “A beautiful sight!” “Moi is happy tonight!”

And then numerous other voices joined the first four: “Walkin’ in a winter wonderland!”

The Newsman stood there, highly uncomfortable, overly hot under the fake snow and the stage lights while the song went on, wondering how he was supposed to play any sort of part under all this. Then abruptly he felt hands patting the snow onto him more. What the--? “In da meadow we can build a snowman,” Fozzie sang out right next to him, and suddenly Newsie’s glasses jabbed his left ear. “Sorry,” Fozzie muttered softly, readjusting them so they sat on his nose properly.

“And pretend that he is Parson Brown,” Piggy sang brightly. Newsie blinked at her in astonishment, then looked down at himself, a vaguely person-shaped mound of sparkling white stuff.

“He’ll say…” Gonzo prompted in song. Newsie stared at him, realized the next line was supposed to be his, and choked out gruffly at Kermit and Piggy:

“Uh…are you married?” The audience laughed, and Newsie blushed.

“We’ll say No, man!” Kermit sang, flapping his arms to emphasize how very not married he was, prompting more laughter.

“But vous can do the job when you’re in tooooowwn,” Piggy cooed, fluttering her eyelashes at the frog.

They strolled off, continuing the tune next to a large, fluttery-paper false bonfire: “Later on, we’ll conspire…as we dream, by the fire…”

Newsie was relieved when there wasn’t a second bridge; instead, the cast slid smoothly into “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm.” He stood there, still snowmanized, uncertain how to get out of the clingy stuff. No one was paying any attention to him, but he was still onstage. He wasn’t sure what to think when his frog boss’ little nephew hopped playfully atop his shoulder, then his head, peering at Newsie upside-down with a smile. “C’mon, join in!” the tiny froglet whispered to him, then added his sweet spring-peeper voice to the chorus. Reluctantly, Newsie cleared his throat and sang along as well. At least, in doing so, he might look more like he belonged there.

The music shifted yet again into “Let It Snow.” Flurries of more fake snow sprinkled down; off in the stage left wing, Newsie could see one of the pigs shaking a rope as that enormous shaggy hulk the others called Sweetie (or something like that) lazily pulled another rope up and down to operate a long canvas full of the snowy stuff hanging the breadth of the stage. He wished he was in the audience watching, so he could see the effect; as it was, he had to suppress three sneezes with the lighter bits of fluff swirling around him. Finally, the band quieted, and the other cast members all came onstage, dressed for winter outings in colorful red and green scarves, coats, and knit hats.

Kermit stepped in front of everyone, looking out at the audience. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” he sang softly.

Gonzo moved into place beside him. “Let your heart be light…”

“From now on, our troubles will be outta sight,” Fozzie added, actually sounding melodic. As the song progressed, Newsie’s irritation smoothed away, his ears and thoughts captivated by the soft, sincere sentiment. He didn’t realize he was murmuring the words along with the others until Robin patted his head affectionately. Startled, Newsie glanced up, having a hard time focusing on the froglet perched right above his glasses. The child’s smile, however, was so guileless, so warm, that the Newsman relaxed, and joined in at full vocal strength for the last line: “So have yourself a merry little Christmas…now.”

There were two curtain calls before Kermit ordered the front drapes to stay closed, no doubt seeing how impatient some of his cast were to get on with their own holiday. Everyone trundled off the stage, laughing, talking loudly…leaving the Newsman buried in fake snow. “Uh…hello? Um. Guys?”

Eventually he was able to dig himself out, with a lot of straining and shifting his whole body from side to side until he toppled over. Still brushing the stuff from his hair and clothing with a scowl, he wandered backstage. Kermit was calling out over the general din: “We’ll wait and strike the set after New Year’s!” This produced a loud cheer. As the Newsman passed the frog, Kermit nodded at him. “Hey, great snowman! Good job.”

“Er…thanks.”

Everyone seemed to be hurrying around aimlessly. That weird furry-faced drummer bounded past, causing Newsie to throw himself out of the way. “CHIC-KEN! CHIC-KEN!” the musician roared, chasing a couple of panicked white birds, dragging the bassist after him with a chain which didn’t seem to be doing much to restrain the enthusiastic poultry-pursuer.

“Floyd!” Gonzo complained, hurrying after the impromptu parade.

“Hey man, sorry! He got into the eggnog!”

Downstairs, the sax player and that odd, gold-toothed man who seemed to be the band’s leader stood off by a large punchbowl full of eggnog, laughing. A small group of rats were engaged in a hula-hoop contest, using wreath-shaped cookies from the buffet of treats that took up much of the green room. Various Muppets stood around chatting, laughing, eating and drinking. The Newsman felt a pang of longing; he would have liked to join in…but Mother would be expecting him. He stood and watched everyone a minute longer, apart and alone, then sighed, and forced his feet into motion. He should fetch his coat and the box of special cookies he’d bought at that wonderful bakery a short distance down Ninth Avenue, and go home. Sighing again silently, he went to the coatrack and shelves where many of them stashed their things during work here; he didn’t have a dressing-room yet. His coat was right where he’d left it, but the box...the box was gone!

Oh, no! Those cookies had cost him almost twelve dollars! He’d browsed the amazing display of them a long time, admiring the fine icing decorations on the reindeer, Christmas trees, stars, stockings, snowmen, and wreaths made of sweet sugar dough with real vanilla, finally choosing three of each gorgeously-colored design in rich icing, sprinkled sugars, and those tiny edible silver things he liked. He’d made sure to get enough so if Aunt Ethel and Uncle Joe dropped in tomorrow there would be plenty for everyone. And, of course, he planned to set out two of the best ones for Santa tonight. Frantically, he looked around at the happy, socializing Muppets. Could one of them really be a thief? Sure, many of them were strange, even weird, but he wouldn’t have thought any of them would be so low as to take another man’s cookies!

Newsie stopped Scooter as the gofer passed by, trailing a wand with sparkly red and green streamers. “Did you see a box of cookies over here?” he asked the boy.

Scooter beamed. “Oh, yeah! Those were amazing! Thanks so much for bringing them!”

“What?”

“Yeah, I put ‘em out on the table earlier for you. Looks like they were quite a hit!” Unconcerned, Scooter trotted off. Panicked, Newsie hurried to the buffet. His eyes darted from platter to plate to bowl along the spread until he ran into Miss Piggy. Her back was to him, and muffled grunting noises came from her mouth. Newsie hurriedly tapped her shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me, but –“

Startled, the pig whirled around, colored sugars and icing coating her snout, her blue eyes wide for an instant. “Hey, whadda ya mean sneaking up on—“ she began, indignant, but the Newsman saw what she’d been stuffing her face with, and let out a cry of despair.

“My cookies! Noooo!”

“Cookies? I didn’t see any cookies,” Gonzo said, his eyes widening in anticipation. Newsie snatched up the last remaining prettily iced cookie – a reindeer – and backed away from Piggy, giving her a look of pure anguish. No! Only one? Only one left?

“You just missed the last one,” Piggy grumbled, wiping her mouth daintily.

“Oh. Geez, everybody grabs the good stuff first,” Gonzo complained, turning to see what else the tables held.

“My cookies…” Newsie groaned. He gently wrapped the lone survivor in his clean handkerchief.

“What’s the big deal?” Piggy asked, watching him with a frown.

“Those…those were supposed to be for my family…and for Santa,” Newsie told her.

“Oh. Sorry. Well, you mighta put a note on ‘em or someth—did you say for Santa?” Piggy asked, astonished.

The Newsman glanced around; Dr Teeth, Gonzo, the long-legged blonde from the band, and that odd scientist from the lab sketch were all nearby and looking askance at him. “Uh. Yes,” he muttered.

Gonzo blinked at him. Dr Teeth started chuckling, his round shoulders shaking. He gestured with a cup of eggnog at Newsie. “Dude, how old are you?”

Newsie bristled. “I don’t see that that’s any of your –“

“I would have thought a worldly journalist such as yourself would know by now Santa is just a story for the kiddies,” Piggy mocked him.

“I mean, that’s sweet, but, you know, rully,” the blonde agreed, smiling as she shook her head. The scientist merely put a hand to his mouth and snickered.

“Well, I leave him milk and cookies every year, and every year, someone eats them,” Newsie protested, feeling his cheeks turning pink.

“What’s goin’ on?” Floyd asked, wandering over, a somewhat calmer drummer in tow.

“Newsdude here still leaves out cookies for Santy Claus!” Dr Teeth said.

Floyd laughed. “Man, you must have some very happy mice at your pad!”

“Mother hates mice!” Newsie argued. “Santa eats the cookies, and his reindeer eat the carrots and apples!”

“Oh, man,” the guitarist said, still shaking her head.

“He feeds the little deer too! Wow, man, there is such a thing as taking the holiday spirit too far, too long!” Dr Teeth laughed, and most of them nodded agreement.

“You’re…you’re just wrong!” Newsie spluttered, backing away.

“Hey, hang on,” the blonde said, looking concerned, but Newsie pointed an angry, shaking finger at them all.

“Fine! Laugh all you want! I know he’s real!” With that final pronouncement, the Newsman grabbed his coat and fled, humiliated. He never should have said anything! At least he wouldn’t have to see any of them until after the New Year… With cheeks burning against the cold, he ran out into the chilly evening, full of enough angry energy to walk half the distance home. He ignored the cold wind gusting along the streets, the people hurrying past, the flickers of colorful lights and the sounds of carolers and merriment whisking past as he strode along. He held the last cookie carefully inside a pocket, keeping it wrapped, hoping the icing wouldn’t get too smudged. He hoped Santa wouldn’t think it was a poor offering. He really had tried to make this year memorable; it had been an odd year in many respects. Things had begun falling on him or attacking him during his News Flash reports at the Muppet Theatre; Mother had insisted she was going through severe ailment after ailment, even after he’d found out she was not, in fact, losing her eyesight as she’d claimed last year; the one girl whom he’d thought might feel a connection to him had pushed him away before things really went anywhere; and his substitute-presenter job at the TV station seemed prone to bizarre happenstances as well.

And now his Muppet colleagues thought he was childish for his belief in Santa Claus. And Mother would want to know what became of the cookies he’d promised to bring for everyone.

He saw a bakery still open, and stepped inside. They had a few cookies, though clearly the selection had been picked over already, and they offered nothing as grand as the gaily decorated ones he’d purchased earlier from the other bakery. Glumly he shelled out the last of his pocket money, which had been intended for a new pair of mittens for him, to get a few macaroons and gingersnaps. He’d save the really nice one, the last really nice one, for the small plate he’d sneak into the living room after he was sure Mother was sound asleep. At least he’d put out the carrots and apples on the roof ahead of time tonight. He hoped no greedy creatures would steal those before the reindeer arrived. With cold hands and a downcast gaze, he found a subway entrance to take him the rest of the way home.



Christmas Eve, 1987.

The truck was definitely speeding. Newsie bounced painfully several times down the embankment toward the river, eyes shut tight, trying to protect his glasses with one hand while clinging to his satchel with the other. Above the groan of the vicious wind, he heard the frustrated roar of a frustrated monster, and then the squeal of brakes on the highway. “Oof –ungh –oww – unhhh –“ It felt like he hit every rock, every stump, every unyielding bit of frozen ground on the way down. The seatbelt lock had unstuck just as the trucker sprouted black fur everywhere, and without hesitation Newsie had yanked open the door and thrown himself out of the cab of the semi. Anything had to be better than being eaten by a carol-humming monster! As he thumped hard against a large tree trunk, he heard the truck growling, reversing. Dazed, panicked, he staggered more or less to his feet and ran for his life through a thickly forested ravine alongside the Hudson. Quickly his nose froze up; he panted cold clouds as he stumbled along. Crashing noises came from behind him somewhere; the monster was coming after him! Desperate, he looked back – and in the dim moonlight when the clouds parted just then, saw his own clear tracks in the snow. Oh, no!

That thing would find him in no time! Where could he hide? How could he throw off his horrible pursuer? “Hey, come back here!” the creature howled.

“Erk!” Newsie cringed, looking all around in the near-darkness, the clouds and wind closing in once more. Snow picked up from a drift, blowing into his face. He heard a low, quiet trickling noise. The river! He could wade into it, and erase his tracks, and throw the thing off the scent, if it was following him like a bloodhound! Immediately he veered toward the watery sound, splashing into the shallows so quickly it startled him. Oh good GRIEF that is FREEZING! Sheer terror kept his legs moving despite the instant chill sweeping up his body; the water here reached to his knees. More crackling-branch, crunching-snow noises came from the embankment, sounding nearer to him than before; it was gaining! Shivering so hard he could barely keep striding forward, the Newsman cast his eyes about desperately, and then spotted something overhanging the far bank, alongside a group of snowy rocks. Panting, grimacing, he waded straight across, nearly slipping and falling all the way into the water when it unexpectedly deepened. No, no, no, please! He scrambled onto the rocks, reaching up to the low-lying, thick fir branch with shaking arms. By wrapping his entire body around it and dragging himself up one-handed slowly, still hanging doggedly to his satchel, he was able to climb up into the sheltering branches next to the trunk. Just as he reached it, the monster trucker emerged on the far bank, calling out in its rough voice.

“Yooo-HOO! Little MUUUPpet! Where ARE youuuuu!”

Newsie bit his own coatsleeve, muffling his involuntary cry of fear, clinging to the fir trunk. He hoped the thick needles of the surrounding branches and the snow-whipped night would be enough to hide him from the beast. He couldn’t look, shutting his eyes tight, his heart pounding loudly, too afraid to feel the cold. He heard more crunching sounds as the monster tramped up and down the riverbank on the other side, searching for him. Newsie held so tightly he felt his hands and feet freezing into position, waiting for the inevitable cry of triumph from the monster when it found him. However, after several more minutes, he heard the thing growl, and trudge away. It sounded like it was leaving…

“Nuts,” Bobby Lee muttered, tromping back to his truck. “And it was gonna be his turn to scare me next…”

The Newsman opened his eyes when he heard the semi start back up, and then, wonder of wonders, the monster drove away! Perhaps even a tasty Muppet dinner wasn’t worth wrecking his trucking schedule for. Newsie shivered violently, trying to adjust his grasp on the tree, discovering his fingers were frozen in place. He couldn’t feel his feet…or his legs…and even blinking seemed difficult. He groaned. No! I don’t want to be a Newsicle! An image of himself, being dug out of the snow all stiff and iced over days later by curious farmers, came all too clearly to mind. He tried to peer through the gusts of snow. Not a light to be seen anywhere. He couldn’t even tell if there were any farms nearby. He might not be found for months! And no one knew he was out here; no one would even be looking for him!

Weakly, hopelessly, he called out, “Heeeellllpp!”

The wind moaned in response. He tried to put more strength into his voice: “Heeelllpp!”

A dusting of snow shook down from a higher branch, flumphing onto his nose. He started to cry, but his tears froze on his cheeks. He couldn’t move. He was freezing. They’d find him in the spring, perhaps, an odd yellow thing perched halfway up this enormous tree. He stared at the long, sweeping needles. He was going to freeze to death right here, and he didn’t even know what kind of tree it was. A fir? A pine? He felt like some sort of absurd Christmas ornament. And now he was hallucinating. Surely that meant he was at death’s door. He must be too obsessed with the idea he was going to die on Christmas Eve. He could’ve sworn he heard jingling bells.

He did hear jingling bells. A lot of them, in fact. What the --?

“Ho, ho, ho!”

The Newsman was snatched from the treebranch, bodily hefted through the air a sickening moment, then plunked down hard. Something heavy swooped over him, covering him. The jingling sound, very loud now, continued constantly. He tried to blink, to clear his vision, because directly in front of him he thought he saw…he did see…two parallel lines of horses. No. Those were antlers. Deer.

Reindeer. In harnesses, with bells attached.

And a lot of blowing snow, and no road.

Slowly warming, the Newsman was able finally to blink, and to move a little. He felt a thick blanket covering him almost up to his eyes, draped snugly around him. With shivering fingers, he stroked the edge of it, amazed at how soft and thick and warm it was. And white, like some sort of fur.

“Ho, ho! Well, there! Good thing I was passing by, or you’d have been a very strange ornament for that Douglas fir!” boomed a voice right next to him, startling Newsie. Still shivering, completely confused, the Newsman looked up and saw a round, merry face with a long white beard smiling down at him.

“S-Santa?”

“Well, I’m not the Easter Bunny!” the large man in a red coat laughed. He nodded down at the Newsman in a friendly manner. “Warming up yet? Got that blanket from an Abominable family I know well. They wove it for me out of their shed fur. Works wonders on cold nights!”

Stunned, Newsie craned his neck to see over the edge of the sleigh, shifting the blanket off himself just enough to move freely. Yes. He was in an actual sleigh, with runners…and treetops whisking by below. Gulping, he scooted closer to the satisfied driver, then looked back up at the man. “Am I dreaming? Am I…er…”

The large man laughed, sounding like a friendlier version of Statler and Waldorf. “Oh, ho ho ho ho! No, you’re very much alive and awake! Which is very naughty of you, you know; but given the circumstances, I’ll make an exception for you this once!”

“Santa,” Newsie said, excitement growing as the chill melted around him. “You’re real!” Delight swept through him. “I knew it! I knew it!”

Santa gave him a very brief frown. “How old are you, son?”

“Er…”

The big man cocked his head to one side, studying Newsie, then reached past the partly-open blanket and Newsie’s unbuttoned overcoat, and gave the PRESS badge still pinned to his sports coat a gentle tap with one white-gloved finger. “Aha! Well, that explains it. So tell me…why did you stop leaving cookies out for me…Aloysius?”

“Ulp!” Newsie’s eyes went as wide as they could go, staring up at the living myth who’d rescued him from certain icicledom. “I…uh…er…I…”

“That one with the pretty icing was wonderful. Took it home to the missus,” Santa said, nodding happily, twitching the reins of the team hauling the sleigh impossibly through the air, edging them away from an especially tall tree.

Newsie felt tears forming afresh in his eyes. “You…you remember me?”

“Made the nice list over forty years running? Of course!” The old elf smiled at him. “What were you doing up that tree, anyway? It’s a terrible night to be tree-climbing!”

“Oh…oh…I was running from a monster,” Newsie began, words spilling out in his relief and joy. “I didn’t know he was a monster at first! I hitched a ride in his truck when the bus left me in Juhlsville, when I was trying to get to Bear Farm because Mother went on a cruise withou– oh! Bear Farm!” He stared wideyed at the countryside swirling by underneath the dancing feet of the reindeer. Where were they, anyway?

“Well, it just so happens I’m heading to Bear Farm next! Want a lift?” Santa asked, then nudged him. “Good! ‘Cause you’re being airlifted! Ho, ho, ho!”

“Thank you,” Newsie said, overwhelmed. A thought occurred to him. “Wait! Here!” He plunged thawed fingers into his satchel, pulling out the protective box that held the glass butterfly. “Take this. From me.” When the white-haired face gave him a puzzled frown, Newsie held the box up, swallowing hard. “Please.”

“You’re giving me a Christmas gift?” Claus asked, surprised. Unable to say anything else, Newsie nodded. The old elf accepted the box, tucking the reins under his arm so he could open the box. He lifted out the butterfly, and suddenly the clouds parted. Moonlight shone through the delicate colored wings of the ornament, casting shimmering washes of yellow and red and orange onto the white fur blanket wrapped around the Newsman.

“That’s mighty nice of you, Aloysius,” Claus said. He tucked away the butterfly. “But you should give that to Mrs Bear. She loves butterflies, you know.” He smiled at Newsie’s serious nod of agreement. “Now. Let’s get this stuff dropped off, hey? I have a lot of other stops still to make! Ho, hey! Down, Dasher! Down, Prancer!...”

The deer grumbled, turning their flight down toward a simple Victorian farmhouse nestled among heavy snowdrifts below. “Geez. Like we’d forget our names; every time he has ta yell at us all…”

“Eh, just shut up and keep jingling, Blitzen.”

“Is it apple time yet?”

Groans. Several of the reindeer chorused, “No, Comet!”

The sleigh slid smoothly to a halt next to Fozzie’s old car, in front of the house. Warm lights shone from every window, and the sound of singing came faintly through the closed panes. Newsie jumped down from the sledge as Santa clambered over a huge, bulging bag in the back seat and quickly rummaged through it. “Uh…can I help?” the Newsman offered uncertainly, tucking the boxed ornament back into his satchel.

“Yes, you can! Watch my team for me while I get this sorted out. They get a little restless, you know, if I take too long. One time they tried to leave without me in Hoboken!” Beaming, Claus tossed numerous wrapped gifts from the sleigh. Bewildered, Newsie walked carefully through the knee-high-to-a-Muppet snow to the twin rows of reindeer, looking at each of them in complete wonder. Believing in them, and actually standing right next to them, he realized, were two different things.

The deer nearest him swung its heavy head to eyeball him, and snorted, its breath puffing into the freezing air. “I know youse,” it grunted.

“You…you do?”

“Yeah. You’re da mook what kept leavin’ treats out for fatso dere,” the deer said, tossing its antlers in the direction of a decidedly roundish deer. The deer indicated looked around, its mouth salivating.

“Uhhh…treats? We get treats now?”

With a collective groan, the others all yelled, “No, Comet!”

Taken aback, Newsie stared at them, one hand rising doubtfully to his chin. “Er…I’m sorry? I thought…thought you liked apples and carrots…”

“Apples?” Comet’s head perked again.

“Geeeez,” one of the others said, rolling its head around on a stiff neck.

“No, already! Not ‘til we get home, ya dope!” the first deer snapped, then looked back at Newsie. “Look, kid. He’s had a weight problem for years, and dat stuff what you kept leavin’ out for ‘im was draggin’ all da rest of us down, ya follow me?” Uncertainly, the Newsman nodded, and the deer’s attitude softened. “Eh, whaddayagonnado. People likes ta leave stuffs fer us, who’m I ta blow ‘em off? Look, could ya just scratch right dere? Dere, under my chin….oohhhh yeahhh…” It sighed happily as the Newsman scratched his fingers along the length of the reindeer’s neck, from jaw to harness.

Newsie stood there, amazed at the soft feel of the animal’s fur, thinking, This is one of Santa’s actual reindeer! I am giving chin scratchies to a REINDEER! His mouth slowly turned up into a wide smile. Farther up the line, another grumbled, “Yeah, sure. He gets chin scratchies, and whadda I get? A cold nose!”

Newsie would happily have spent hours petting all of them, but suddenly Santa returned, rubbing his backside. “Umff. All right, this is where we say so long, son. Go on in there; everyone’s settled in already! I left a few things on the porch; I’d count it a favor if you’d take them inside for everyone. Oh,” he added, as Newsie started for the house, “and watch out; there’s an icy patch right in front of the door!” He grimaced, climbing back into the sleigh. “You’d think people would learn to put a little salt down…”

“Thank you, Santa!” Newsie called out as the deer began trotting. “Thank you! And Merry Christmas!”

“Hey, that’s my line! Ho, ho, ho! To all Muppets, a good night!”

Newsie paused upon the wooden steps, smiling, watching the sleigh rapidly vanish into the driving snow. The sound of bells lingered a moment more before the wind swallowed it up. Shivering again without the fur blanket, the Newsman ran up the steps of the quaint old farmhouse, thinking about telling everyone what had just –

He stopped. No. They wouldn’t believe me. The realization saddened him. He’d be laughed at, just like ten years ago. Looking down at himself, he touched the shiny brass-and-tin PRESS badge on his sports coat, and gradually a smile spread across his face once more. It doesn’t matter. I know. Nodding to himself, pleased, he saw the sack of presents sitting on the porch for the entire Muppet crowd, and hurried to do as he’d been bid. I wonder what he brought everyone? I wonder if they had cocoa already? Maybe there’s a little left…

Caught up in warm thoughts, he completely forgot the warning about the icy patch.

Finis! : >)​

 

[Katzi428]

LOVED it! Wonderful story!

 

[newsmanfan]

Glad you liked! Hope others do too. I know it's terribly out-of-season...but it's what my brain was stirring up.

Still listening for suggestions for other fics.

 

[newsmanfan]

*sad eyes* I see a number of readers on this and my first fic...and hardly anyone posts... *sniffle*

Really, I DO want feedback! Good or bad, critical or friendly. As a writer, it all helps! Please, folks. Don't make me get down on my skinny yellow knees and beg...