NOS4A2(11)
But his feelings as he read, then reread the advertisement about this place Christmasland were an emotional response of a different order. His uncircumcised and vaguely yeasty-smelling penis went limp in his left hand, forgotten. His soul was a steeple in which all the bells had begun to clash at once.
He had no idea where or what Christmasland was, had never heard of it. And yet he instantly felt he had wanted to go there all his life . . . to walk its cobblestone streets, stroll beneath its leaning candy-cane lampposts, and to watch the children screaming as they were swept around and around on the reindeer carousel.
“What would you do for a lifetime pass to a place where every morning is Christmas morning?!” the advertisement shouted.
Bing had forty-two Christmases under his belt, but when he thought of Christmas morning, only one mattered, and that one stood for all the rest. In this memory of Christmas, his mother slid sugar cookies shaped like Christmas trees out of the oven, so the whole house took on their vanilla fragrance. It was years before John Partridge would catch a framing nail in the frontal lobe, and that morning he sat on the floor with Bing, watching intently as Bing tore open his gifts. Bing remembered the last present best: a large box that contained a big rubber gasmask and a dented helmet, rust showing where the paint was chipped away.
“You’re looking at the gear that kept me alive in Korea,” his father said. “It’s yours now. That gasmask you’re holding, there’s three yellowmen in the dirt that’s the last thing they ever saw.”
Bing pulled the gasmask on and stared out through the clear plastic lenses at his father. With the gasmask on, he saw the living room as a little world trapped inside a gum-ball machine. His father set the helmet on top of Bing’s noggin, then saluted. Bing solemnly saluted back.
“So you’re the one,” his father said to him. “The little soldier that all the men are talking about. Mr. Unstoppable. Private Take-No-Shit. Is that right?”
“Private Take-No-Shit reporting for duty, sir, yes, sir,” Bing said.
His mother laughed her brittle, nervous laughter and said, “John, your language. On Christmas morning. It isn’t right. This is the day we welcome our Savior to this earth.”
“Mothers,” John Partridge said to his son after Bing’s mother had left them with sugar cookies and gone back to the kitchen for cocoa. “They’ll keep you sucking at the tit your whole life if you let them. Of course, when you think about it . . . what’s wrong with that?” And winked.
And outside, the snow came down in big goose-feather flakes, and they stayed home together all day, and Bing wore his helmet and gasmask and played war, and he shot his father over and over, and John Partridge died again and again, falling out of his easy chair in front of the TV. Once Bing killed his mother, too, and she obediently crossed her eyes and went boneless and stayed dead for most of a commercial break. She didn’t wake up until he removed his gasmask to kiss her forehead. Then she smiled and said, God bless you, little Bing Partridge. I love you more than anything.
What would he do to feel like that every day? To feel like it was Christmas morning and there was a real Korean War gasmask waiting for him under the tree? To see his mother slowly open her eyes once again and say, I love you more than anything? The question, really, was what would he not do?
He shuffled three steps toward the door before he got around to yanking his pants back up.
His mother had taken on some secretarial chores for the church after her husband couldn’t work anymore, and her Olivetti electric typewriter was still in the closet in the hall. The O was gone, but he knew he could use the number 0 to cover for it. Bing rolled a sheet of paper in and began to write:
Dear XXXXX respected Christmasland XXXX 0wners,
I am resp0nding t0 y0ur ad in Spicy Menace Magazine. W0uld I like t0 w0rk in Christmasland? Y0U BET! I have 18 years 0f empl0yment at N0rChemPharm in Sugarcreek, Pennsylvania, and f0r 12 I have been XXXX a fl00r manager f0r the cust0dial team. My duties include the care and shipping 0f many c0mpressed gases such as 0xygen, hydr0gen, helium, and sev0flurane. Guess h0w many accidents 0n my watch? N0NE!
What w0uld I d0 t0 have Christmas every day? Wh0 d0 I have t0 KILL, ha-ha-ha!! There is n0 nasty j0b I have n0t d0ne f0r N0rChemPharm. I have cleaned t0ilets packed full and fl0wing 0ver with XXXXX y0u-kn0w-what, m0pped pee-pee 0ff walls, and p0is0ned rats by the dirty d0zen. Are y0u l00king f0r s0me0ne wh0 isn’t afraid t0 get his hands dirty? Well y0ur search is 0ver!
I am just the man y0u are l00king f0r: a g0-getter wh0 l0ves children and wh0 isn’t afraid 0f adventure. I d0 n0t want much except a g00d place t0 w0rk. A security j0b w0uld suit me fine. T0 be straight with y0u, 0nce up0n a time I h0ped t0 serve my pr0ud nati0n in unif0rm, like my dad did in the K0rean war, but s0me y0uthful indiscreti0ns and a bit 0f sad family tr0uble prevented me. 0h well! N0 c0mplaints! Believe me, if I c0uld wear the unif0rm 0f Christmasland security, I w0uld c0nsider it just as h0n0rable! I am a c0llect0r 0f authentic military mem0rabilia. I have my 0wn gun and I kn0w h0w t0 use it.
In cl0sing, I h0pe y0u will c0ntact me at the bel0w address. I am l0yal t0 a fault and w0uld DIE f0r this special 0pp0rtunity. There is N0THING I am n0t ready t0 d0 t0 earn a place am0ng the Christmasland staff.
XXXXX Seas0n’s Greetings!
Bing Partridge
BING PARTRIDGE
25 BL0CH LANE
SUGARCREEK, PENNSYLVANIA 16323