A Plague Year (22 page)

So that’s what we did. Jimmy and Arthur were able to do that tree-over-the-head, heaving-over-the-rail thing. I carried my trees waist-high to the back of the truck and slid them under the netting. Still, I was able to carry my share, and we soon had fifty trees on the truck. Warren and Jimmy climbed into the back and arranged them in neat rows. Then we took our places in the cab and followed the white truck back toward the highway.

Jimmy and Arthur hooked up the Geo Metro again while Warren and I sat in the cab. Warren told me, “We still have room, so we’ll pick up some Frasier firs down in Pine Grove. I know where we can go.” He looked in the rearview mirror. “I’m wearing my magic jacket today, Tom. All will be well.”

We took Route 81 south for about fifteen minutes. Then we pulled off the highway into a similar-looking wooden barn. This one had a cement-block gas station and convenience store next to it.

Warren went into the barn and, not five minutes later, came out all angry and upset. And empty-handed.

He shouted, “Mr. Christian Thing To Do back there must have called ahead. He bad-mouthed us all over the county. Nobody will do business with us.” Warren decided, “You take the wheel for a while, Arthur. Pull up to the pump there. We gotta gas up.”

Warren fished something out from beneath the driver’s seat.
Then he disappeared behind the block building. Jimmy and Arthur paid no notice, so neither did I.

He came back a few minutes later with a new attitude, smiling and flopping into the backseat next to me. As Arthur pulled out and we headed south, Warren started talking loudly. “These trees are total crap, man! Scotch pines? Well, hell, we’ll just tell everybody they’re Frasier firs and Douglas firs, and—I don’t know—
Pennsylvania
firs. Those dumbasses down in Florida don’t know the difference. They’re just pretending it’s Christmas down there anyway. It may as well be the damn Fourth of July!”

Warren poked Jimmy. “Put in the classic Christmas cassette, bubba. I need to hear that while we’re still in cold country.”

Jimmy snorted, “Those cassettes must be twenty years old. I’m surprised they’re not eight-tracks.”

“Every one of them is a classic,” Warren insisted. “There is no need for anyone, ever, to put out another Christmas album. All the classic Christmas songs have been recorded. Mission accomplished.

“Check it out: The Christmas season runs from Christmas Eve until January sixth, technically, although most people have gotten sick of it by January first. But the stores start playing Christmas songs the day after friggin’ Halloween. Why is that?”

Arthur interjected, “It’s all supply and demand.”

“There you go! There you go, Coach Malloy. I remember that lesson. Christmas
demand
is for two weeks. But the Christmas
supply
lasts for over two months. Go figure that one out.”

He leaned forward. “Put on that Burl Ives cassette, Jimmy. Gimme some ‘Frosty the Snowman.’ Gimme some ‘Holly Jolly Christmas’ before we hit that Florida heat.”

The music started, and Warren whooped his approval. “Yeah! Frosty. There’s my man. Frosty!” But he soon turned philosophical.
“Man, listen to that. Tell me: What did old Frosty get out of the deal? You know what I’m saying?”

He turned to me. “The kids let him dance and sing and tell jokes and … 
amuse
them all day, and then he dies. He freaking melts, man! He’s effing dead. And what did he get out of it?”

Jimmy drawled, “Why, the pure joy of amusing children.”

“Screw that! What good is that? You can’t take that to the bank. You can’t make your car payment with that. Believe me, I have tried.” Warren pointed forward again. “And Rudolph? Him, too. They were plain ugly to him his whole life. They treated him like a townie, bubba. A townie with a big red nose.”

“I hear that.”

“So what does he think is gonna happen after he … pulls their nuts out of the fire on Christmas Eve? After he friggin’ saves Christmas? Does he think they won’t make fun of his nose anymore? Does he think they’re going to let him play their reindeer games?”

Jimmy and Arthur shouted out, as if they were at church, “Hell no!”

Warren continued: “For that matter, what does Santa Claus get out of the deal? He spends three hundred and sixty-four days making toys. He makes millions of toys, at his own expense. Then he travels by friggin’ open-air sled! Does he have a heater in this sled? Does he?”

This time, I joined them. “Hell no!”

“He drives ten million miles. And then, does he sell these toys? Does he get a good price for his labors?”

“Hell no!”

“That’s right. Hell no again. He friggin’ gives them away! Then he starts all over again the next day. What kind of life is that? He may as well be a coal miner,” Warren concluded. “He
works like a devil, and he gets no money. He may as well be a damn coal miner.”

Arthur contributed, “Santa gives bad kids lumps of coal.”

Warren laughed. “What?”

“Kids who have not been good? Like me when I was six? They get coal instead of presents.”

“Really? Are you serious? That happened to you?”

“It did. I kept my lump of coal to prove it. I got it under my bed.”

“Man, that’s hard. That’s cold!” He hit his brother on the shoulder. “Jimmy Giles, how could you marry a woman who would do that?”

“That was before I met her,” Jimmy explained. “She wouldn’t do it now.”

“Well, that’s small consolation for little Arthur here.”

Warren reached up and poked Arthur. “It’s bad enough that he has to live over the fires of hell. Right, Arthur?”

“Amen.”

“The flames that burn eternal.”

“Amen.”

“You’re not gonna let them flames burn me, right, Arthur?”

“No, sir, Uncle Warren. No, sir.”

“You’re not gonna let me burn.”

“No, sir. I am not.”

Warren kept talking through Pennsylvania and most of Maryland. Then his voice started to drop, and so did his eyelids. After a long silent stretch, I reached into my backpack, pulled out my journal, and started to write about what had happened so far.

I was surprised when Warren’s eyes popped back open and he asked me, “What are you writing there, Tom? Homework?”

“Sort of. It’s a journal, for extra credit.”

“What do you have to write about?”

“Anything I want. Now I’m writing about our trip.”

“Yeah? This trip? Can I read it?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“I’ll wait till you’re finished, if that’s cool.”

“All right.”

Warren leaned over and looked down at a page. His eyes widened. “Hey! You wrote about Frosty!”

“Yeah.”

He laughed with delight. “That is so cool.”

Soon after, somewhere in Virginia, Warren fell asleep for good. By then, Arthur had been driving for ten hours. Jimmy said, “Pull off at the next exit, Arthur. We need a pit stop—gas, food, bathroom break. Then I’ll take her for a while.”

Arthur put on the right blinker and slowed our truck-car combination down. “A pit stop sounds good. I don’t know about you driving, though, Jimmy. What about Warren taking over?”

“Warren? He’s out. He’s down for the count.”

“I can keep driving for a while.”

“No. Don’t you worry about me. I’m a professional driver. You need some sleep. You can take her into Orlando in the morning.”

So we left the interstate and rolled into a gigantic truck stop with a gas station, a picnic area, and a food court. Jimmy used a credit card to fill up the truck’s large tank. Then Arthur drove us down to the extra-long spaces reserved for big rigs.

Jimmy said, “We’ll leave Warren in the truck, for security.”

Arthur snorted, “Fat lotta good he’s gonna do.”

“Ah, don’t worry. None of these old boys’re interested in Christmas trees. Or Geo Metros.”

Jimmy, Arthur, and I walked together across the wide expanse of parking lot. It felt great to stretch my legs and breathe in the
cold night air. Inside the food court, we all ordered hamburgers and fries. Jimmy ordered some for Warren, too.

When we got back to the truck, Arthur tried one more time to talk Jimmy out of driving, telling him, “I’m really fine, you know. Let me take it for a few hours more.”

Jimmy was firm. “No. You need to sleep.”

“But what if something happens?”

Jimmy thought about that. “Okay. You sit up front with me. If I see any flashing lights in the rearview mirror, I’ll pull over, and we’ll switch places real fast.”

So we continued our ride south with Jimmy, suspended license and all, at the wheel. Arthur and I wolfed down our burgers and fries. This had an immediate and powerful effect on Arthur, as he was asleep within minutes.

I was tired, too, but I felt I could not go to sleep. Somebody had to stay awake with Jimmy to make sure that
he
was awake.

Jimmy was totally focused, though. Totally professional. He remained alert, driving the speed limit, getting the job done for as long as I was looking at him, which was not for long. I, too, conked out some time before midnight.

When I felt us slowing down and turning, I checked my watch; it showed 4:00 a.m. I asked Jimmy, “Where are we?”

“Georgia,” he drawled. “The Peach State. Good place for a pit stop.” He hopped out and filled the truck with gas again. By the time he drove us back to a space, Warren and Arthur were awake, too, and hungry.

Warren held up his bag from the night before like it was a dead rat. “What’s this thing?”

Jimmy told him, “Dinner. You might want to toss that now.”

“I just might. It’s breakfast time, bubba.”

The four of us walked stiffly across the lot. Arthur turned
back once to check on his car, but it was obviously safe. There was no one else in sight.

We all purchased the same thing—egg and bagel sandwiches. Warren and Jimmy got huge cups of coffee.

Arthur and I pulled out cans of soda from Aunt Robin’s cooler. They were still cold, but the ice was all melted, so Arthur dumped the water out into the parking lot.

Then we set off again, with Arthur back behind the wheel.

Soon a bright red sun rose up on Thanksgiving Day. The holiday season had begun, like no holiday season I had ever known. Warren pushed in a Christmas cassette, and we completed the last leg of our journey in a happy mood. We exited the Florida Turnpike at Ocoee, turned right, and pulled into the parking lot of the Colony Plaza Hotel. That was to be my home, and Arthur’s, for the next three nights. It was to be Warren’s and Jimmy’s home for the next ten nights, or until all the trees were sold.

Warren got out and walked into the hotel lobby to get us a room. While we waited, Jimmy lowered the front wheels of the Geo Metro to the ground and disengaged it from the truck. Arthur started the car up and pulled it into a parking space.

I stood there, wearing just a T-shirt, thinking,
I’m in Florida! I’m really in Florida
. I took a minute to duck into the truck and grab my notebook and pen. I’d be keeping them with me at all times. I didn’t want to forget anything about this trip.

Warren came back out and announced, “Room two seventeen, boys, just like last year. Maybe that’s an omen.” He opened the driver’s-side door of the truck. “Now let’s go sell some Christmas trees.”

We pulled around the back of the hotel and headed west. A divided highway named Maguire Road intersected the main road. Just as we turned onto Maguire, though, Warren slammed on the
brakes. He pounded the steering wheel and yelled, “No! No! This can’t be!”

I leaned forward to see what was wrong.

Our lot was directly before us on the right. It was a rectangle of dirt about fifty feet long. Directly beyond it was a second lot, a lot that was supposed to be a Jiffy Lube. Instead, as its signs announced, it was once again a
BOY SCOUT CHRISTMAS TREES
lot.

Warren pounded and screamed some more. This time he went way beyond “No! No!”

I stared at the Boy Scout lot in the distance. It was lined on three sides by chicken wire. It had large, professionally printed signs. The lot also had a pair of green porta-potties sitting at the back.

Warren shouted, “That Peterson guy told me it was a Jiffy Lube. What the hell!”

Warren continued to curse and to pound the steering wheel, blocking traffic on Maguire Road, until Jimmy broke the spell. “Hey! Let me tell you what they don’t have, bubba.”

Warren stopped ranting long enough to ask, “What?”

“Christmas trees!”

That was true. There was not a Christmas tree to be seen down there. The Boy Scout lot was empty except for a lonely SUV parked at the south end. I looked closer and saw that there was a man sitting in it, watching us.

Warren was suddenly reenergized. “Yeah!” He stomped down on the gas pedal and our truck lurched forward. He executed a smooth right turn onto the sandy dirt of our lot.

That’s when I noticed that someone, probably the much-cursed Mr. Peterson, had rigged out the lot with equipment. There was a red gas generator sitting on a sturdy piece of plywood near the back. The generator had wires running to the four corners
of the lot. There were eight tall light poles, evenly spaced along the perimeter, for night selling. There was a canopy on the north edge for shelter.

Warren, Jimmy, and Arthur practically dove out of the truck. Arthur grabbed my arm and dragged me with him under the flatbed. He pointed to a fat roll of chicken wire held in place by leather straps. “First thing to do is set up the tree pen.”

I could hear Warren and Jimmy above us, hopping up onto the bed and wading through the trees until they reached the back. They started tossing the fifty wooden stakes to the ground on both sides of the truck.

Then the four of us worked like maniacs, planting the stakes and unrolling the chicken wire. Within fifteen minutes we had set up a three-sided pen to hold the trees. Then we started a bucket brigade to hand the trees down. Warren, up on the truck bed, handed one down to Jimmy, who passed it off to Arthur, who dragged it into the pen, where I set it up straight.

After the last tree was in place, Jimmy backed the truck to the north parking area. He emerged with a big plastic bag and handed it to Warren. The two of them set to work fashioning three signs, stapled onto pieces of plywood. The signs read
CHRISTMAS TREES FROM PENNSYLVANIA; FRESH-CUT CHRISTMAS TREES;
and
FRASIER FIRS, DOUGLAS FIRS
.