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A Christmas Carol

Monday, December 5th, 2011

At the end-of-year board meeting for ScrooMoCo, Chairman Scrooge delivered the yearly financial projections. “We’ve slashed our workforce and are earning record profits this year!”

A great cheer arose from the board.

Suddenly, the room fell into darkness and the ghostly apparition of an older man in a suit, covered in chains, appeared above the long conference table.

“My God, that’s our dead founding partner, Jacob Marley!” Scrooge cried.

“ScrooMoCo Board members,” the spirit moaned. “You’re all greedy bastards who’ve caused great economic imbalance in the world and caused terrible needless pain to the masses. When you die, you will suffer the same fate as me if you don’t repent and stop your heinous actions now. These are the chains I forged in life and believe me, they freakin’ clash with my Gucci and make getting spa treatments a bitch.”

Several board members gasped.

“You will be visited by three spirits tonight. Heed their warning or you will suffer fashion humiliation for all eternity!”

Marley vanished and the lights returned.

Chairman Scrooge snorted. “Cratchit, call maintenance and get the electrical fixed PRONTO.”

Bob Cratchit, his secretary, winced. “ But we fired the maintenance staff and outsourced the work to India.”

“Then you do it!”

The overhead lights flickered. A great crash of thunder made all the board members jump. Standing on the conference table before them was Bing Crosby.

“Hello Board Members, I’m the spirit of Christmas Past and this number goes out to all you greedy robber barons,” he announced and then broke out singing I’m Dreaming of a Rich, White and Male Christmas.

The board members clapped. “Do Swinging on a Star!”

“No, I’m here to show you how it used to be, before all you mega-corporations took over the Earth. Behold, the past!” Bing pointed to the wall behind the table.

A large movie screen appeared showing black and white footage of American factory workers on assembly lines. A happy family of six eating at a backyard barbecue. A doctor making a house call. Kids walking into shining new schools. A young couple buying their first house. A stay-at-home mother working in her kitchen of gleaming appliances.

“My doctor still makes house calls,” a board member huffed.

“Yes, and my children attend schools just like that one. Nothing has changed.”

Bing shook his head. “That used to be the life for 99% of our population. Not the 1% it is today.”

“It’s their fault for being poor,” sneered a board member.

“I give up. And now, I’d like to introduce that man-about-town, that haunting spirit you’ll all come to know and love, the Ghost of Christmas Present. Take it away, President Barack Obama.”

Bing disappeared and in his place stood Obama.

The board members screamed in fear. “A Democrat!”

“But he’s not dead,” one argued.

“Hey folks, easy does it. I’m just trying to get re-elected and this seemed like a great way to get my message across to you since none of you pay attention to what I say anymore.” He gestured to the back wall. “Behold, the present!”

A succession of film clips depicted gigantic crowds of protesters in Madrid, London, New York and Oakland. A close-up on the signs revealed the messages: We are the 99%. Corporations Must Atone. Tax the 1%. Make Jobs Not War on Middle Class and Working Poor. The images shifted to a school kid reading a torn book and sitting at a broken desk next to a bucket catching a leak in a dingy classroom. Hungry children and mothers standing in long lines at soup kitchens. Thousands of unemployed crowding job fairs. A row of boarded-up houses with brown lawns and foreclosure signs. A homeless encampment under a freeway.

“Glad I’m not poor,” commented a board member.

“Hear, hear.”

“Me, too,” said Obama. “But if we don’t change things and right now, there isn’t going to be any rich people because the poor will rise up and kill us all. Didn’t you guys study history? Remember Marie Antoinette? While you guys sip Cristal with me, people are starving out there. People can’t afford health care, homes or educations. Over the past fifteen years, you bastards have taken ALL the money. You weren’t satisfied with an extra 50% or even 75% more money than your workers, you had to give yourselves 298% raises while they only got 4%. You blew it. And your iPods and Prozac and beer and NFL championships aren’t distracting them anymore. They’re onto our game.”

A board member yawned. “I’m sorry, did you just say something? I wasn’t listening.”

“Forget it. Here’s your final spirit visitor for the day, the Ghost of Christmas Future.”

Obama vanished and a sweet little Mexican girl in pigtails and a pink dress stood on the table.

All the members shrieked in terror. “An illegal immigrant!”

The little girl nodded. “You should be afraid. Shortly, I’m going to be the majority. And you’re totally screwing me over right now. Behold, the future!”

A post-Apocalyptic landscape appeared onscreen. Mansions burned in the background. In the foreground, well-dressed people ran from pitchfork-wielding crowds. The camera panned over a burnt and cracked sign: Town of Atherton.

The board members gasped, horror-struck.

“Act now or soon it will be too late,” the little girl said and vanished.

The screen disappeared and the lights came on.

Scrooge frowned. “Wow. That was frightening.” He rubbed his chin. “So should we pay our fair share of taxes, hire more people, stop outsourcing, help rebuild America’s infrastructure, improve our education system, overhaul our healthcare system and hold big banks accountable for their crimes?”

Silence fell over the room.

One board member held up his hand. “How about we give ourselves big raises and take the rest of the money now while we still can?”

Scrooge’s eyes lit up. “All those in favor?”

“Aye!” the board members replied in unison.

Bob Cratchit muttered under his breath, “Goosed again.”

©2011, Janet Periat

The Land of the Contracted Blondes

Saturday, March 1st, 2008

After nineteen years of forest dwelling, I have decided to make a change in my life. I’m moving to the Land of the Contracted Blondes, better known as the Peninsula. “Why?” you may ask. Especially given the earlier negative connotation. Quite simply, I need a change. After nineteen years of schlepping my garbage to the dumps, of being an hour away from EVERYWHERE, of having my shoes turn green with mold, I have decided to defect and move to the Other Side of the Hill. To the land of asphalt, pollution, cellphones and the aforementioned Starbucks-swilling, Contracted Blondes.

And I haven’t been this excited in years. Did you know that when you’re in suburbia, if you press a certain combination of numbers into a telephone, Chinese food magically appears at your door? Mind-blowing! After years of watching Domino’s commercials, suddenly, they have all new meaning to me. Dialing that number on the screen will actually bring a pizza to my door! Astonishing! Not only that, the Post Office delivers! So does the Chronicle, Waiters on Wheels and a million other places. It’s unreal.

I got a real shock when I started calling painting contractors. Instead of calling up a number, explaining where I was and either hearing hysterical laughter on the other end of the phone or the words, “How’s the year after next lookin’ for ya?” contractors came out the next day to give me bids. Competition for services? No way! I keep pinching myself, barely able to comprehend it all. I. Will. Be. Part. Of. Civilization. Again. Unbelievable. I’d forgotten what it was like.

Now for the other side of the coin. The aforementioned Contracted Blondes. After living on the Coastside for 19 years, I am accustomed to being surrounded by mostly friendly, down-to-earth people. While I am now surrounded by many more people, a shocking majority of them are Contracted Blondes. I swear, there is a manufacturing plant over here that produces them by the bushel. Everywhere I turn, there is some blonde, forty-something, Botoxed woman with perfect nails, wearing Nordstroms’ latest fashion, driving either a Mercedes, a Lexus or a BMW. She is in a hurry. Her hair is neck length, with either a slight flip out or in and she has the latest model of cellphone grafted to her ear. She is so tightly controlled, living within such narrow parameters that even her gestures are minimal. She holds her fifteen hundred dollar Louis Vuitton purse close to her gym-toned, bulimic body and when she waves to one of her Contracted Blonde friends, it’s a tight little sideways jerky movement, no more than an inch in either direction. Her mouth is a flat line, pursed occasionally into disapproval. I’m not sure she remembers how to smile. Of course, with all that Botox, that unmoving expression could be a smile, but I seriously doubt it. She seems to hate everyone who isn’t another Contracted Blonde. And I’m not sure she even likes other Contracted Blondes. I’m not sure she likes anyone. God forbid you should pull your loathsome American car in front of one. Talk about the Frozen Face of Death. I have only been living here in San Mateo part-time for six months and I have personally been frostbitten over twenty times by these odd creatures. Another thing, don’t bother trying to be friendly with a Contracted Blonde, they seem to take this as a personal insult. They look at you as if you had three heads, contract even further, almost to the point of disappearing up their own existence and then click away quickly in high heels, every step measured and perfect. I find the phenomenon fascinating. They are almost a different species of human. Actually, I’m not sure they are human. I’m beginning to suspect that they come from a plastic injection mold. I had to stop myself from reaching out and tapping one’s face the other day to see if she was real.

Aside from the weird species of humans, suburban living has changed somewhat since I was here last. When large trucks back up now they make a DOOT-DOOT-DOOT noise. I suppose the ear-shattering sounds of large engines wasn’t enough of a warning for people to get out of the way. I mean, if you’re too deaf to hear a truck engine, one wonders how the addition of the DOOT-DOOT-DOOT has helped anyone. Especially garbage trucks at four AM. We’re all supposed to be in bed at four am. I do not understand the need to be awakened by the back-up alarm unless the truck plans on backing through my bedroom wall. I would assume in that case, the sounds of crunching stucco and walls breaking would be enough of a warning.  Since I now live next door to a parking lot for a financial institution, most mornings I get serenaded by the garbage truck coming to unload the Dumpster, a mere thirty feet from my bedroom window. Just the other morning, the truck got stuck on the Dumpster and I was entertained for a full five minutes while the garbage man attempted to get unentangled. DOOT-DOOT-DOOT! CLATTER CLATTER CLATTER! DOOT-DOOT-DOOT! CLATTER CLATTER CLATTER! And so on and so forth. Then, the other night, some moron in a truck with a trailer got stuck in the parking lot at ten-thirty at night and tormented me with a twenty minute DOOT-DOOT-DOOT concerto. When I opened my curtains to glare at him, it seemed to just add to his humiliation as he seemed quite aware that not only had he made a serious miscalculation in parking, he was alerting the entire neighborhood to the fact. While it was annoying, the instance highlighted the only positive I could see for the devices, serving as a negative sanction for bad drivers.

Despite the annoyances of suburban living, I can’t help but be thrilled by all the modern conveniences. High speed Internet access makes shopping on eBay almost somewhat enjoyable. I can now walk to the bank, the store, movie theaters and about fifty restaurants. While I understand my safety is now in question (thieves, pollution, over-eating) knowing that if my car breaks down I still have access to food and my mail is quite reassuring. But of course, the jury is still out, the honeymoon has not even begun. Who knows? I could some screaming back to the Coastside in six months, clutching handfuls of Contracted Blonde’s hair. Only time will tell. But for right now, I’m calling and ordering a pizza to be delivered. Because I can.

© 2005, Janet Periat

AUTHOR’s NOTE: Sadly, I have adjusted to suburban living and have no intention of returning to the country. Chinese food delivered to my door won out over mold on my shoes. I no longer hear the garbage truck at 4am and if I do, I immediately fall back to sleep. I’ve met actual humans here since I moved here, wonderful people who aren’t at all like the aforementioned Contracted Blondes. Although, there are still multitudes of the alien creatures. I still find it odd that some idiot with a Lamborghini choses to drive his 100K vehicle to SAFEWAY, of all places. I guess rich people have to shop for food, too. Or maybe because his vehicle cost him so much, he eats ramen in secret. Who knows? All I know is while it is a weird place to live, it is now home. I love my neighbors, the weather and the sunshine. And I love that my shoes no longer mold and I don’t have to clean raccoon mess out of my yard. Yet, sometimes, I really do miss being surrounded by tall redwood trees.

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