John Schatz didn’t need any ghosts from Christmas Past. Christmas Present was bad enough. For a man whose job depended on a smile and handshake, masks and social distancing presented, to put it mildly, a problem.
I found him on a forklift moving pallets of plastic-wrapped chairs. “Ebenezer Scrooge was right,” he said, turning the key and climbing off.
How so?
“Do you see my employees? They’ve all gone home.”
I surveyed the empty warehouse. “Well, today is Christmas Eve.”
“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket.” Schatz quoted.
“What?”
“Ebenezer Scrooge said that, in A Christmas Carol.”
John Schatz didn’t impress me as a reader. I pressed him on it. “Didn’t Scrooge have a few other problems?”
“You might say. He was a pretty good businessman, however.”
I held a large cardboard box. “This is from Reba.”
“Ah, my pots! Put them over there. Carefully, please.” I set the box down on an empty pallet. John Schatz bought bowls and vases from Reba. He claimed they were big sellers. But Reba suspected ulterior motives. “How is Reba?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“And how is her boyfriend?”
Now he was getting a little personal. Reba dated my best friend, Walt. “Walt and Reba are fine,” I told him. To rub it in a little, I told him Walt, who owns a sign and banner shop, was having his best year. A banner year, pun intended.
“At the Holiday Expo,” Schatz said. “I told Reba I made more money than ten Walts.”
“What did she say?”
“I thought she would break a vase over my head.”
“She’s not impressed by wealth.”
“That’s what the Ghost of Christmas Past shows Scrooge,” said Schatz. “He lost his fiancé because he placed money before love.” We walked into his office. He offered me coffee, pouring what looked like motor oil into a Styrofoam cup. Ever the salesman, he added, “I wonder if Scrooge presented her options effectively.”
“As I recall, the next ghost was kinder.”
“Ah, the Ghost of Christmas Present,” Schatz said. “Tables were abundant, with golden apple pies, honey-glazed hams, rotisserie chickens, gravy and mashed potatoes, and cases of Bud Light.” He was no Dickens.
“Nice,” I said. “However, as I recall it was Christmas Future Scrooge had to worry about.”
“What happens then?”
“The ghost appears as the Grim Reaper. He shows Scrooge his own gravestone.”
“Ugh.”
“Ugh is right.” Schatz sipped his own coffee, grimaced, and threw it away.
I threw my own cup into the garbage. “For Scrooge, it wasn’t too late,” I said. “He sends Bob Cratchit a turkey, gives everyone a raise, and becomes a father figure to Tiny Tim. There’s a moral there.”
“Which is?”
“Money can indeed buy happiness. When it’s spent the right way.”
Schatz thought about this, rubbing his fashionably-trimmed whiskers. “You’re right!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got to get going!” He grabbed his coat and began cutting lights.
“Where are you headed?”
“To the store! I’m invited to my niece’s, and I’m going to get her a bird she’ll never forget.” He ran out the door. Then returned. “You better come with. Unless you want to stack pallets’”
I didn’t. And I wasn’t going to worry too much about John Schatz. If the Ghost of Christmas Future showed up, he’d likely send him away with a Kincaid end table and a matching Robert Louis Mission lamp. Ten percent off.
It’s Christmas, after all.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com