by James Finn Garner, Copyright 2007

And so it happened, that in the few days remaining prior to the Christmas holiday, Mr. Dickens found himself in want of that most homely of personal effects, a hairbrush. And in that cold, dark period, with the cruel realities of free-market economics working their reverse magic—even in this wondrous time of year!—the establishments in Mr. Dickens’ town that might have sold him a hairbrush in years past had all been shuttered and made dark. Thus, in order to procure that item, he was forced to make the journey of several miles to a retailing giant—nay, a leviathan!—that had been built on former farmlands on the edge of nowhere.
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Mr. Dickens, who in his current impecunious circumstances could avail himself of neither horse nor coach, traveled instead with the regional autobus service, and after a jarring, unpleasant journey of nearly three hours’ duration, found himself on the edge of a wide, black, tarry plain, on which other store patrons in numbers beyond counting had parked their vans and vehicles of utility. After a treacherous walk of 45 minutes or so, guided by a pale insistent light in the distance, he found himself at the portals (or at least one of the portals, for it seemed that there was more than one) of his destination. Red letters atop the portico were illumined brightly enough to cut through the unnatural fog created by the overabundance of lights and lamps, spelling out in crimson certainty the name of his destination, Wall-To-Wall-Mart.
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The doors parted to welcome Mr. Dickens and emitted a not unpleasant gust of warm air, coupled with the smell of dry cardboard and salted popcorn. But while the aroma brought warmth to his tired, frozen body, the cacophony that spilled forth with it was nearly a physical assault. Oh, the demons of hell could scarce raise such noise! Bells rang, scanners beeped, shoppers shouted, children wailed. Seasonal music filled the air, but it seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time, disorienting rather than soothing. It really wasn’t one song, but more like a bickering family of songs, with nary a one having the patience or common courtesy to step back and let one of its melodic brethren be heard by itself.
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Mr. Dickens tried to orient himself in this swirling bedlam of sounds, smells and sights. In his confusion, he nearly collided with a jolly man some twice or three times his age. He was dressed in an almost piebald fashion, for upon his blue vest was an array of buttons, ribbons, patches, pins, brocade, boutonnieres, and badges, as if he’d been chased through a briar where bric-a-brac grew wild. The older man gave a vacant smile and chirped, “Happy Holidays, welcome to Wall-to-Wall-Mart.”
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“Ah yes….Mr. Ernie,” replied Mr. Dickens, for he had spied a badge on the man’s vest bearing this name. (To be sure, this was a stab in the dark, for in all his supposed finery, the old man carried more than a dozen words, a few of which also resembled names.) “Greetings of the season to you as well. I hope and trust that the blessings of the Christ child have filled your heart this year.”
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Ernie broke from his vacant glaze and stared at Mr. Dickens in worry. After several moments of uneasy silence, he inquired, “Are you from corporate?”
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“I…I know not what you mean, sir.”
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“Or, if you’re from the papers,” continued the aged greeter, “we’ve been instructed to direct you to the manager. Employees aren’t allowed to speak to the media on this whole thing.”
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“Yet, it was you who engaged me first,” said a puzzled Mr. Dickens. “Again, a merry Christmas to you.”
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“Sh-sh-sh-sh! Are you trying to make my job difficult?”
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“No, nothing of the sort. I merely wished to extend a warm greeting.”
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“Well, leave the greetings to the greeters,” Ernie said. “We been trained.”
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“Fair enough,” responded Mr. Dickens, somewhat wounded. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to your selection of grooming supplies?”
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Turning away and reverting to his vacant expression, Ernie replied, “Dunno. Ask a floor associate.”
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“Indeed I shall,” muttered the younger man, who then said to himself, As soon as I determine what manner of creature a “floor associate” might be.
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From this point forward, the shopping excursion became more and more unsettling for Mr. Dickens. He soon regretted setting foot in this shop (if the word “shop” could be applied at all to an establishment that exceeded his old home town in both population and acreage, and was massive enough to have families of clever birds nesting in its warm rafters). The place was nearly packed tight with frenzied people. Pushing their merchandise trolleys at break-neck speed, they made standing in the aisles as dangerous as standing in the middle of a fox hunt. A majority of the patrons were portly if not morbidly obese, yet they possessed none of the jolliness and generosity Mr. Dickens was accustomed to witnessing in well-fed people. In fact, they seemed as ravenous as any beggar or cutpurse you might be unfortunate enough to meet. On his quest for a simple brush, Mr. Dickens was the reluctant witness to a near-riot, as a beleaguered clerk unloaded a pallet of table-top biscotti presser-stampers and was set upon by a mob of shoppers waving discount coupons.
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Desperate, frustrated, Mr. Dickens sought the help of a person dressed in a blue vest similar to that of Mr. Ernie, the suspicious hailer. This woman was rather corpulent, with lustrous red hair like the Spirit of Christmas Present. Yet before Mr. Dickens could ask directions to the grooming accessories, the woman pulled her vest aside, revealing a most disturbing sight: clutching to her body were two small children, wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable.
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“Who are these children?” cried Mr. Dickens, startled by their ragged, scowling, wolfish appearance. “Are they reminders to humanity of all we have left undone? Does this boy embody Ignorance, and this girl Want?”
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“What? Of course not, silly,” said the woman. “These are the new Talking Gollum and Talking Mrs. Gollum plush dolls from the “Lord of the Rings” collection. Aren’t they the wildest?” She gave one an intent squeeze, after which the hideous doll moved its jaws and blinked its eyes, screeching something unintelligible in the din.
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Some two hours later, head buzzing and throat raw, Mr. Dickens exited Wall-To-Wall-Mart. In one sweating hand, he held a plastic bag containing his hard-won hair brush, which was only available in a large gift pak of brushes, combs, tweezers, pomade and talcum. In his other arm, he clutched a three-gallon jar of sweet gherkins, an item he as a bachelor had no hope of consuming in his lifetime yet felt irresistibly compelled to purchase. After another three-hour ride on the autobus, Mr. Dickens arrived home, pulled his heavy curtains shut, and crawled under the covers of his bed, where he remained for three days, trying to restore his peace of mind.
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And it was always said of Mr. Dickens, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge, and also knew how to keep as far from the retail malls as possible in the week before the holiday. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Mr. Ernie the greeter observed, “Happy Holidays, now move along please.”

Merry Christmas 2007!