This entry was posted on Saturday, December 19th, 2009 at 4:44 pm and is filed under Humor. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
“What time are they coming?” I asked my wife hurriedly, after tossing back what was left of my whiskey and sliding the empty glass across the kitchen counter.
“4:30,” she replied frantically, not raising her head from the bowl of cookie dough she was stirring while setting the oven timer with her other hand, “And I still have to get dressed and do my hair. You better get going, there’s no way we are going to make it.”
I cursed and looked at my watch. 3:25. How the day had slipped away from us I had no idea, but this was a pattern we seemed doomed to repeat every year on Christmas Eve, and I was not sure if we bit off more than we could chew or were simply bad planners. It didn’t matter. We were hosting eight guests, many of them already in their cars and heading merrily towards our house, fully expecting to walk in and smell the aromas of mulling spices, a crackling fire and a full Christmas dinner. The only aroma we had managed to stir up at that moment was a quick whiff of gas as the stove lit to begin preparation on the first course. I cursed again as I pulled on my coat and stepped out into the cold to begin a journey that had become, over the years, the most dreaded task I had ever been forced to carry out; an angry, deflating and demoralizing trip to a place that I very much imagine to closely resemble the End Of Days.
I was going to Honeybaked Ham.
I can’t speak for the rest of the country, but there are a lot of people here. All on the same schedules, all with the same needs. And on this particular day, Christmas Eve, all of them wanting, no needing, their beautiful, crusty, brown-sugary and savory Honeybaked Ham. I had been each year before this one, and the experience was always the same. As I would round the corner my heart would sink as my eyes were met with the sight of an almost-infinate, winding serpent of people stretching for blocks, all waiting in frustration to get their hands on that perfect piece of gold-foil-wrapped pork. It was ludicrous, and the experience always put me and my wife into a bad mood. Me for having to endure the indefinite wait for meat, my wife for having to greet all of our guests with her hair not done because I was not yet home to relieve her. There had to be a better way.
As my car sped down the freeway on my way to Burbank, I decided to call ahead and ask for an approximate wait time. Perhaps knowing what I was in for before I saw the line would lessen the blow when I actually saw it. As I fished my phone out of my pocket my wallet fell out onto the floor. I glanced down to pick it up, noticed the corner of a twenty-dollar-bill sticking out and stopped.
I had an idea.
With the Jack Daniels still warming my blood I dialed the number, held the phone to my ear and waitied.
“Honeybaked Ham, this is Trudy,” said a raspy female voice on the other end, one that I could only assume belonged to a sixty something, three-pack-a-day smoker who’s face had seen too many years of hard living. I paused for a mintue, faltering as a result of the unexpected harshness of the individual who had answered, then pressed on.
“How long is the wait?” I murmered in a low voice, applying a faint British accent to my tone. I am still not sure why I felt the need to wear a vocal disguise, it just happened.
“I don’t know,” Trudy snapped. “Just as long as it is every year. I don’t have time to go count 500 people. Anything else?”
“Wait!” I said, still British. I took a deep breath. “Want to make twenty dollars?”
I held my breath as I drove in silence for what seemed like ages.
“I’m listening,” came the eventual reply, this time a bit softer and lower.
“I’m really late, and my wife will kill me if I wait in that line and show up for dinner during the third course with the third course. I just can’t wait. I’ll pay for my ham, but the twenty dollars is yours, Trudy. All yours.”
Silence. More silence. Then finally:
“Come straight to the little room at the back behind the drink machines. Talk to anyone and the deal is off.”
Click.
My adrenaline pumped as I pulled into the parking lot where there were actually employees directing traffic. I got out, pulled my hat down low over my eyes, thrust my fists deep into the pockets of my overcoat and began walking briskly towards the front door past the line of impatient and fidgety people, my head down. I grabbed the door handle and bumped into a portly, red-faced man as I squeezed through.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He bellowed. “The line is back there!”
“Just have to take care of a thing real quick,” I said quickly. British again.
I saw the door immedately over the sea of Honeybaked patrons exactly where she said it would be. It was cracked slightly, and I could see that it was dark inside with the exception of a single bare bulb, haloed by a cloud of cigarette smoke. I made my way to the door, the eyes of countless ham-buyers burning into the back of my neck as I clutched a tightly rolled wad of bills in my pocket. They gave me comfort.
I opened the door with a sqeuak and closed it behind me. The silence, immediately following the din of the wating room, was deafening. I waited for a moment, not able to make anything out in the darkness, before I saw the faint orange glow of a cigarette in the corner, followed by a scratchy exhale and a fresh cloud of smoke.
“Put it on the table.” The voice was Trudy’s.
I took a few tentative steps towards the voice and opened my trembling hand, dropping the wad of cash onto the tiny card table. After a few seconds I heard a shuffling sound, followed by a large foil-wrapped object sliding towards me. The ham came to rest a few inches from the edge. I stared at it, then back at the blackness where the cigarette had been.
“Thank you, Trudy. Trudy?”
There was no reply. Trudy was gone.
With that I snatched up my ham, tucked it under my arm and bolted for the door. I heard customers began to shout and clamor as they realized I had a ham under my arm, but kept running as fast as I could.
“Stop that guy!” someone shouted, and a few people stuck out their arms from the line as I whizzed by them, however they were too afraid of losing their place to stray too far from where they stood, and I avoided them. I dove into my car, their protests fading behind me, turned the key in the ignition and stood on the gas pedal, tires squealing as I rocketed out of the parking lot and onto the dark city streets. With my heart pounding in my chest, I looked at my watch and smiled. I was going to make it home in plenty of time, and I had my ham.
I have seen, or rather not seen, Trudy every year since then. Same place, same transaction. Each Christmas Eve when I call I experience a brief feeling of anxiety, bracing myself for the news that she has moved on to other things. But she is always there, in that dark room, with my ham. Waiting.
There are some Christmas traditions that must never be forgotten.
-Matt
Another Christmas Tradition should be buying something at our online store, RedSparks. Don’t you agree?
December 19th, 2009 at 5:54 pm
Oh, this is fantastic!!! I love it!!
Eternal Lizdom´s last blog ..All I Want For Christmas
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December 20th, 2009 at 7:14 am
Ah, nothing like a little underhandedness to get that Christmas Spirit moving! Yo uare offically my hero.
Kori´s last blog ..Friday Fragments
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December 21st, 2009 at 7:13 am
Just wanted to let you know that I’m going to link to this post on my blog on Weds!
Eternal Lizdom´s last blog ..Christmas, Hanukkah, Solstice, Yule, Kwanzaa, and More!
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December 22nd, 2009 at 8:32 pm
A story like that melts my heart like pork fat, Matt.
I just love reading about what a sentimental guy you are.
Did you notice you are linked into my butternut bisque recipe?
There’s still time to post some cute photos of the children before the big day…?
Blessed Merry Christmas to everyone at Redsparks!
Barbara´s last blog ..Stop and think.
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December 26th, 2009 at 2:03 pm
That’s awesome!
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