Sometimes, The Wheel is on Fire

Sometimes, The Wheel is on Fire

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Day Twelve


Ever since the first day of Christmas, Denise has been telling me how great the twelfth gift was going to be. How it would make up for everything. I didn’t doubt her for a second. After that initial second, however, I doubted her many, many times. There was no way one gift could make up for all that I’d been through over the preceding eleven days. Still, she insisted, so I agreed to take a half-day and be back home for when the gift arrived at one o’clock.

On the way to work I dropped off the last two hens, minus their outfits, at a local egg farm. We had run out of money to feed the other twenty-two people in our house, so Denise and I both believed this was the only way we could protect them from an untimely (yet tasty) demise. The morning at work was uneventful, though my stomach was in knots as I envisioned what horrors might await me back at the house. I signed off shortly after noon and drove home.

When the doorbell rang, I was upstairs. Denise blindfolded me, then guided me to the living room, careful to maneuver around all the new pipes that had sprouted up overnight. Then she whipped off the blindfold, and there, standing before me, were twelve blue men. Not smurfs, not a dozen Paul Giamatti impersonators, but actual Blue Men. Denise had hired four Blue Man Group trios to come to our home for a special performance. Pleasantly surprised, I eagerly took my seat as they carried in the last of their props.

A few years ago I went into New York to see a Blue Man show, and let me tell you, compared to this that was utter rubbish. The twelve performers drummed rhythmically on the massive tangle of pipes with such precision, with such finesse, it was as if the pipers had constructed the plumbing specifically for such an occasion.1 The Blue Men’s comic timing was impeccable, and the entire show came together so wonderfully that I never would have guessed the groups had never performed with each other before. In such an intimate setting, every beat on every pipe and every drum resonated in our very bones, and it was such a captivating experience that we hardly noticed that two windows had shattered, or that every surface in the house was being spattered mercilessly with fluorescent paint as they banged on their drums. ‘Twas the most spectacular show Denise or I had ever seen.


Pa rum pa pum pum.

Of course, not everyone was as enthralled as we. Shortly after the pipers’ dramatic exit, the paint started flying, and the dancers fled the scene to shield their Victorian attire. Also, when one of the Blue Men began using the turtle shells as bongos, both doves struggled their way out of the shells and flew off — albeit with difficulty, as their wings had atrophied — through one of the shattered windows.

The performance lasted two hours, and by the end we were exhausted but euphoric. We thanked the Blue Men profusely, and waved as they raced off to return to their home cities for that night’s shows. Four maids, having finally finished their drinks, also chose this time to take their leave.

Upon re-entering the house, we were accosted by Lord Vader, who pronounced that he had been visited in the night by the holographs of three jedis, and wished to change his wicked ways. Wanting to make up for his disgraceful behavior thus far, he asked if he might cook us dinner, then before we could stop him, he summoned his minions to get him “the biggest goose in the village.” They returned from the basement a minute later with one of the bricklaying geese, now deceased. Vader set about cooking it, as well as some side dishes made from what little food we had left in the cupboards, then carved the bird with a light saber. We were joined at dinner by Michael Flatley and the one remaining maid, who somehow still had a few drops of beer left in her glass from four days prior. The goose was succulent, the entire meal exquisite. Take my word for it: if you ever get the chance to taste goose prepared by light saber, I highly recommend it.

As dinner ended, a group of guys wearing uniforms from Jim’s Plumbing charged into the house unannounced and darted into the basement. They re-emerged carrying the three parrots, who were all squawking their heads off. One flashed an FBI badge and explained that Don Pappagallo and his two accomplices were being apprehended on the charge of racketeering. The mafia don yelled, “Ya set me up, Flatley! Yer dead!” as he was escorted out the door. The agent thanked us and left.

After dessert,2 Michael Flatley offered to take the last three geese (two bricklayers, one tile-layer) off our hands and give them a good home at a pond by his house. He promised not to eat them, so we said okay. I figure they’ll either learn to blend in with the other geese there, or build a bridge. He said he’d write and tell us which it was.

Then we bid him, Lord Vader, and the final maid (whose last drop of beer had just evaporated) adieu. Denise and I watched them go, and I knew we were both thinking the same exact thing:

Best. Christmas. Ever.


Epilogue

We went back inside to survey the damage. There were pipes and paint everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Shattered windows, cracks in the foundation, a plethora of goose poop, the place was a disaster area. It was as if the set of Double Dare had exploded in our house. Down in the basement, the hatch was completely bricked in, and the entire floor was haphazardly covered in dingy 70s-era tile.

Out back, the swans were nowhere to be seen. They had probably been scared off by all the drumming in that afternoon’s show, and were now flying south in search of warmer weather.3 There was also a large mound in the back corner of the yard where three lords had been buried in a pauper’s grave.

It was pretty clear what we had to do. In fact, there was only one thing to do: burn the place to the ground and start over with the insurance money.

We also agreed on one other thing... In the future, our Christmases will last only one day. We’ll celebrate it together, without pipers or lords or any sort of poultry. It’ll just be me, Denise, the dog and cat, and Danny Bonaduce. In a pear tree.


1 The pipers had not constructed the plumbing for just such an occasion. Two minutes into the performance, all eleven of the surly Scots stormed out in a huff, screaming about “such a careless disregard for quality craftsmanship,” and how we could “expect to hear from the Pipers’ Union about this.” Whatever.
2 One Saltine each, all we had left.
3 Or the nearest YMCA with a pool.

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