John, my boss, was enjoying the fruits of his labors yesterday, on the busiest day of the year, a day that heralded a record gross, a good net and much hope for the flagship store of this small struggling food store chain. John used to be the district manger of a regional chain and is spending his retirement keeping a good Christian family in business.
Carl, the owner, opened this store by raising money through the sale of all of his assets, including his furniture, back when I was still a yard ape. I’ve known him for thirty years and once managed a store that he was in a distribution partnership with. Every day that he sees me he thanks me for working for him, and I’m the lowest grunt on the totem pole. Carl pays the only Christmas bonus in retail food, to all employees. He has also absorbed rising health care costs for a decade, not passing on the blooming disaster to his employees until compelled recently by our Dark Lord’s own embalming initiative. Way back when, as a chain store manager, Carl gave John a hand up into the management ranks, and I think what John is doing now is returning the favor.
A food market is a tough sell in today’s crowded retail food market. But things are looking up.
In fact, not an hour after the rush came through the door in out of all that rain yesterday, John might have thought the day was going perfect, except for the fact that one of his customers had tracked in a big clod of mud on their work boots headed for the doughnut case and coffee counter.
Before the old lady with the cart could run over it, John, General Manager of Gentile Grocer inc., former Eagle Scout from East Baltimore, did a quick golfer’s pick, grabbing the muddy clod—only to see it squish and ooze between his fingers, as the telltale odor of the large intestine of a meat-eating ape wafted up into his nose, and the old lady squeaked in disgust, offering no aid to our hero—who washed his hands all day long, and could still smell the love.
Merry Christmas, John.
Merry Christmas to you, you unbalanced, violence-prone, ink-stained, bibliomaniacal, hoplophile. Keep the Yule Log stoked and the blades ready, and hoist a glass to the dark winter night.
Bayonet's Christmas greeting brought a smile to my face. It also kicked my brain into gear, 1st, bc I had to look up hoplophile, 2nd bc I enjoyed the words, and 3rd, bc I then considered the veracity of the greeting. I have to add my own editorial to the first two descriptives.
You may seem unbalanced, bc you don't fit yourself into the mainstream. You are not unbalanced; however, the world and our American mainstream very much are.
You are not violence prone, but rather an expert on violence who has successfully avoided death by lower life forms as an adult bc of that expertise; however, your fiction would lead one to conclude as Bayonet has.
Outside of your novels, you are actually the most peaceful person I've ever known.
I also wish you the most satisfying New (Writing) Year. May the hood rats stay in the pieces you write, and may peace and transcendence continue to fill your life as you wait for the dissolution of this rot which is our society.
Sincerely,
Your editor,
DL
To my utter shame and embarrassment I didn't offer you a Merry Christmas so I'm doing so now with a Happy New Year thrown in for good measure.