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The
Twelfth of January:
"Sir, the call you've been waiting for…"
Before his secretary could finish, he jabbed the flashing button on his phone.
"Corrine, where have you been?" he barked.
"Where the blazes do you think? I've been looking for a public
phone, in an out of the way place where no one can listen, in the middle of a snowstorm, that's where I've been! Now what is so bloody urgent that I have to take myself out of a nice, dry office, and stand here in Artic
Hell?"
"Corrine, I am a reasonable man…"
"God punishes liars."
"I'll ignore that for now. We have been very careful not to let
people know of our relationship, so as not to hinder your career or safety."
"Get to the point. I have snow melting down the back of my neck,"
she snarled.
"Enough of the smart stuff, please? Just explain to me the meaning
of your latest present," he growled into the phone.
"Excuse me for becoming senile in the snow, but what the hell are you babbling about? What present? I haven't sent you anything," she replied, shivering
as a blast of snowy wind blew into her face.
"You know damn well what I'm talking about, woman. Who else would
send me a four foot tree with little, plastic pears tied on it, and a stupid bird perched on the top of it?" he snarled into
the phone.
It took her a few seconds to picture and digest the description of the offending gift, then, she laughed, "A
Partridge in a Pear Tree? Did it come with a card by any chance?"
"Corrine Elizabeth…"
"I know my name. Answer the question, idiot, before I freeze to
death out here in the tundra," she snarled back at her lover.
"Yes. It came with a card," he said, clipping his words as he spoke
them. "All it said was 'Make sure you mark your calendar for the Family Christmas
Reunion'. Couldn't you have just sent the card without the tree, for heaven sake? Must everything be a production with you?" he growled.
"I'm trying to break in a new secretary and now the whole office is snickering about that stupid tree. What am I supposed to do with a four foot tree with pears and a bird?" he yelled.
"In answer to your questions, in their proper order, I didn't send the damn tree, nor did I send the stupid
card. I don't make a production of everything, and I don't care what you do with
the bloody tree! Shove it in your office closet and have a pear a day, for all
I care! Fruit is good for you!" she yelled over the sound of a car going by and
the howling of the wind.
"They're plastic pears," he snapped. "And if you didn't send it,
who did?"
"Well, gee, let me think. I come from a very large family, and
each individual member has their own, sick sense of humor. Discarding the people
who have died, and the ones too young to be that insane, yet, I'd say you only have about two to three hundred suspects. Why don't you put one of your fair-haired boys in the office on the job of finding
out and let me go back to the station so that I can thaw out. And darling, happy
twelfth of January!" With that, she slammed the phone down with such force, his
right ear rang for the rest of the day.
It did not surprise him when, a few days later, the official report, by the 'fair-haired boy' he assigned to
investigate, stated 'person or persons unknown.' The agent had tracked the tree
back to a local florist, who had received a wire order from a florist in Washington, D.C.
That florist had informed him that he received the order from a walk in transaction, paid in cash, and he did not recall
what the person looked like. It was a dead end.
"Sounds just like her family," he growled to himself.
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of February:
The bedside phone jangled her awake. She reached out only as much
of her hand as was necessary, from under the covers, and grabbed the receiver.
"This had better be an announcement that World War III has just started, or that I have won the Irish Sweepstakes. Anything less, and I will seek my revenge in a most hideous, and painful, way," she
grumbled into the phone.
"It's only nine o'clock in the evening by you. What are you doing
in bed so early on this twelfth day of February?" she heard the unmistakable voice of her life's love growl at her. "And don't threaten me, woman. Nothing you promise can equal
the torment you are putting me through right now," he said, in a voice so cold that she woke up instantly.
"Forgive me, my Lord and master, for not receiving your phone call with the respect and honor due such a high
personage. My humble excuse for this rudeness is that I have been on my feet
for the last thirty-nine hours straight, checking the bona fides of a new asset that has presented itself," she replied, with
equal coldness. "But, please, don't apologize for waking me up. I actually did just get thirty-six minutes of sleep. That's
enough to keep me going for a few more days. What's your problem now, big boy?"
she growled back at him.
"Funny you should ask," he continued, in his controlled, angry, voice.
"How about a three by six foot terrarium, complete with two of the biggest, meanest snapping turtles you can imagine. Of course, their lack of humor might be related to the harness of wings attached to
each of their shells!" he shouted at her. "Corrine, I mean this. Get the word out to that family of yours that I will hold you personally responsible if any more of these
little gifts show up at my office. This is a government agency, not the national
zoo!"
"I DID!' she shouted back at him. "I told them last month to cut
out the comedy act because the man I have unfortunately fallen in love with, has no sense of humor, or soul!" she literally
screamed at him. "No one knew what the bloody hell I was talking about! And think about it, really. We can eliminate
over half the family because this is too sophisticated of a torture plot for them. Two
'turtle doves' and 'a partridge in a pear tree'? Whoopee cushions and dribble
glasses are more their style. You know, if I were you, I'd put a team together
and drop them into the Kremlin. Gorbachev is supposed to have a pretty wild sense
of humor, I hear. This could be a Russian plot to undermine the agency. Now, just suck it up and deal with it, like I have had to deal with my family all
my damn life!" she shouted, and slammed the receiver down so hard, his left ear rang with the concussion for the rest of the
day.
This time, he assigned two 'fair-haired boys' to the investigation, and again, it all led back to a dead end. He promised the air around his desk he would be ready in March.
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of March:
March 12th arrived with as much foreboding as Caesar had waited the Ides of that same month. As far as Control was concerned, they were one and the same. First came the urgent call, in the early hours of the morning, to catch the red eye to Washington for a
clandestine meeting at headquarters. That was bad enough, but to arrive and find
he had to share the room, and breathe the same air as that worm, Jason, was almost too much.
The man was scum dressed in a good suit, in Control's opinion. Then, there
was the sleet storm that delayed his flight back to New York. And naturally,
the trip from the airport took almost as long as the flight home. To top off his near perfect day, there was the note stapled
to his office door by his secretary.
"Murchison," said the cheery voice at the other end of the phone. God,
how he wished he were in Berlin right now.
"Corrie…" she heard him say, and then she heard the unmistakable sound of three, quick gunshots from the
other end of the line. Her heart froze, a breath caught in her throat, and she
felt her mind and body go instantly numb.
"Please, dear God, oh please, let him be all right," she prayed fervently into the receiver.
"I apologize for that. I couldn't stand them pecking at my shoes
any longer," said the much-loved voice she had just been praying for.
In a barely audible whisper, she asked, "What in holy hell is going on?
Who, or what, was pecking at your shoes? Whatever it is, or was, don't
ever do that to me again! You scared me half to death! I thought you were being shot," she said, choking into tears as she finished the sentence.
"Dear God, Corrie, I'm sorry. I apologize, really. I didn't think. I'm all right.
It was the chickens…" he stammered.
"Chickens?" she whispered faintly, as she was going into shock.
"Yes, three of them, running around my office, in little lace aprons," he answered.
"Lace aprons?" she whispered, vaguely.
"Corrie, listen to me. Listen to my voice, honey. I… am… all…right. You are all right. I am so very sorry for scaring you so badly.
Please, whatever you do, don't pass out, or faint, or do anything like that," he said, almost pleading with her.
"Start from the beginning, talk very slowly, and let me find my heartbeat," she answered finally.
"It's been a hellish day," he began. "One of those very CIA phone
calls in the middle of the night, a meeting at Langley at the break of dawn, no less.
And Jason was there… I feel like I should shower. Then there was
a sleet storm, which made the trip back a nightmare. When I finally got to my
office this evening, everyone had gone home. There was this note stapled to my
office door…"
"Stapled?"
"Yes, stapled. It was from my secretary, Jane, the new one I've
been trying to break in. I've told you about her, tall, red hair, glasses, well,
it doesn't matter now. She resigned."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" whispered the woman he loved.
"You said from the beginning. I'm trying to explain," he pleaded.
"Ok, I'll be quiet and listen. Oh, the noise you hear is me breathing
into a paper bag," she informed him.
"When I got in, there was this note on my office door. It was obviously
scrawled very hastily and said, 'I don't know where they came from. I don't care,
either. They were there when I got back from lunch. First it's snapping turtles with wings, now it's chickens with aprons.
I QUIT!' And it was signed, 'Jane'. That's
what it said," he finished.
"Chickens,"
"With aprons," he added.
"And… you… shot… them?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"In… your… office?" she had said this so softly, he barely heard her.
"Yes, Corrie. I shot three chickens, with aprons, in my office,
with my Glock. Are you going to be okay?
Can you breathe any better now?" he asked sincerely.
"No, and when I get my hands on the mother f…ing member of my family who is doing this, they are going
to want to defect to another country, on another planet, in another solar system!" Her
voice was getting stronger with each word, and he knew that she would be fine now. She
was nearly screaming.
"Good, Corrie, that's good. Get angry. It will get your blood moving again and clear your brain from the shock. That's
my girl! Now, how do we go about finding this loving member of your family, who
has now sent me three chickens, dressed in aprons…"
"Three French hens," she quietly corrected him.
"Three chickens, in aprons, two turtles dressed like doves, and a bird in a fake pear tree," he finished.
"I don't know just yet. Let me think on it while I go to the washroom
and chuck up my supper. I'll call you when I have any ideas… or I've caught
them and killed them… just before they throw the switch on the electric chair… to tell you I loved you," she finished
in a whisper, and the phone line went dead.
He sighed very deeply and wished he could go somewhere and chuck up supper, but he hadn't eaten supper yet. And then there were the chickens.
The cafeteria menu the following afternoon listed fresh, home-cooked chicken soup.
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of April:
"Mr. Phelps, I didn't call you in here to ask you for your resignation, or for excuses. I am looking for an answer to my question. How did this happen?'
asked a very unhappy Northern Control. "This is a CIA facility. CIA stands for Central Intelligence Agency, if I am not mistaken?
We are supposed to have an impenetrable security net surrounding this facility, according to the document that I am
holding in my hand. This document, by the way, was developed by, and signed off
on, by you, yourself. So, I am simply asking for an explanation as to how someone
could penetrate this impenetrable security net, for the second month in a row, to deposit something in my office?"
"I don't know, sir. We've checked all of the security cameras and
they are functioning perfectly. There is nothing unusual on any of the surveillance
tapes. They all show normal office activity for the time in question. We have a perfect view of your office door, and no one was seen going into, or coming out of, your office,"
stammered a profusely sweating John Phelps.
"So, what you are basically telling me is that these THINGS just materialized on my desk? Forgive me, Mr. Phelps, but it is my understanding that the only civilization to possess matter transportation
technology is The United Federation of Planets…on Star Trek," he said softly, barely controlling his anger.
At this moment, his newly installed, high security, private phone line began to ring. He picked up the receiver and barked, "Control! Oh, yes, one
moment, please," and turned back to face his demoralized security chief.
"Phelps, I want answers. I don't want resignations, or excuses. And I certainly don't want science fiction television.
Now, I have to take this call. Let me know when you have some intelligence
to report."
He waited for the relieved security chief to flee his office before he returned to his phone call.
"Corrie, I'm back," he said.
"I just got your message. What… what was it this time?" she
asked, a slight tremor in her voice.
"Four… huge… plush… Big Bird dolls, one sitting on each corner of my desk. All of them were holding gaudy, plastic toy telephones," he whispered to her.
"Big Birds? Holding toy telephones?
Four calling birds," she whispered. "Was there a message?"
"Yes," he said. "It read 'Phone now for those holiday reservations.' Corrie, do you realize what this means?" he asked.
"Of course I do, my tall, dark, handsome idiot," she said quietly. "There
are eight more months until Christmas."
"Eight," he agreed.
And they both sighed, very, very deeply.
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of May:
The Twelfth of May found our man, Control, and the love of his life, Corrie, in the midst of a secret rendezvous
in a small, quaint, bed and breakfast, in a lovely Bavarian village. They had
been planning a romantic get-away together for some time now. They felt they
needed time together, to renew and refresh their spirits, and to plan their strategy in this wave of family oriented terrorism.
They had spent three, wonderful days wandering the forest and talking quietly together, and the evenings making
love. They were lying, naked, in their bed together, having just finished a very,
very satisfying moment of erotic pleasure when the telephone at their bedside rang.
"Yes, Phelps, I'm listening," he said into the receiver, and then kissed the top of his lover's head. "By messenger, from FAO Schwartz. I understand. It was ordered through their San Francisco store. Right, and
they paid cash, of course. Walk in purchase, yes, I understand. No way to trace it. Clerk does not remember anything out of
the ordinary or unusual about the person. Doesn't even remember if it was a man
or a woman. Thank you, Phelps," he said.
"What was that? Oh, yes, ah, just put the five gold hula-hoops in the
closet in my office with the rest of the… evidence," he replied. "Oh, and,
thank you for your report," he replied.
He hung up the phone and looked deeply into the eyes of the woman he loved so much. "Well, it just came," he said in a quiet voice.
"Five gold hula-hoops?" she asked, just as quietly.
"Yes," he replied.
"Five gold rings… was there any message?" she whispered into his chest.
"Something to the effect of 'Plan ahead now. Don't run in circles,'"
he told her.
"Five down," she whispered.
"Yes."
"Seven more to go. Give us strength," she prayed.
"Amen," he whispered into the top of her head as his hands began, again, to caress her and stroke her body in
desire.
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of June:
"Corrie?"
"Harumpfft"
"Honey, I'm sorry to have to wake you up."
"It's all right, sweetheart. I haven't slept a whole night through
for several months now, for some unknown reason."
"They've changed the playing field."
"What?"
"They hit me… it came to my apartment this time."
"Dear God, how? We were so careful.
I haven't even told my parents your new address and phone number."
"I know, I know. I'm not blaming you. I'm just a little shaken-up, that's all."
"My poor baby, why don't you pour yourself a good, stiff drink?"
"I all ready have, scotch, straight up, a double," came his reply.
"Good, that should help. Do you feel up to talking about it?"
"Yes, I think so. I… I waited at the office all day for IT
to come, but nothing. No delivery, no surprises, nothing. Security was on high alert all day. Finally, around nine,
I called it off and decided to go home and get some rest. I've been…a little
tense these last few days. You understand?"
"Yes, I do, darling."
"Well, I had a security agent drive me home. I didn't want any
surprises jumping out of my trunk in the middle of traffic."
"Very understandable."
"All was quiet in the apartment building lobby. There was no warning
whatsoever. They were… there when I got off the elevator on my floor,"
he said, in a whisper.
"They?"
"Geese."
"Geese?"
"Geese."
"They… weren't alive, where they?"
"No, thank God, but it was bad enough."
"How?"
"Concrete."
"Concrete?"
"Yes, concrete, and heavy. Those ubiquitous concrete lawn ornaments
that are in fashion now. The ones they dress up in silly costumes for the holidays?"
"Yes, and they're scary looking out on a lawn, on a normal day. But
in your hallway, at night?"
"They were marching in a line from the elevator up to my door, six of them.
And…"
"What is it sweetheart?"
"They were wearing little elf suits… complete with hats, and pointed slippers with bells."
"That's nauseating!"
"I agree. But that's not the worst."
"I'm not sure I want to know any more."
"Each one had a basket with real, raw eggs."
"It's apropos, I guess. But you would think there would be some
limit to their fiendishness. Was there… did they come with a note or anything?"
"Yes. 'Get in line now for those Holiday reservations.' I couldn't read the rest. I… I needed to get a drink…to
steady myself."
"I understand, darling. This was your home they were violating
this time. What did you do with them?"
"They're in the front hall closet, the geese anyway. The baskets
of eggs are on the counter, in the kitchen. I don't know quite what to do with
them. I'm not sure I'd be able to eat any of them."
"Don't then. Just get rid of them, baskets and all."
"Corrie?"
"Yes?"
"You understand what this means, don't you? Besides the fact that
they know where I live?"
"Yes, I understand the implications. They somehow know that your
office closet is full. Now, they'll have to hit you at home."
"Six more."
"We'll get through this, together, I promise, darling."
"I know we will. I do love you, you know?"
"Yes, I know. And I love you.
Try and get some rest tonight."
"I don't think that's possible, not here anyway, with those things sitting there in the closet."
"Then go to a hotel, or, what about Robert? I'm sure he'll give
you sanctuary."
"Yes, I'm sure he will, but… do we really want to involve innocent people in this sordid mystery?"
"Darling, you need to get some rest. Robert will understand."
"You're right. I'll go to McCall's.
I'll call you tomorrow… or is it today, for you? I'm a little confused."
"Perfectly understandable, dear."
"And Corrie? One more thing."
"Yes?"
"Do you think… if it's possible… you could get away for a couple of days next month?"
"I'll be there, darling, no matter what. I won't let you face the
twelfth of July alone. I swear."
"Thank you. I don't deserve you."
"And you don't deserve this."
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of July:
"Honey, they're here!" she yelped over the phone.
"Who is 'they'?" he asked in surprise.
"I found a small, blow up, swimming pool just outside the front door a little while ago. I heard this noise and went to see what it was. It took me
a bit to chase them all down, but I did. And are they cute, in an ugly sort of
way," she giggled.
"Corrie, listen to me, honey. Who is 'they'?" he asked again.
"The ducklings, silly! Seven of them," she answered giggling louder.
He sighed deeply. With the patience he had recently been forced
to develop, he asked her, "Corrie, think about it. What did the ugly duckling
turn into at the end of the story?"
"A swan!" she answered proudly.
"And what were the 'seven something's' we've been waiting for?" he asked kindly.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. He could almost
hear her sluggish brain working on the questions.
"Damn, why didn't I think of that?" she asked, befuddled.
"It's the medication, sweetheart. I think you've taken too much
of that cough syrup the doctor prescribed for you. It's fried your brain," he
answered honestly.
Corrie had arrived four days before, for a week of supposed training on some new equipment. She was running a high temperature, had a hacking cough, and her head was so congested, he didn't know
why they had let her on the plane. He had taken her straight to a doctor,
who prescribed a course of antibiotics, a cough syrup with a very strong dose of codeine, and an order for bed rest and plenty
of fluids. He hadn't left her side until this morning, when he had to run into
the office to clear up some paperwork.
"Sweetheart, where are they now?" he asked.
"Who?"
"The swans, dear. Where are the swans, now?"
"Oh, them. I put them in the bathtub. They kept jumping out of the swimming pool and I was getting tired of chasing them all over the apartment. They can't quite master the slippery sides of the tub.
Is that okay with you?"
"Yes, dear. That's fine.
Was there a note with them?"
"Note?"
"Yes, a note. A piece of paper with writing on it?" he asked patiently.
"Oh, yeah, that's what that was! The duckies were playing with
something. They seemed to be enjoying it.
There's some still floating at the bottom of the pool. Do you want me
to scoop it out and try to put it back together again?" she asked energetically.
"No, honey. It's all right.
It's not important. I'll be home soon and I'll make arrangements for them
to be picked up," he reassured her.
"What, you're not going to keep them?" she asked in surprise.
"No, dear. I have no intention of turning my apartment in to a
swan sanctuary. I have enough on my hands right now with you and the reaction
you're having to that medication. Please, go back to bed and rest. I'll be home in a little while. Okay?"
"Okay. If you insist?"
"I do insist," he replied tenderly.
"Do me a favor on your way home, huh, please?" she asked, in a little girl voice.
"Yes, dear. More ice cream?"
"No, silly. Lettuce! Duckies
don't eat ice cream. And the boys have eaten what we had in the fridge," she
finished giggling even more.
"The boys?"
"Yep. I named them!"
"You… named… them?"
"Yeah, I had to call them something, silly."
"Corrie…"
"There's Michelangelo and Leonardo…"
"Corrine…"
"And Donatello and Raphael…"
"Elizabeth…"
"Ah, Huey and Dewey…"
"Margaret…"
"And Louie!"
"Murchison!"
"No, silly boy, Brown, after you, their daddy!"
"Get back in bed this minute! That's an order!" he shouted into
the phone.
"Oops! Can't right now. They've
figured out how to get out of the tub. Three of them are heading for the pass. Gotta go! Love you! Bye-bye!" she said as one word, and the phone connection went
dead.
He sighed deeply and replaced the receiver on the phone. Then,
the man who carried the mantle of power and authority over all company northern operations, rested his head in his hands and
said, out loud, "Why, God, why?" First, it was this demented version of The Twelve
Days of Christmas, which was barely tolerable, and now it was Corrie. He was
concerned enough about her illness. But to have the very medication prescribed
to help her, turn her into a giggling child, this was almost too much. "Is this
a punishment?" he asked the air in the room.
And then he caught sight of it, tucked under some file folders and barely visible. It was one of the airline barf bags Corrie regularly sent him through Company mail. Her idea of a joke, referring to the first time they had met. She
had vowed never to let him forget that day, when he had vomited all over her as she had tried to introduce herself at the
airport.
The alarm bells in his mind were ringing. Was this punishment…or
payback? It certainly wasn't payback on Corrie's part, that much he knew. She enjoyed her slow and laid back form of torment far too much. She truly enjoyed
yanking his chain at odd moments, just to remind him that he owed her. Besides,
not even the love of his life could pretend to be that twisted from the cough syrup.
This was cosmic payback; the kind there is no fighting against. Not even
Northern Control could take on God! He just had to 'suck it up and deal with
it' as Corrie had said before.
Yes, he could 'deal with it,' he knew that, now. He was determined
not to let it get to him. But first things first, he had to get to the apartment
and take control… no pun intended… and get Corrie back to the doctor. He
stood up and grabbed his suit coat. Yes, better days were coming and he knew
that, no matter what, or how it manifested itself, he could 'deal' with the last five days of Christmas.
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of August:
"Sir?"
"Yes, Miss Hansen."
"Sir, I'm Beddoes. Hansen was your last secretary."
"Oh, sorry. I apologize.
What is it, Beddoes?"
"Sir, Warren Peterson, from the Berlin Station, is on the line for you.
He sounded, well, kind of nervous, and I wasn't sure if you would want to take the call."
"Peterson, nervous? Yes, yes, of course, I'll take the call. Thank you," and he clicked right over to the waiting call.
"Peterson, it's Control here. What's new?" he asked, not sure he
wanted an answer.
"Good afternoon, sir. I hope I'm not bothering you?" asked the
Head of Berlin Station.
"No, you're not bothering me. What's going on by you?"
"Well, sir, I'm really not sure…"
"Just take a deep breath and spit it out, Warren. What is Murchison
up to now?"
"How did you know this was about Corrie, sir?"
"Every time you and I have talked in recent years, Murchison has been the number one topic of that conversation,"
replied Control. Under his breath, he added, "And this is the twelfth day of
August."
"Yes, sir. I wouldn't be calling you now, except that… well,
Corrie insisted on it. I mean, she really insisted that I call you. She said it would make your day…" his voice trailed off.
"It would make my day, huh? Well, make my day, Warren."
"Okay, sir, as long as you say it's… Sir, she's been arrested."
"Arrested? By whom and for what, I may ask?" he calmly inquired.
"I just received a call from a magistrate at the station near her home.
All he told me was that, because Corrie was a United States citizen, and that she worked for us, he was allowing her
one phone call. When Corrie got on the line, I really couldn't understand very
much of what she was saying."
"Why?"
"Sir, she was laughing."
"Laughing?"
"Yes, sir. She was laughing, like the whole thing was some giant
joke. She kept saying something about cows and milkmaids and Christmas carols. I couldn't make it out, and there was a lot of shouting in the background. But she kept saying over and over again, that I should call you and tell you…"
"Yes, tell me what?"
"Tell you, sir, that you were off the hook?" he said in confusion. "I
don't understand what she meant by that. What should I do, sir?"
Taking a deep breath, Control calmly told him, "Warren, just go down to the
magistrate's office, and do what you need to do to bail her out of jail. I…
I can't tell you any more. You see, she's on an assignment, from an authority
higher than I am. It's classified "Top Secret – Need to know", and I don't
even have all the details. When you get her out, just make sure that she calls me immediately and reports in. I'll be here at my office until around midnight.
Is that understood?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. I'll do that.
I'll leave immediately," said the even more confused man on the phone.
"Thank you, Warren. And say 'hello' to your wife for me," he finished.
Hanging up the phone, he slouched back in his chair and allowed himself a moment of pure relief. Just a moment, mind you. Then he smiled broadly. Yes, he was off the hook this time, and Corrie was receiving the full brunt of her family's evil mind game. Yes, he should feel concerned, but he knew that Corrie was a very strong woman. She had been dealing with this gang of homeland terrorists for a long time and could
more than handle herself. Still smiling, he returned to the pile of folders lying
across his desk and waited patiently for her to call.
At 11:30 that evening, his private phone line rang.
"Woman, what have you done now to harm international relations?" was how he answered the phone call.
"Smart ass! I took this hit for you and this is the respect I get? Some lover. So, how's it hanging, big
guy?"
"You will be hanging from the light post just outside the station door soon, if Warren has his way. All right, I'll play the game. And what is new with you, my
darling? Is everything going well in your fair city?" he asked pleasantly.
"That's better. As a matter of fact, all was going just fine, until
I got home this afternoon. I worked the twelve to twelve today. I thought it would be poetic, no? Anyway, I got home and jumped
in my jammies, and went straight to bed. Figured I'd rest up a bit before your
phone call," she laughed.
"Yes, I am sure you were all a-twitter with anticipation of my expected bad news, my dear," he laughed with
her.
"Yes, and the fact that I was hoping you'd talk dirty to me…Okay, I'll get on with it," she said when
she received no reaction to her first comment. "It was around six when I woke
up and heard caroling outside my windows."
"Caroling?"
"Yes, as in Christmas… Anyway, I got up and looked out the windows, and, sure enough, there they were. Eight ladies dressed in milkmaid costumes, belting out, "Away in a Manger…"
"What?"
"Away in a manger… you know, "the cattle are lowing, the baby awakes…"
"Vaguely…"
"Heathen."
"Yes, but I am the heathen that adores you," he said.
"Aw, honey… that's so sweet."
"Yes, it is; now, on with the story, woman," he told her.
"Yes, boss. Okay, the carolers are outside my window, and I suddenly
hear a woman screaming, out in the hallway. I grab my gun, and bolt out the door…"
"Please tell me you had your sweats on," he cut in.
"Of course not, one of my little T-shirt nighties, the one with the demented smiley faces…"
She heard him groan loudly, and continued, "And I ran smack into the backside of a cow."
"What?"
"You heard me, the rear end of a bovine…. Cow butt…"
"I get the picture."
"Well, picture this, while you're at it. There are actually eight
cows in the hallway, along with eight pails of milk, and eight milking stools. Got
it?"
"Oh, yes, I have it nicely pictured in my mind. Then what happened?"
"Well, the neighbor lady is screaming to beat the band, more and more people come out in the hall and start
yelling, the cows are getting upset and defecating all over the place…"
"What was that?"
"Don't make me say it twice… cow patties, dung…"
"Manure…"
"You got it, all over the place. And I'm in my bare feet, too," she added.
"Charming."
"Yes, and smelly. Well, someone called the police, and the fire
brigade, and heaven only knows whom else. Before long, the place is pure bedlam. I wouldn't have been surprised if an armored unit had shown up. That's about the time they discovered the card."
"I was wondering where the card would come in. What did this one have to say?"
"Steady yourself, it read, 'The cattle are lowing because you have not yet made arrangements where to lay your
sweet head.'"
"That's pretty bad."
"Very true. Then one of the policemen sees me standing there with
my Glock in my hand and starts yelling, 'Weapon, she has a weapon!' and the real insanity starts."
He groaned loudly, again.
"He was a real hero, he was. Gets all macho and leaps at me, slips
on some cow poop, falls at my feet, and knocks me down on top of him."
"In your short nightie," he said.
"You've got the picture. The next thing I know, I've been arrested
and am on my way to the slammer, the big house, the pokey…."
"And you were charged with…"
"Oh, that's the fun part. We start with indecent exposure…"
"That does not surprise me."
"Work our way through public indecency, assaulting a police officer, I got that just for falling on him, causing
a public disturbance, public nuisance, criminal damage to private property, harboring farm animals within the city limits,
and sixteen counts of animal cruelty."
"Sixteen? Why sixteen? There
were only eight cows," he inquired.
"Well, in their wisdom, and love of animals, I got eight counts for bringing them into the building, that's
confining them in an area with insufficient room or ventilation, and eight counts of causing their untimely demise."
"Explain that one. You didn't shoot them, did you?"
"I am not you," she answered him, defensively. "Come on, farm boy,
think about it. Cows can and will happily walk up two flights of stairs, but
there is no power on this here green earth…"
"To make them walk down two stairs, let alone two flights of stairs," he finished for her.
"You get an 'A'," she told him. "From what I heard at the police
station, as my landlord was standing there, trying to get his hands on my throat, the more people tried to get them to go
down the stairs, the more agitated they became. The more agitated they got, well,
let's just say the manure quotient was escalating."
"What did they end up doing with them?"
"They called in a vet, who delivered a merciful 'coup de Gras' to the poor creatures. Then the fire brigade rigged up some kind of sledges and dragged them down the stairway. As they were being called my personal property, I asked that they be taken to a butcher and their meat
be donated to the poor and homeless shelters."
"Nice touch."
"Yeah, I can be warm and fuzzy at times."
"I'll second that vote," her love agreed.
"Thanks, sport. By then, Warren had shown up to try and spring
me. Of course, he had to personally swear that I would not try to leave the country,
and that the office would cover any expenses that I fail to fully reimburse for the cleanup.
My landlord insisted on that one, just before he told me I was evicted."
"Evicted?"
"You didn't think I'd be allowed back in the building, did you? Yes,
I am to pay for the 'Complete and thorough repair of all damages to the building, the complete re-carpeting of the stairs
and hallway, the vet bill, the butcher bill, and,' now this was a nice one, 'the hourly pay of all individuals who responded
to this crises.' I really like that one," she laughed.
"And how do you intend to pay for all this? Sell doughnuts on the
street corner?"
"No, I figure I'll save a lot of money by not buying Christmas presents this year. Not to mention saving on travel expenses, because I'll be locked in some dank, cold, German prison for
a long time."
"I'll come and visit you, I promise," he laughed.
"Ah, big boy, how sweet! Bring a file with you, okay?"
"For you, anything. So now what are you going to do?"
"Well, I'm going to try and get some sleep here at the station tonight, though I don't know where. No one seems to be willing to let me sleep on their office couch, for some reason."
"I wonder why?"
"Neither do I. I was allowed to take a shower at the police station,
and they gave me some prison coveralls to put on, but I still don't smell like roses."
"It will take some time, trust me, to get that farm smell out of your skin.
But I still love you."
"Thank you, farm boy. Tomorrow, Ed and a couple of the guys are going to rent a truck and move all of my stuff
out of the apartment. Now I'm the homeless one.
Oh, and just what did you tell Warren about all this? He keeps looking
at me like I've attained sainthood, which is something I never expected from him."
"Well, I just told him that you were on an assignment for 'higher authorities,' and that he was not to ask you
any questions, just bail you out and have you report directly to me. It seemed
to impress him a great deal."
"Oh dear, it did." At that point, she could not help yawning quite
loudly. "Sorry, big boy, it's not the company, maybe it's the fumes."
"My dearest, you have been through a great deal tonight. I would
suggest that you find some sort of blanket, curl up in a corner somewhere, and get some rest.
The world will look better tomorrow, I promise you. And I will be the
first contributor to the 'Ransom Corrie from Berlin Relief Fund,' how does that sound?"
"You're all heart. That's why I love you so much," she whispered.
"And I'm just glad it was you, and not me," he whispered back.
"Damn, you are such a romantic," she laughed.
"Gotta love me!" he laughed with her.
A short time later, still smiling as he remembered his conversation with the love of his life, he walked off
the elevator in his apartment building and came to a screeching halt. There,
in front of his apartment door, were eight, one-foot tall statues of cows. Next
to each statue, there was a pail of milk. As he stood gazing at the scene before
him, he noticed the small card tacked to his door. It read, 'You didn't really
think I'd forget you now, did you?'
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of September:
Robert McCall stood and called for quiet at the table. It took
a few moments, as everyone was in high good spirits. When he had the full attention
of the people assembled, he raised his glass and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to propose a toast. This is a momentous occasion in the history of the company for which we have all labored. The mighty Goliath has been brought to his knees today. It was not by a slingshot blow from a young sheepherder,
but the knee kick of a petite milkmaid.
"For many years now, I have watched, in fascination, as this young woman has hurtled through the trenches and
mine fields of company policy and individual agendas. With her charming smile,
and insidious sense of humor, she has reduced many a company bean counter to a simpering, babbling fool. And we are assembled here tonight to celebrate one of these very occasions."
"As we all know, to receive an invitation to appear before the Personnel Disciplinary
Review Board has been, through all of company history, an invitation to pack your bags and disappear silently into the night. No one has ever walked from that vaulted room and returned to active duty… until
today. Not only has this individual stood bravely, and calmly faced the lions in their own den, she has walked
from that den with a promotion. Lady, and gentlemen, please stand with me and
raise your glasses, and toast our honored guest tonight, Corrine Elizabeth Margaret Murchison!"
Seven present, and former, company employees stood and solemnly raised their glasses towards the petite woman
seated before them. "To Corrie," they all said, and happily drained their glasses.
"Control," continued Robert, "before we give the floor to our guest tonight, would you like to add anything
to my toast?"
Clearing his throat, Control nodded, stood and said, "Yes, I do have a few comments to add, if you don't mind. As everyone at this table knows, Corrine is someone very special to me. Because of the mindset of the company we have all labored for, you have all kept this relationship a secret
amongst yourselves. And, also, because of my relationship with this most unusual
woman, you, my friends, have had to put up with the mood swings she can drive a man to.
For all of this, I am very, very grateful. My toast is to Corrine, and
to her assembled friends," finished the man who loved her.
Glasses were again raised amid calls of, 'here, here', and the toast fulfilled.
Robert McCall then turned to the guest of honor. "Corrine, would
you please grace us with a few words on this cosmic moment in company history that you have wrought?"
Almost shyly, Corrie stood and faced her friends at the small, crowded table.
Then, she flashed an almost wicked grin and said, "Thank you, all, for this wonderful celebration. As unused to public speaking as I am…"
"God punishes liars," Control said under his breath.
"Stand back, lightening may hit at any minute," said Mickey Kostmayer.
"Watch it, boys," said Corrie with a menacing look, then she continued, "I would be pleased to let you in on
the secret of my success today."
At that moment, the door to O'Phelan's opened and the sound of cymbals, flutes and drums could be heard. As the entire restaurant hushed into silence, a belly dancer, dressed is a very skimpy
costume of coins and scarves, gyrated into the room.
Corrie and Control locked their eyes on each other, and Corrie flopped back into her chair. Control took her
hand tenderly in his, and they turned back to face the door as a second gyrating dancer entered. At ten second intervals, a total of nine, barely dressed dancers, entered the crowded restaurant, and shimmied
and shook their way around tables and booths.
As they approached the table of company revelers, the dancers removed one or more of their scarves and insinuated
themselves between the male members of the group. As Corrie and Pete O'Phelan
looked on in amusement, their embarrassed male friends were treated to an 'up close and personal' display of the dancers attributes
and dance techniques.
After ten minutes of this personal attention, one by one, the dancers began to break formation and move towards
the door and leave. The last girl to leave the table removed a small note from
her girdle of coins and tucked it seductively into Control's breast pocket, kissed him on the forehead, and danced away. As she reached the door of the restaurant, she blew a kiss to all assembled and closed
the door behind her.
The restaurant crowd broke into spontaneous applause in appreciation of the special entertainment, and a round
of drinks, on the house, was ordered. When some semblance of normalcy returned
to the room, Robert, still red faced in embarrassment from his dancer's special ministrations, again asked for the attention
of his friends.
"Corrine, Control, my old friends, what the bloody hell was that?"
In quiet unison, Control, and the woman he loved so much, whispered, "Nine ladies dancing."
Corrine then retrieved the note the last dancer had slipped into Control's breast pocket and looked at it. She handed it to her lover and shook her head.
He read the message, and slipped it back into the pocket from which it came.
Losing patience, Robert asked, pointedly, "You're not going to share what it said?"
Control again took Corrie's hand in his and kissed her gently. "The
note, in keeping with it's eight, previous incarnations, stated, 'Save the first dance at the Family Christmas Reunion for
me'," he whispered.
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of October:
Control was making a hasty retreat from his apartment when he ran straight into Robert McCall.
"Good heavens man, are you so hungry that you have to bowl me over to get to the restaurant? I was just going to knock on your door and ask what you had in stock for a before dinner drink? What is it, man, you look disturbed?"
"Robert, ah, my apartment isn't fit for company right now. Let's
just get on our way and I'll tell you about it over a good, stiff scotch," answered Control, as he grabbed Robert's arm and
tried to lead him away from the door.
"Control, now you have me really worried. First you tell me you
do not want to be home alone tonight, then you almost run me down getting out the door, and now you won't let me into your
apartment. What is the matter, old friend?"
"Robert, you understand what day this is?" he asked.
"Yes, it is the twelfth of October. And according to the appropriate
verse of that dreaded song, this is the day you need to be on the lookout for ten lords a-leaping, if I'm not mistaken. Are you, in your company trained way, trying to tell me you have ten men leaping around
your apartment right now?"
"No, it's worse. You are my friend, and I don't want you to be…to
think… to get insulted, that's all."
"I promise not to be insulted. I am curious, after the ministrations
of those lovely young ladies last month, to see just what the Murchison clan has wrought this month, in their diabolical plot
to drive you and Corrine to attend the family Christmas reunion. Please?" he
asked nicely.
"All right, but remember, I warned you," Control said as he pulled a tourist post card out of his jacket pocket. It showed a very colorful picture of the House of Lords in session, in full regalia. On the back of the card, the message read, 'Are you getting ready to have a high old
time at the party?'
Robert read and digested the message with a raised eyebrow. "Is
this it?" he asked.
"Of course not, the rest of it jumped out of the box that accompanied the card," Control said as he reached
over and opened the door to his apartment.
There, on the floor by the door, lay the box in question. Leaping
around the room, to Robert's stunned surprise, he counted ten of the largest bullfrogs he had ever seen. Each one was wearing a harness of clothing that included a very proper full wig and a ruffled collar that
would impress even the most sartorially dressed member of the House of Lords.
"Dear God, is there no end to this family's insanity?" whispered McCall.
"I don't think so, old son. But the good news is, we've survived
ten of these 'reminders'. There are only two more to go. Corrie has promised to be in town by the twelfth December, to lend support for the last, and most likely,
worst of the surprises," Control said. "I will just have to deal with whatever
they throw at me in November alone."
"You can rest assured, my friend, that I, and the rest of your comrades, will to be here to support you on November
12th. It's the very least we can do.
Are you just going to leave these…leaping lords here?" asked McCall.
"No, I've called the office and have asked for a security team to come and pick them up. They will join the swans…"
"Duckies."
"Swans," repeated Control, "at the zoo in the park. I made sure
they understood that the wigs and collars are to be removed…and kept here for evidence."
"Thank God, I would hate for any other loyal British subject to have to see that group as it is now."
"Yes, we don't need any further problems with international relations."
"By the way, how is Corrie doing with her problem with the German government?" asked Robert.
"Thanks to the contributions of her friends… oh, and thank you, by the way, for your generous help, she
is no longer on the list of wanted criminals. Her debt to society has been paid
in full, to the complete satisfaction of all concerned, including her former landlord."
"Ah, good. Were they able to get the smell out of the hallway?"
"Yes, lots of scrubbing with strong disinfectants, and, at Corrie's suggestion, large vases of aromatic herbs
and flowers seem to be doing the trick. Now let's go, old son, before the security
boys show up and I have to see the looks on their faces when they try to round up our horde of leaping lords in there," said
Control.
"Sounds like a definite plan, old friend," answered Robert in agreement.
* * * * *
The
Twelfth of November:
Mickey Kostmayer was standing in his doorway the first thing that morning.
Smiling his usual smirk, Kostmayer asked, "Do you have any idea what this one might be, other than it be will eleven
something's?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," replied Control, as he left for the office.
"Just be ready. They're getting close to the end of their game and you
can never tell what, or how many, they're going to come up with."
Downstairs, McCall was waiting next to his Jag, glancing up and down the street.
Control joined him at the curb and asked, "Anything?"
"No, quiet as a church, my friend. Shall we go?" he asked.
"Might as well. You can't delay the inevitable," replied Control,
getting in the passenger seat.
Morning traffic in Manhattan is normally part utter frustration, and part massive gridlock, but today, it was
worse. Sitting at a traffic light for the third go-round, McCall looked up in
surprise and asked, "Do you hear that? It sounds like drums beating cadence."
"Yes, I do, but it's supposed to be pipers, remember?" Control replied.
"Unless…"
Looking around, they spotted the familiar regalia of the FDNY Emerald Society Pipes and Drums marching out of
the side street behind them. The two men watched in rapt fascination as the majority of this magnificent unit formed in ranks
on the sidewalk opposite the car. Eleven of the bagpipers broke formation and
approached the Jag.
"This is it," Robert said.
"Yes, old son, I believe we are about to be serenaded," replied Control.
As the eleven pipers formed a circle around the car, the Drum Major signaled a halt to the cadence beat. The pipers raised mouthpieces to their lips and, on signal, broke into a lovely rendition
of "I'll Be Home For Christmas." McCall winced and Control sat, and just shook
his head. Then, to their amazement, the pipers surrounding the car began a slow,
circling march around them and broke into "There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays."
Finishing their song, the pipers slow marched back to the sidewalk and joined their comrades. With a signal from the Drum Major, the troop turned and began marching away, playing "Over the River, and
Through the Woods" until they were out of sight around the corner. The Drum Major
remained behind briefly and approached the passenger side window. Control lowered
the window just enough for the man to hand him a business card, from the Society, listing the occasions that the band could
be booked for, and a contact phone number. On the back of the card, a handwritten
message read, "Almost there! Are you ready for the party?"
Astonishingly, even though they were in the midst of a New York morning rush hour, not one of the gridlocked
vehicles on the street honked or seemed concerned by this unusual event. The
light changed and traffic resumed without missing a beat.
Pulling up at the curb in front of Control's office building, McCall sighed and said, "Well, at least you can
relax the rest of the day."
Control laughed quietly. "Do you really think I can relax? Didn't that seem a little too easy to you? No,
if I understand the game, and the mindset of these people, this was just the beginning.
Are you sure you won't come in and spend a nice, quiet day waiting with me to see what happens next?"
"No, thank you. I thought I'd get an early start on my Christmas
shopping today, for some unknown reason. And besides, I'll see you tonight for
dinner. Eight o'clock?"
"Yes, that sounds fine. O'Phelan's, or do you want to try something
different tonight?"
"We generally eat at O'Phelan's, so why don't we try something different?
Throw them off the scent?" asked Robert.
"Sounds like reliable company strategy, old friend. Will you pick
me up here?"
"Yes, once more into the breech, as they say," replied McCall laughing.
The two men took their leave of each other and Control entered his building, ready to face what the rest of the day
had planned for him.
At noon, precisely, the clock radio in Control's office went on, blaring a multiple flute rendition of "Happy
Holidays." It took him a few minutes to find the timer and turn it off, as he
had never before used it as an alarm.
Shortly after three o'clock, he received a call from Corrie, in Berlin, to advise him that three of the ticker
machines in her office had suddenly started spewing out the words and music to various Christmas songs that afternoon. Then, as if possessed, the intercoms throughout the entire office began playing pipe
organ music renditions of several holiday classics. When she had returned to
her new home that evening, she was subletting Ed Matsue's house since he and his family had transferred to Japan, the sight
of a giant wind chime, hanging on the front porch, greeted her. It was constructed
of eleven pieces of plumbing pipe, with a demented looking elf as the center-clanging device.
The card hanging with it read, "Jack Frost with get nippy at your nose if you can't come." Corrie informed him that she was going straight to bed, and did not plan on answering the phone the rest
of the night.
At five in the afternoon, Kostmayer phoned and informed him that a package had been left on his apartment doorstep. It had contained eleven different meerschaum pipes, featuring Santa Claus depictions. The card in that box had read, "He knows if you've been bad or good, so be good and
we'll see you there."
By eight o'clock that evening, Control was more than ready for a quiet dinner,
and a good stiff drink. Both McCall, and Kostmayer, were waiting for him
in the Jag. When he got in, Kostmayer handed him a piece of paper and a pen.
"What's this for?" he asked.
"We are going to try something different tonight. Write down the
name of a restaurant you would like to go to, then, put it in Mickey's hat. As
you can see, I have written down the name of a different restaurant, as has Mickey.
We will then have a lottery to see where we will eat. It's a game of chance. That demented family of hers could not possibly have covered the entire city with
their diabolical plan. What do you say, game?"
Control did as instructed, the hat was shaken, and Control was awarded the privilege of reaching in and picking
a slip of paper. McCall then proceeded to drive to the named restaurant.
Seated at a table in the Italian restaurant Control had chosen, the men ordered drinks and familiarized themselves
with the menu. The waiter approached and took McCall's order first, then Kostmayer's. As Control began telling the man he entrée choice, the piped in music playing throughout
the restaurant began playing "I'm dreaming of a White Christmas". Without missing
a beat, Control finished ordering his choice of salad dressing, then asked the waiter for another round of drinks.
When the waiter had left, Control folded his hands on the table in front of himself, looked at both his companions
and said, "You know, gentlemen, if it hadn't been for the fact that we have not left each other's sight or hearing since this
restaurant was chosen, I would think we would have a great deal to discuss right now.
However, do either of you have any theories for this glut of holiday music so early in the season?"
"I agree with your assessment of the situation, old friend. I can
assure you that my car is thoroughly searched each morning for any possible tracking devices, and that includes this morning. There is nothing in my car. Considering
the level of thinking behind these attacks, would it have been possible for one or more members of the family to have planted
such a device on, or in, you?"
"Robert, are you suggesting that in the last batch of cookies, or the latest lasagna sent over from Corrie's
Godmother, that I could have possibly ingested some sort of tracking chip? I
wouldn't put it past them," he answered truthfully. "I'll check with the boys
in security tomorrow, and call Corrie, to have her do the same. Ah, here is the
next round of drinks. Waiter, keep them coming, please."
After a very pleasant meal, and more than enough drinks, McCall managed to find their way back to Control's
apartment building. Outside the building, as a gentle snow began to fall, stood
eleven young men and women holding hornpipes. As Control entered the building,
they started softly playing "I'll Be Seeing You".
* * * * *
The Twelfth
of December:
She
slipped up behind him as he was putting on his overcoat.
"Here,
let me help you with that. Don't want to go out looking disheveled on this big
day, do you?" she asked.
He
turned and faced her for inspection. She straightened his tie slightly, and then
gently tucked a wandering strand of hair back into place. When she was
finished with her inspection, she placed her hand gently on his chest.
"Now,
there's my handsome devil. All set to face the final act of this play?"
"Hmmm,
yes, nothing can bother me today, not with you here with me," he answered then leaning in, he kissed her gently on the forehead.
"Remember,
they can kill us, but they can't eat us," she told him.
"My
dear, if that was meant to be reassuring…what old movie did you dredge that one out of?" he asked, laughing.
She
laughed with him and replied, "Some old war movie dad watched a thousand times when we were kids. I think it was Audie Murphy, or something. Always stuck in
the back of my head, you know, in case I needed to say something prophetic when facing overwhelming odds. It didn't give you confidence?" she asked, amazed.
"No,
it didn't. But I still love you," he told her sweetly and kissed her gently on the nose.
"Hmmm,
first the forehead, then the nose. If I stand here long enough, will we get to
the good stuff?" she asked, playfully.
"You
wanton woman! You've been in town thirty-six hours, and that's all you've wanted.
Am I nothing more than your sex toy?" he asked her in mock seriousness.
Leering
into his eyes, she laughed and said, "Oh, like I had to force you each time, huh, big boy?
I was just keeping your mind occupied so you wouldn't worry about what today had to offer. Use me and abuse me. If that's what you think of me?" she
said and began to pout.
"All
right, all right. No more faces. I
appreciate all you sacrifice for me, honestly. But we can't avoid what's waiting
for us out there, as much as I wouldn't mind a nice, quiet day here at home together," he soothed, lightly stroking her cheek.
"Okie
Dokie, big boy. Let's go get them," she replied.
"Once more, into the breach, as Robert would say."
He
opened the front door cautiously and glanced up and down the hallway. "Looks
clear," he told her.
"Good,
I would hate to have to use my gun this early in the morning. People might still
be sleeping," she told him. "Now for the run to the elevator, or do you want
to rappel down the outside of the building?"
"No,
I think a slow, measured walk to the elevator would be more appropriate. Knowing
you, as you leap off the side of the building to rappel down, you'd yell 'Geronimo' or something equally noteworthy and wake
half the city. A little decorum never hurt anyone," he answered honesty, then
took her hand in his for the walk to the elevator.
"Romantic
fool," she whispered.
"Yes,
it's one of my many faults," he smiled back.
The
elevator was clear, and the ride to the lobby uneventful. As they exited the
building, the couple found their first test of the day waiting for them out on the curb.
The Crossmen Drum and Bugle Corps, in full regalia, greeted them with a shattering roll of drums, they launched into
"The Little Drummer Boy".
Corrie
pulled a small camera from her coat pocket and took several shots of the corps, then insisted that her beloved stand next
to the drum majors so that she could get a shot of him with them. They then gave
the group a donation to insure the purchase of enough hot coffee for the ride back to Bergenfield, and then went on their
way. It was only nine in the morning, and they had a whole list of Christmas
errands to get to.
By
the time they met Robert McCall for lunch, the two shoppers had completed all but two of their Christmas purchases. Due to her revulsion to anything but grocery shopping, Corrie had arranged their foray with the efficiency
and precision of a multi-national, combined forces pre-emptive strike. Control
made a mental note that should a position open in the strategic planning area of his office, he would insist on her transfer
to this area of her expertise.
"Well,
my friend, any visitations from the foreshadowed drummers as of yet?" asked Robert as they perused their menus.
"Surprisingly,
only one so far. A Drum and Bugle Corps outside my building the first thing. Either they're waiting for us at the office or home, or we've managed to give them
the slip. Time will tell," his friend replied.
"My
poor, sweet, oblivious darling," broke in Corrie. "Did you totally miss the fact
that the Musak playing in Macys this morning, as well as Bloomingdales, was 'The Little Drummer Boy'? Or do you just consider
it perfectly normal that both stores would be playing the same song over, and over, and over? Twelve times each, to be exact,"
stated the love of his life.
"Sorry,
I must have been struck blind and deaf by the intoxicating company I was keeping. Besides,
for some unknown reason, I have stopped listening to piped-in music," responded Control.
As
the waiter took their orders, a buzz of activity was taking place in the center of the restaurant. In consideration of the season, the management had arranged for carolers to perform during the peak luncheon
period. McCall and Control glanced at each other, and then at Corrie, as the
Harlem Boys Choir prepared for their concert. Twelve of the young men held small
snare drums as the group began to sing 'Little Drummer Boy'.
"Steady
on, men," Corrie told them. "Remember…"
"Yes,
we know, they can kill us…" broke in Control.
"But
they can't eat us," finished McCall.
The
three friends sat quietly through the program of holiday music with pleasant smiles on their faces. This was due, in part, to the waiter continually refilling their cocktail order, and to the fact that 'The
Little Drummer Boy' was performed only three times during the program. After the group had finished, Corrie again took out
her small camera and took several shots of her two companions congratulating the group and their director on the concert.
Outside
once more, Corrie and Control said good-bye to McCall after confirming their plans for the theater and dinner that evening,
and went on the last of their errands.
Three
blocks from the restaurant, they encountered a Steel Drum Band composed of twelve flamboyantly costumed drummers playing a
calypso rendition of the dreaded song. More pictures were taken.
Inside
the small specialty store that was one of their final stops, they were greeted by a display of twelve Drummer Boy Nutcrackers,
standing in formation, with THE SONG playing loudly from a cassette player, over and over again.
Walking
briskly in the afternoon cold, they headed for their last stop of the day, a large, well known bookstore, to make their final
purchases. During the course of their walk, a group of Salvation Army carolers
began singing THE SONG. It was taken up and continued by the street musician, playing guitar on the
following block. As they neared the entrance to the store, a group of carolers,
positioned across the street, burst into song. At each location, Corrie's little
camera recorded the moment for posterity.
Upon
reaching the bookstore, it did not surprise them in the least that the music being played inside the store was THE SONG. There was also a very large display of Drummer Boy books, records, audiotapes, nutcrackers,
dolls, music boxes, and figurines set up by the main entrance. They purchased
the last items on their list and then spent a leisurely hour browsing for their own personal purchases.
Upon
exiting the store, the carolers again burst into the dreaded song, and Control waved good-bye as they entered the taxi he
had flagged down. Once back at his building, the two weary shoppers were pleased
to find no one waiting for them outside, or inside the building.
After
a short rest and clean up, the happy couple prepared for the planned evening at the theater with McCall and Pete O'Phelan. As they left the apartment, they were rather surprised by the lack of anything waiting
for them, either in the hall, or in the lobby, or outside on the curb. The trip
to the O'Phelan's was uneventful, as was their dinner. At the theater, no surprises
awaited them. At no time did any of the actors burst into song, nor did the orchestra
stray from the libretto.
Returning
to Control's apartment for a nightcap following the theater, the two couples found all quiet on the home front. As they sat and pleasantly discussed the performance they had just seen, there came a knock on the door. A din of music and clanking could be heard in the hallway. Twelve mechanical monkeys were careening up and down the hallway.
They were all dressed as drummer boys and carried a small drum. All twelve
were playing the hated song. Attached to his door was a sign reading, "Your shopping
is done, the worst is over. Now you can relax until the party. Don't be late!"
* * * * *
The Holidays:
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