A Christmas Carol
“Donate to the Salvation Army!” the woman shouted as she rang a bell. Next to her stood a small red pot, suspended by iron supports. “Make a difference in someone’s life! Spare change?”
A man walked towards her, his collar up to stay warm. He trudged through the snow in knee-high boots. His gray mustache and beard were covered by a thin layer of snow, as was his worn brown hat. His spectacles were also clouded with small snowflakes. Bundled up in a patched cloak and a faded scarf, he briskly walked the streets of Chicago. As he came up level with the pot, he quickly stashed a wad of bills into it and walked away.
“Thank you, sir! Thank you very much!” the woman yelled, but to no avail. The man walked on, now inconspicuous among the crowd.
Through the many bustling Christmas shoppers the man spotted a homeless child, somewhat protected by the many passers-by, but alone. The man felt sympathy and sorrow towards the child, alone, without comfort or love. He decisively pulled out his wallet and handed a few dollars to the kid, who gladly accepted the gift. The child put it into a dirty tin can beside him and beamed gratefully.
Ezekial Screwge walked on towards his home, a small, sparsely furnished townhouse. Though rather plain, it had a warm, pleasant air to it. He rented it from his nephew, Freddy. Freddy had always been wanting Ezekial to go to business school. He even offered to pay for it, which was very unlike him, for he usually wasn’t very generous towards people, even relatives. Freddy lived in a mansion overlooking the town. He had his own servants, chauffeur, everything.
As Ezekial approached the house, he saw a light turned on in the second floor window. “That’s rather odd,” he said to himself. “I could have sworn I turned the lights off. Perhaps Freddy is here on a visit. How I do wish he would stop by for a spot of tea. Those bushy eyebrows of his always make me chuckle.”
He unlocked the door with a worn, rusted key and headed inside. Stopping to hang his coat and hat in the closet, he went upstairs to check on Freddy. Instead of his nephew, he found a ghost. And a grumpy ghost, too. His gray hair, bloodshot eyes, and craggy nose enhanced his crabby attitude.
“I am the ghost of Charles Dickens!” the apparition said. “Tonight you will be haunted by three other ghosts.”
“Why?” Screwge asked.
“Well how else do you think we ghosts get our pay?!” Dickens erupted.
“I’m sorry. Continue.”
“As I was saying, you will be haunted by three ghosts, each stupider than the next. Don’t be surprised if your refrigerator ends up empty. We ghosts often get hungry, especially because of the pay we get,” the ghost grumbled as he disappeared.
“Well,” Screwge thought to himself, “That was nice of him to stop in. I think I’ll grab a bite to eat before I head off to bed.” He took a slice of bread from the kitchen and climbed back up the stairs to his bedroom. His bed lay at the back of the room, adjacent to a closet. A small desk and bookshelf occupied another end of the room. Screwge sat on his bed, daintily finishing his snack. He opened a book and started reading, for he absolutely loved books, especially the classics. Soon, he started yawning, and presently fell asleep, his nose in the book.
BONG! BONG! The grandfather clock chimed twelve times. Screwge sat up and found himself face to face with a weather-beaten man. He looked like a marine, a large man with many scars. His ruffled hair and fuzzy beard contributed to his wild features. His glazed eyes rolled in their sockets. A pint of whiskey was stashed in his pocket and a harpoon lay at his side. He stumbled towards Screwge.
“Who are you?” Screwge asked.
“I’m Aleckshander Dumash, Ghosht of the Patht. I died pennilesh, even though my life wash shpent happily and lugshyurioushly. I’m being paid twenty bucksh an hour to teach you how to not die pennilesh, so ashk ash many questions ash you can. Donashuns are gratefully akshepted.”
“Okay. Well, h—”
Screwge was cut short by a sharp, loud blast from an incoming ship. It sailed through his bedroom door and stopped as it reached the pair.
“Climb aboard!” Dumas yelled over the din. He turned around and bumped into the ship’s hull. Struggling, he managed to climb up the rope to the ship’s deck. Screwge followed and found himself on an antique ship, probably from the nineteenth century. The ship seemed to be steering itself, for no one else was aboard. The two leaned over the railing as the ship sailed out of the window.
“Ouch!” Screwge exclaimed as his head hit the window on the way out.
“Oh! I forgot. You’re a mortal,” a voice said.
“Wh-What was that?” Screwge asked in shock.
“That was just me ship. She’s a fine craft. Bought it meself, y’know,” Dumas replied. His eyes began to clear. Screwge looked down as they exited the window. He could see the homeless, asleep under newspapers and old blankets. He wanted to reach out and help them, but the ship sped on, past the post office, the library, and the mall. Soon the world seemed to spin because the ship was going so fast. Visions blurred until everything went black. When the first rays of light appeared, Screwge found himself on the ground, watching to timid Scots talking to an English geezer. The Englishman looked very familiar to Screwge.
“Pennies for the poor?” the taller Scot asked.
“Bah, humbug!” the Englishman replied, and violently pushed the two Scots away as he made across the cobblestone street. “Christmas! What a humbug!” the Englishman muttered under his breath. Screwge wanted to reach out and slap the man, but his hand passed through the man’s head as if it wasn’t there. The Englishman continued to walk away.
“Come on,” said Dumas. “He’s your dead uncle, Ebenezer Screwge!”
The two followed Ebenezer into an office, where a young secretary sat at a desk, shivering. A small candle flickered beside him.
“Scratchit!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re free to go home.”
“Thank you Mr. Screwge. Thank you. And a merry Christmas!” the secretary said. He ran out the door, slamming it behind him.
Ezekial turned to see what his uncle was doing. He despised his uncle now. Absolutely hated him.
Dumas interrupted his thought process by saying, “Look, Zeke. Over there. See. Your uncle is rich. Very rich. He could afford the whole town if he wanted it.” Dumas pointed to Ezekial’s uncle, counting stacks and stacks of gold coins.
“Why, I’ve never seen so much money in my life,” Ezekial said.
“Yes. And you could have all of that if you just save your money. You see, you don’t have to give away all of your money. Save some and soon you may accumulate as much as your uncle had.”
Ezekial thought back to the scene where his uncle Ebenezer refused to give any of his fortune to the poor. Perhaps that’s what I should do, he thought. I’ll just refuse to give them anything, and I’ll be as rich as my uncle!
Dumas checked his watch. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I have an appointment with Mark Twain! He’s going to give me a few pointers on piloting a steamboat! I hope you’ve seen enough to convince you to save some money!” The apparition faded away as Screwge’s world blacked out.
BONG! The grandfather clock woke Screwge up again. Screwge sat up, expecting to find himself face to face with another ghost. Instead, he saw a pot of coffee being poured into a Styrofoam cup.
“Would you like some?” a voice asked.
“Where are you?”
“Right in front of you,” the voice replied.
“Where?”
“Come on. Don’t you see that cup of coffee?”
“Yes.”
“That’s me! Why did I have to be invisible ?! Somehow people never notice me! They think I’m never there! They treat me like I’m thin air! I’m fed up with this! You and all of those other people! ‘Where are you?’ ‘Where are you?’ That’s it! I’m handing in my resignation!” Suddenly, the coffee cup dropped, leaving a giant stain on Ezekial’s bed. Dickens’ ghost appeared:
“I’m sorry. The times are getting rougher and rougher. We’re not getting many job application any more. And morale is low among our employees. That was the Ghost of the Present. He was supposed to tell you something, but I forgot what. I’m sorry,” the ghost apologized, a sincerely hurt expression on his face. He soon brightened up and said, “Say, you think I could have some of that coffee?”
“Help y—” Ezekial started, but stopped himself. “Actually, that’ll cost you. Two dollars. Inflation is awful right now.”
Dickens grumbled, but gave in, and then helped himself to the remaining coffee. On my way to success! Ezekial thought, Perhaps Freddy was right about me going to business school. Being rich sure sounds like fun! Mansions and servants!
“You wouldn’t happen to have any donuts about would you? Or cake, or pudding?”
“NO! You’ve had enough. If you don’t get out, I’ll start charging rent!”
“What the dickens did Dumas tell you?” Dickens asked as he disappeared.
Ezekial hung about his house, waiting for the next ghost to suddenly appear and tell him out this future. The grandfather clock chimed thrice, but still no ghost. He loitered about. As he did, he got to thinking. Maybe I’ll have a swimming pool, and three cars, and a private jet, and I’ll own a company, and buy a television, and a computer. I’m going to have a ton of fun!
As he turned a corner, the third ghost appeared. It was. . . Bill Gates!
“But you’re not dead yet!” Ezekial exclaimed.
“Shut up! I’m trying to make some money for my afterlife, maybe enough to start a spookware business.”
“Good idea!”
“Listen, you’re headed for some rough times if you don’t listen to me. You want to be rich. You have to be rich. Think about all the money you’re squandering on taxes. You listen to me and you might be able to retire. R-E-T-I-Y-E-R. Retire. And you’ll be able to relax. Here, let me show you.” He snapped his fingers and a computer appeared. He typed in a couple of commands, and the screen flashed.
Ezekial saw a man that looked like a pile of bones huddled at a street corner, under a messy pile of newspapers and plastic bags. His hair and beard were dishelved and tangled, growing from a gaunt, meager face. In his mouth was a well worn bone with deep imprints of a set of teeth.
“I think I’ve seen that man before,” Ezekial said.
A fat, furry dog strutted towards the man. As it got nearer, the rabid man lunged for the dog and started gnawing at its tail, swallowing both fur and fleas. The dog’s shocked owner raised a hand to slap the man, but ended up trying to yank her arm out from his throat. The computer screen went blank.
“Who was that?” Ezekial asked.
“Why, that’s you,” Bill Gates replied.
“You mean I’m going to be homeless?!”
“Yup. At the rate you’re going, with your income going down and taxes going up, it looks like you’re going to be homeless all right.”
“This can’t be!” Ezekial exclaimed.
“Hold on,” Bill Gates said. “Watch this.”
Ezekial watched as he toured a mansion, thirty years into the future. He saw the luxury of being rich. Wealth! Security! Fame! Power! Relaxation! FUN!!! Now he saw what he was missing. All his life he had worked, even when he felt he couldn’t lift another finger. After this night, he was going to work towards becoming rich. No matter what it took! He wanted to have unlimited wealth!
“This is what you can be. But you’ll have to work hard to achieve this kind of status.”
“I’ll do it!” Ezekial said determinedly.
“Remember to make a donation to my foundation,” Bill Gates said as he shrunk and disappeared into his computer.
The next day Ezekial woke up, fresh and determined. It was time for business. Without a care for breakfast, he rushed downstairs, grabbed his cloak, and shoved out his door. “I will be rich!” he said to himself, over and over.
He ran towards the heart of Chicago, alert for any signs of charitable activity. He found a few homeless people, but their hats and cans were empty, so he rushed past.
Right in front of the library he spotted his first target, the young boy whom he had given a few dollars. Running up to the child, he grabbed the boy in a half Nelson and then tossed him to the side. He picked up the boy’s can and turned it over, dumping the money into his hands. Shoving the change into his pocket, he dashed on.
His second target: the Salvation Army. Jackpot! he thought as he rushed up to the lady.
“Oh, hello again,” the woman said. “I’m so glad you came back. I wanted to say—” but stopped short as she saw Ezekial break the pot open, scoop up the contents, and dash away.
“And I thought he was such a nice man,” she said to herself distastefully.
Ezekial continued running, though almost out of breath. He said to himself, “I will be rich. I will be rich. I will be rich. No more of that ‘charitable’ stuff. No more donating to the poor and stupid. I’m smart. I’m bad. I’m going to have fun. I’m going to be rich!”
--Daniel Lee
