Bunkered Down For Christmas
“Fifteen dollars for a Secret Santa present?” exclaimed Marvin. “That is outrageous! It used to be ten dollars.”
“Surely you can afford a little generosity at Christmas?” I said. “After all, it is the season of giving.”
“Oh, I’ll give, all right. I’m going to give myself the best damn Christmas ever, on my own.”
“Marvin, please reconsider, I beg you,” I pleaded. This was not for my sake, but for Marvin’s. I knew him well enough to know that, despite his best intentions, he would end up regretting his decision. But it was no use, Marvin was adamant that he would spend Christmas alone.
Come Christmas Day, Marvin was in a sort of stone-walled bunker underneath his parents’ house. On the stove was a saucepan of tinned spaghetti and sausages, slowly bubbling. As his meal was cooking, he gazed around at his surroundings and smiled to himself. “This is what Christmas is all about,” he said aloud. “Doing what makes you happy.” He knelt down beside his Christmas tree and rubbed his hands. In actuality, it wasn’t so much a tree as it was a shrub in a plant pot, a withered and dying shrub at that. Next to the shrub was a crudely wrapped present, Marvin’s only present, which he had given himself. He picked it up and tore off the paper, revealing a brick.
“Awesome,” he said to himself, “Now I have the set.” He stood up and placed the brick on the windowsill, next to two other bricks. “Those fools with their Secret Santa,” said Marvin, gleefully. “I have everything I need right here. I have food, presents, and to top it off,” he scurried over to the tv and picked up a DVD case. “I have Miracle On 34th Street!” He put the movie into the DVD player, took the saucepan of spaghetti and sausages off the stove, and sat down in his armchair.
“You know, Marvin,” he said to himself. “This is shaping up to be the best Christmas ever.” He pressed play and took a forkful of his spaghetti. The disc automatically ejected, and a message appeared on the screen, disc not recognised. Marvin put the disc back in and pressed play. The same message appeared.
“God damn it!” he yelled and pulled the disc from the DVD player. Taking the brick from the windowsill, he brought it down upon the disc. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!” he shouted as he smashed the disc to pieces. Panting, Marvin sat on the floor and for the first time, he noticed how quiet it was. It was eerily silent. He looked around the dark and dingy room, his bricks on the windowsill, the pitiful shrub in the corner, the saucepan of spaghetti and sausages. A single tear formed in his eye and rolled down his cheek. He looked out of the window at the cars driving past. Oh, how he wished he was in one of those cars, happy and laughing, on his way to a delicious roast dinner.
Suddenly, Marvin was startled by a knock on the door. Cautiously, Marvin opened the door and peered out. It was me. I couldn’t let Marvin spend Christmas alone.
“How’s your Christmas going?” I asked. Marvin’s mouth quivered and he started to sob.
“It’s awful,” he wailed. “My Miracle On 34th Street DVD wouldn’t play.”
“Richard Attenborough or Edmund Gwenn?”
“Edmund Gwenn, the original.”
“Oh, that’s the good one,” I said. “Well, perhaps this will bring you some Christmas cheer,” and I presented Marvin with a bottle of Casillero Del Diablo Reserve Carmenere and a copy of Love Actually. Through his tears, Marvin smiled. That night we laughed, we cried a little, and we drank and made merry. It may not have been Marvin’s best Christmas ever, but it was one that he never forgot.
