An X-mas Carrel (Part 3)

"Avery Mann, you've had a busy day." you think, burrowing your head deeper into the chintzy pillow provided by the Hot L Amsterdam. Between your ill-fated appearance on Theif or No Theif and your subsequent run-ins with pirates who wouldn't be tired? Your breathing becomes regular almost immediately, and you feel yourself drifting peacefully into the land of Nod.

When out on the street there arises a clatter that jolts you from bed to see what is the matter. You're nearly over to the window when an over-sized fire-axe shatters the panes, showering you with shards of needle-sharp glass.

Soon a helmeted battle-axe follows in a slicker marked NYVFD. Speaking through the Radio-Shack electronics of her oxygen apparatus, wheezing like Darth Vader, the apparition announces, "Hi! I'm Rosy Dawn O'Day!"

"Go away!" you snarl cheerfully in greeting. "We don't want any!"

"I'm the angel of X-mas past," Rosy wheezes, undeterred.

"I said go away!"

"Long past? <wheeze> No. Seth's past."

Of course. It's like dejá vu all over again. "I suppose you want me to take hold of your slicker? Well what if I refuse?"

"Up to you," Rosy rasps, reaching between your legs, grabbing a wrist, and slinging you around her shoulders like a small sack of potatoes.

The volunteer fire wench that has abducted you wheezes and crackles on at great length as you are whisked through space and time to an X-mas some years ago. Fortunately, you can't understand a word she says -- and your pretty sure it's no great loss.

You do notice that what you had taken for a length of fire hose coiled over one shoulder is in fact a great string of those ubiquitous SPAM-links, which she pops into her mouth with each utterance. By the time you reach your destination, the fifty-foot string is gone.

She has conveyed you to what appears to be an opulent country club somewhere outside the city. Not far away lights are streaming from an ornate marble club-house.

"Be <wheeze> hold! <chomp>" She says. Yeah. Well, whatever.

It appears to be a gathering of Young Republicans, oblivious to the wretched condition of a band of carollers trudging up the long driveway in treadbare coats.

There in one corner is an even younger Seth Grodin, prattling on to a luke-warm knot of party-hacks about his great new idea "Skid-woo." At some distance, arms folded and in full pout sits what you take to be a disgruntled Meg O'Malley.

"We'll take 50% off the top, of course," young Seth enthuses, "but the really remarkable part is that we can gobble up the lion's share of the other 50% just by organizing our base as a spamdexing co-op and using our control over the editorial content to highlight the telescopes of our frat brothers and sorority sisters!"

"He's talking 'community' while institutionalizing cut-throat competition." You remark. Rosy, of course, isn't listening.

"What if we can't write?" asks a great oaf you assume is there on a football scholarship.

"No problem, Moose." young Seth exclaims. "We'll make you a 'Leading Astronomer' just for putting up some blank pages!"

"What if Democrats don't buy our classist drivel?" an apparent accounting major inquires.

"We'll set the whole thing up as a tax-shelter and proclaim far and wide that it's all for charity!"

There are more of these questions and answers, but you've seen enough. You turn your attention to the carollers outside. They seem to be chanting "Santa Claus, Santa Claus" to the tune of "Jingle Bells", but you soon perceive that they are actually saying "sont-elles splogs?"

The DJ strikes up Stairway to Heaven, and the group around young Seth starts pairing off and making their way to the dance floor. Seth is alone at the punchbowl and sets off for the patio, where Meg O'Malley is amusing herself by throwing snowballs at the carollers.

"About time you showed up!" Meg pouts. "You never pay any attention to me."

"But Meg," Seth wheedles, "you're my idol."

"Then where's my punch?" Grodin timidly holds out a flagon, which O'Malley drains with astonishing rapidity. "I think a new idol has displaced me. A literary one," she continues hautily.

"No! I swear! This Skid-Woo thing is going to take off and make a pile of money!"

"Oooh! Kittens!" Meg has clearly forgotten all about Grodin, but he tries again.

"Meg! I'll make you the editor! The whole thing will be your play-toy and you can promote anything you want. The Killkenny Tavern, your favorite bands, horrendously ugly shoes ..."

"Ugly shoes?"

"Yes and the Mets, and soap operas, Pez .. anything you want."

"Well, O.K. but no more thinking!"

"I won't. I promise."

This is all beginning to look like a particularly bad episode of Smallville, and you want to leave. Fortunately, your "escort" has wandered off, and you hitch a ride back to your hotel with the carollers.