The Christmas Sock

The Christmas Sock


This is the true story of how I tried to win a giant sock with a paper airplane.

I was eight years old, if memory serves. My mind's always a fuzzier than a Muppet eating peaches when it comes to any year before age ten, so I may be wrong. Still, I'm sure that it was a stereotypically snowy Denver December. And I know with complete certainty that it all started at the bank.

When I was a kid, I absolutely loved going to the bank. This wasn't because I was a greedy child. I mean, okay, sure, I had a penny bank. Who didn't? The thing is, I mostly collected coins in it because adored hearing all the coins going clank, clank, clank into the counting machine. The fact there was this machine that made cool noises and counted all my money was just about the coolest thing in the world to an eight-year-old. The bills were almost always a let down, except for the one amazing time I got a ten dollar bill, but that's another story.

The money machine was just the star attraction, mind you. The bank was almost always as exciting as the circus for me. Yes, I was an easily amused child.

The bank my parents used was a strangely oval shaped building, which meant I could run in circles - or walk politely in circles, rather (I had to make due with that after the first time I got yelled at/visited the bank). There was an exotic steel vault on the left that I could sometimes spy into through the bars and wonder what people kept in there. There was also an old man with a real gun guarding the vault but more amazingly to me, there were pens on chains.

Pens!

On!

Chains!

I was always sure they were really expensive pens that only bankers could afford. Why else would you chain them? I tried to analyze them and figure out their secrets, all to no avail. It was quite a blow to my faith in humanity (and expensive pens) when I was told the real reason the pens were kept chained to the desks. People stealing pens seemed about as horrible as pet abuse to a scribbling child like myself. That was okay though. The tellers still gave me free Dum-Dum lollipops when I followed Mom or Dad to the window. Best of all, they almost always had sour apple flavor available upon request.

Truly, the bank was a place of many wonders. Don't even get me started on how much I loved the pneumatic tubes with canisters.

This particular day in December, I was going to the bank again with my parents. We'd be going to the bank so often that winter that even I was getting a little bit tired of it. Being eight I had no idea why we kept going to the bank but hey, I'll get to that later. Just when apathy had started to rear it's ugly head . . . just when I was thinking "Man, the bank needs to do something new and exciting, like Free Penny Day." . . . I saw it.

The sock.

The.

Giant.

Red.

Sock.

To call it a stocking would be inaccurate, I remembered thinking, though not in such fancy terms. A stocking was the cute fuzzy red sock you got free chocolate, small toys and exotic fruit in (and also oranges but really, I never got that excited over the oranges). This was a supremely amazing colossal red sock. The sock hung from the wall next to the silver vault and I could just barely touch the bottom of it if I stood on my tiptoes. It was slightly see-through and rough to the touch, not at all like my stocking in that regard. What it also was, however, was over eight feet tall. Eight feet tall was taller than my Dad and frankly, that was taller than anything my small child brain could conceive, outside of an elephant, giraffe or Stegosaurus. This was the biggest sort-of stocking I'd ever seen. The only one really, but hey, why quibble.

The most important part, however, was not the thing's size. The most important part was that this super huge red sock was full of toys. Toys, toys and more toys. So many toys that some of them covered up the other ones. Plastic soldiers covering up teddy bear shaped lumps that in turn covered up mysterious wonders I couldn't even begin to imagine. This was so amazing that all at once I couldn't breathe or move for fear it would disappear.

"Mom." I whispered anxiously. "Mom. Mom. Mom."

"What is it, honey?" she asked with a smile.

I pointed at the giant sock.

"Mom." I managed after a moment of remembering to breathe, "Mom . . . who's THAT for?"

Clearly, somebody had managed to be so good . . . well, so good my brain couldn't even manage to comprehend the level of good that one had to be to get that much stuff in one stocking. Santa'd only ever given me three bulgy stockings on my best year and one of them had been full of oranges. Whirling, my brain came to the only logical conclusion - Jesus. Maybe this stocking was for Jesus.

I started to get mad immediately because, really, what was He going to do with toy soldiers? They said right on the bag they weren't for kids under three and he was clearly the Baby Jesus right now. He might even choke on the empty bag (I had looked up what "asphyxiation" meant when I read it on the warning labels at age five. Or possibly six.)! Even if this was for grown-up Sad Adult Jesus with The Holes in His Hands, what would He do with all these kids' toys? What the hell? Did He even know how to play with them? And what did He even NEED toys for? He was IN HEAVEN at the RIGHT HAND OF THE FATHER! God could just make Him some stupid toys with his God powers if Jesus wanted Him to! There was a paddle ball in there, I could clearly see it at the bottom. I bet Jesus wasn't even going to like the paddle ball. Oh, who was I kidding? Jesus would love the damn paddle ball. Everybody loved paddle ball.

I started to scowl and whimper in frustration. I was a good kid but hell, I was not Jesus. No matter how hard I tried, year after year.

Mom just laughed at me and smiled. It was the first time I'd heard her laugh in while, I thought absently, beneath my rage at Jesus and his inexplicable toy-hogging.

"It's a contest, Kevin. You can go write down your name and phone number on a piece of paper, put it in that big box over there-"

She gestured at a big box wrapped in red and green Christmas paper I'd completely ignored in my monomania.

"And if they pull your name out later . . . you win!"

I wasn't sure I understood her clearly.

"I win . . . the whole sock?"

"Yes, Kevin, you win the whole thing if they choose your name."

"ALL the toys in the sock?"

"Yes, Kevin, but you have to go and enter your name first."

Her face got very serious for a moment.

"There's a lot of boys and girls entering this Kevin, so you might not win. Okay? Do you understand?"

I nodded. I understood all right. Paper. Write on paper. Put Paper in Box. Sock of toys becomes mine. Not for Jesus.

"I wanna go put my name in right now please!" I said, squirming like a goldfish somebody had dropped onto a griddle. "Can I, please?"

I'd been adding please and thank you's to every other sentence this December because, hey, they couldn't hurt my chances.

Mom shook her head at me with a smile.

"Only if you take your Dad with you so he makes sure you do it right, okay?"

"DAD! Dad. Dad. Dad."

When he didn't speak immediately, I turned to look at my father. He seemed a bit distracted for some reason, looking at sheets of paper with a frown. I couldn't figure out why he wasn't staring at this magnificent sock of toys. In any case, I started tugging on his sleeve.

"Dad. Dad, can we go put my name on the paper please? Dad?"

Dad looked down at me, then at my Mom, obviously confused as I'd yanked him out of his train of thought.

"He wants you to go help him put his name in the drawing for the stocking." Mom said with a look at my Dad I didn't understand.

"Oh!" My Dad's craggy face broke out into a smile as he noticed the sock and, more importantly, my reaction to the sock for the first time. "You want that sock, do ya, Kev?"

"Yes, please!" I said in the tone of voice that communicated "Fuck yeah! You're goddamn right I do!" as much as I was able at age eight. I started to pull on his flannel sleeve to direct him towards the box, explaining the process as much as I could and as quickly as I could while trying to move him forward.

"C'monDadwehavetoputmynameintheboxsowecanwinthebigsockbecauseMomsaidifIputmynameintheboxwecouldwin-"

"Wow!" said Dad, not yet moving, "That's one big stocking!If you had that stocking, I bet Santa wouldn't have to bring you any presents, huh?"

For what was neither the first or the last time, I stopped dead and stared at my father like he was a very slow-moving lunatic.

"Santa? Well . . . I guess."

The lack of Santa was a strange and disturbing notion. Even so, logic dictated that if I had that many toys, well, Santa was a bit on the side of overkill. Like I said, I wasn't a greedy child, just one who loved clanking noises. I wondered if there was something in the sock that made clanking noises, like a toy robot, but with some effort, focused my mental energies back on the question at hand.

"Um, okay. Yes? I mean, if I have the sock, I guess that's good enough."

"You want socks for Christmas?" said Dad with a twinkle in his eye.

"Noooooooooooooo! The SOOOOOOOOOOCK!" I pointed at the giant red sock on the wall as if addressing a small(er) child, wailing in frustration. "On the wall! With the toooooooooys!"

"Oh, right, right!" He ruffled the top of my head which was encased in a wooly hat that itched like crazy. "Well, let's see if we can't win you that sock, okay, Kev?"

I shook my head "yesyesyes" like I was having an epileptic fit, renewing my pull on his sleeve with increased vigor as he walked alongside me. Clearly, we were finally on the same page. Unfortunately, when we grew closer and I saw the box in all it's glory, my enthusiasm dimmed.

The box was huge. By my standards, it was bigger than the microwave, which was pretty huge for a box. This meant it was bigger than a breadbox, which meant it was really big. You see, I had learned a long time ago that the microwave was bigger than a breadbox because I wanted to know what a breadbox was and why everybody kept asking what was bigger than it (the very idea of a box just for your bread struck me as silly then, as it does to this day). This box was bigger than the TV with the VCR under it. This box wasn't quite as big as the wheelbarrow we kept in the backyard but that was very cold comfort. I stood on tiptoes to look inside the gaping maw of the box and what I saw filled me with dread. White slips of paper, endless as the snowflakes outside, all with kids' names on them - kids' names that were not MY name.

"Can we put in more than one, Dad?" was my first, mercenary question. Okay, so maybe I was a little greedy but c'mon, it was a GIANT SOCK full of TOYS.

He just laughed.

"Nope, sorry, that's not how it works, son. That's cheating!"

I knew cheating would really piss off Santa, so clearly, that option was out. If I didn't make Santa happy and still didn't get the Sock, well, Christmas would be pretty damn boring. I didn't know the meaning of "hedge your bets" at age eight but I was figuring things out quickly (just as well - I'd probably have driven my parents crazy asking why people were betting on shrubs). I screwed up my face in thought. How could I make mine get picked? How? I had an immediate brainstorm but I wasn't sure exactly how neat I could make my penmanship with the tiny pencils they'd provided. Certainly not neat enough to stand out.

With a heavy heart, I turned to Dad with my thinking face on (I had no thinking cap as I generally didn't like wearing hats, even imaginary ones).

"There's a lot in there, Dad. A lot." I said as grimly as Hannibal on the A-Team when things started going wrong (which was every one of the six episodes I managed to secretly see, at almost exactly thirty-two minutes in).

"How do they choose the winner?" I asked him.

Dad rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging.

"Well, they just spin 'em around, son, or shake the box or something and pick 'em out at uh, random."

Dad's bluffing skills when it came to explaining things would work wonderfully on me until age 11 and a very awkward discussion of the birds and the bees.

"Spin? Shake?" This made me scrunch up my face. If they were going to shake them around, it was anybody's game. Even the ones on the bottom of the box could win. I screwed up my face, muttering to myself.

"Random. Random? Random. Hmmmm."

I was clearly stumped. I hated being stumped. Even at age eight, I was an insufferable little know-it-all. If I couldn't solve a problem, it would eat at me like nothing else in the whole wide world.

That was when, with one simple suggestion, my Dad became my hero.

"Why don't you fold it up into something neat? Like an airplane? I bet it'd fit. Yeah, I bet it would!"

With a smile, Dad picked up one of the forms and one of the tiny pencils. The forms themselves were small but there was sure enough to fold. With awe, I watched him put his name down and our address and our phone number and something called a zip code on the paper . . . then fold it into a tiny airplane. He then dropped it into the box and smiled at me.

"Now you go, Kev."

"Isn't that more than one?" I asked, looking around nervously. That old guard with the gun was very, very nearby.

"Naw, Kev, I put MY name on. You go ahead and fill one out for you, okay?"

I smiled at Dad. My Dad was even more amazing than usual now. Imagine, putting his name on a drawing for toys he didn't even want! Just so I could have them! I decided then and there that if he won, he'd totally have first pick of the toys in the Sock. I'd even let Dad have the toy soldiers and the paddle ball if he wanted them.

Of course, it never dawned on me that, with the exception of a middle initial, my Dad and I had the exact same name, address and phone number. With unknowing glee, I proceeded to fill out my own form, pausing only to ask Dad what our "Zip Code" was (I figured I could wait until we got home to ask why we had Codes for all our Zippers in the house. More important things were at stake right then). Only then, once I finished writing, did I make myself a tiny paper airplane out of my form.

I sucked at making paper airplanes.

The wings were mismatched. The front triangle took up half the plane's space and was also uneven. It barely held together, much less flew. Which isn't to say I was completely terrible in my design - the little tips I folded on the edges of the wings looked cool, at least, even if they did make the plane fly in crappy half-loops right back at my face.

"Don't play with it, Kev, just put it in." Dad sighed. Good old Dad, staying on target.

I beamed at him, then dumped it in - noting with glee that it swooped slightly before coming to a rest in the box. Dad laughed and told me to wait at the desk with all the expensive pens on chains while he and Mom had something to do. I raced on over to the pens on chains while smiling like a little maniac, failing to bat them around like a cat or scribble on my hands as I usually did, just standing there instead because I was already filled to bursting with joy. I was totally getting a giant Sock full of toys!

What I didn't now at the time - on account of my being eight and all - was that my parents were in a very bad spot financially that Christmas. They'd barely managed to scrape together the cash for my birthday present in November. That we had gone to Auntie Marges' home for Thanksgiving dinner instead of hosting our own for reasons other than letting Auntie Marges try and cook something (Wow, was that ever a failed experiment. Oy.). That they were frantically scrambling to make sure they could get me something, anything for Christmas. I just knew they were a lot quieter and more tired looking than I ever remembered them being in my small, happy life.

I also didn't know anything about statistics, probability or the very long odds stacked against me (that would come later, when I first visited Las Vegas).

Now, I am not the sort of fellow who usually loves gushy stories of goodwill. I have grown up into a very cynical, snarky misanthrope, honest. That said - if you put "How the Grinch Stole Christmas", "A Christmas Carol" or heaven help me, "It's A Wonderful Life" in front of me, I turn back into a sentimental eight year old all over again (For what it's worth, "It's A Wonderful Life" has naked girls, war, child abuse and rampant alcoholism in it, so don't give me too much crap for loving it, 'kay?). With that in mind, I'd like to warn you that the ending of this story is so cheesy that I actually would reject it out of hand if I read it in a book. What happened could be called an actual, oh-so-goofy Christmas Miracle.

Yep, that's right.

I won the Giant Christmas Sock full of Toys with my Paper Airplane (or possibly my Dad's - in which case, I offer a belated "Thanks, Dad!").

Let me tell you something - there is nothing better for an eight-year-old than having a giant sock full of toys delivered to your house. Seriously. I mean, the thing covered the entire goddamn living room carpet. When my parents started to cry, just a little, I thought it was because they were as amazed and overjoyed as I was. I mean, my God - free paddle ball! I didn't find out about our finances until years later. Things got better for us soon thereafter but I wasn't ever aware of it until I was a teenager. That's how good my parents were at keeping bad things like that from me. Hell, I ended up being one of those kids who believed in Santa Claus until I was 10 because of them (It was all the oranges and the wonderful exotic fruit Santa always picked up on his way to my house being in the crisper of our fridge on Dec. 23rd that finally tipped me off).

Just so I don't come across as a completely greedy little brat, you should know that Jesus got a few of those toys after all. After I'd picked out what I wanted (toy soldiers? check. cap gun? check? paddle ball? Fuck. Yeah. CHECK.) . . . after I gave away some of the rest to my over twelve cousins (I swear, it was like playing with a swarm of locusts) . . . my parents and I talked and we decided to donate the rest to the Church. I mean, they were all still my toys, but hell, I couldn't use them all. Well, that, and I didn't actually want most of the ones that were left. The Virgin Mary might find a good use for the dolls or the pink jump rope. Eventually, it was cleared up for me that the Church was giving the toys to orphans, which made a lot more sense to me. I even stopped and gave away one extra bag of my toy soldiers, hoping very seriously that they'd pay attention the warning label about asphyxiation. I was sure both Jesus and Santa'd be really mad at me if I got an orphan asphyxiated.

In the end, as I look back on the unlikely and wonderful events of that magical Christmas, two morals come to mind.

The first moral of the story of this - ALWAYS fold your raffle slips into paper airplanes. Seriously. I've been doing that for over two decades now and man, it is jackpot city. I've totally won four free weeks of Kung-Fu lessons, four free bagels and a deluxe edition DVD of "Pulp Fiction" doing that (none of those stories are nearly as heartwarming as this one, however). I know I'm screwing over my chances of winning any more free raffles by telling you all this but hell, it's Christmas after all. As I learned that day I saw the truck pulling away with all my excess toys for the (presumably non-asphyxiated) orphans, passing around your good luck to those who could use the help can feel pretty great. Joy is always better when shared. Please try to remember that touching life lesson - especially if you win a chance to meet Stan Lee, own beachfront property and/or large sums of cash using my paper airplane method (hint, hint).

The second, much more important moral of this story is this - Baby Jesus never got that Paddle Ball.

Which is funny, because the Paddle Ball broke after only six tries. Six freaking tries. I'm not saying I blamed Jesus directly, but, y'know, it was a rather curious coincidence. Don't you think?

In any case, Merry Christmas to all of you out there or, failing that, Merry Whatever Day It Happens To Be When You Read This.



Copyright K. D. Bryan, 2010, All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction Without Prior Consent.

The Pariah

The Pariah


His father abandoned his mother upon his birth, seeing more red from her birth canal than he'd been reasonably prepared to expect.

His father's disgust at this freakish child and subsequent absence turned his mother into a broken shell of herself. He was left to more or less raise himself in a town that hated him and grew up just as you would imagine.

Misunderstood.

Mostly ignored.

Usually tormented.

Confused.

Hateful.

Especially the latter.

This hate he held for the world that abhorred him was his only companion. It was also returned in kind. Upon seeing him, fellows his own age hurled thoughtless, witless insults at him. The inhabitants of the tiny village looked away in shock and disgust, some even covering the eyes of the little ones. Their taunts became as familiar as his own heartbeat. He was unable to hide from them and, in the end, he decided that he did not wish to.

His rage and his despair grew too strong to stay amongst them.

He traveled alone, far into the depths of the snowy wilds, where none of his people had been brave enough to go. What did he have to fear, really? The unknown was preferable to the hell he suffered through daily. If death awaited him, so be it. He had never been taught to fear it.

In the end, death did wait in the woods - but not his. On his fourth day, fatigued and hungry, he came across a lone wolf. It was stranded from the pack, rabid and disoriented, foam dribbling from the corners of it's jaws. He imagined that, if it were able to speak, it would make no sensible sounds anyway. The wolf charged him and they fought.

It was the defining moment of his life. In mere seconds, seconds that seemed the whole of his lifetime, he killed the wolf. Killed the animal with just one powerful blow, solid enough to splatter the unfortunate beast's innards across the forest landscape. Blood covered his face, dripped down his legs, trickled across his back - a royal cloak made of crimson.

He knew now what he was born to do.

Let the others frolic and waste their lives in peace.

He was a hunter born.

He went to the castle of the King of Storms, the one they spoke of in hushed and terrified whispers. He slew all his guardsmen effortlessly. His newfound talents for killing were no mere skills but an art. A blessing to someone as full of rage as he was. In the end, some of the King's servants lost their nerve and tried to hide or flee, only for him to find and kill them effortlessly. He could always see in the dark. So much made sense to him now about what he had been born for. When he made his way into the throne room of the now-trembling Storm King, he knew exactly what price to demand in exchange for the monarch's pathetic life.

He returned to the land of his birth with no self-loathing. Just calm, crushing hate and a plan.

The town he hailed from was ruled by The Leader without question. A snide, judgmental tyrant whose laughter was as constant as it was grating. Tonight, he would ensure that The Leader's laughter stopped.

Even though the night of his return was murky, everyone knew something had changed as he strode through the fog, unbowed by the howling winds. Taunts died in the mouths of his former tormentors when they saw how the freak now carried himself, all of the useless muscle turned into effortless power. Mouths went dry and servants stumbled with fear when they saw him stride up to The Leader's home, still covered in the dried gore of both the wolf and the King of Storms' minions, his head held high.

The Head Servant of the Leader alone stood his ground as he saw him coming through the snowy twilight. For all his strength, the Head Servant of the Leader fell in an instant, dead and on the ground before anyone had a moment to so much speak his name. He stood proudly over the corpse, smiling while the others stood back and gasped in shock at his audacity and his viciousness.

Now, the Leader would have to appear.

Now, his time was near.

The Leader stumbled out from the fog, face reddening with rage. Their Leader, the one who had not even bothered to acknowledge his presence, had no choice to stare at this monstrosity that towered over him now, eyes clearly murderous in the light. For the first time he could remember, the Leader's voice did not boastfully deliver judgments or orders, did not roar with mocking laughter. Instead, his voice trembled, like that of a frightened child.

"You . . . You've made a deal with the King of Storms? Haven't you? That's why- This weather is-"

He leaned in close to the Leader's face, making sure that sharp, glinting edges of his teeth and other things were clear in the light.

"Yes." One word. The first of many.

The Leader sighed and swallowed heavily. He knew there was only one option. They both did. Tears streaming quietly down his face, The Leader spat out his request like he was trying to vomit up sewage.

"Freak, you- with this weather and my- he's dead! You just- You killed him! You! And now, you are the only one who- who can! Damn you to hell, now you're the only one who can-"

He leaned in closer to the Leader, making all the men and women around him gasp in shock. As if his ugliness was a contagion and not a symbol of the power he could wield.

"My name, you filthy piece of shit. Call me by my name . . . and ask again."

The Leader's breath caught in his throat as he stared him down. After a long, painful moment The Leader stared at his sharp points, still dripping with gore, and made a terrible choice. Eyes closed, he spat out each word like a bullet. Especially the name.

His name.

"Rud- Rudolph, with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"

Rudolph merely nodded. He owned this place now. Rudolph shook his antlers, snapping his head up with pride, arrogantly splattering the Leader's red & white suit in blood. He laughed at the fat man's whimper of fear and strode forward to take his place in the world.

This was his time now.

Soon, he would have the entire world at his beck and call.

His name would go down in history.



Copyright K. D. Bryan, 2004, All Rights Reserved. No Reproduction Without Prior Consent.