Christopher's Christmas Carol (Part II)

I had moved to Germany just five months before my redhaired, demon colleague caused me to break my ankle. When I left America, I bore the mane of a rock star—think Whitesnake or David Lee Roth...or Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, post-suicide blonde wig. I was pretty, and I’m not going to apologize.

So upon farewell, this is the lasting image they had of their son: an adorably sexy hunk waving to them as he boarded the plane. For this one, I’d picture Brad Pitt in Interview with a Vampire (with a tan).

But, for non-vampires, things change.

My hair got shorter and shorter every time I went to the haircutter’s. Odd, that. By December, my hair was shoulder length but still luxuriously wavy. The (h)air of the rock star was no more; Julia remained within of course, but people stopped asking for autographs.

My taste in clothing did a 180. Back then the style in Germany was a bit trampy: baggy jeans, patchwork coats. The hobo look, basically. I wonder where that patchwork coat is now.

Short story shorter, as I boarded the plane to Nashville—yes, I’d decided to surprise my parents by coming home even though I’d told them being in a cast would make a Christmas visit impossible—I looked homeless and crippled.

I placed my crutches in the overhead bin and took my seat. On cue, a big, fat Bavarian man came along, opened my overhead bin, threw my crutches in the back and proceeded to stuff his carry-on luggage in front of them.

“But sir,” I said in German.

“What. What. What,” he barked.

“I need to walk every 20 minutes, or I will die of thrombosis. A blood clot from my leg will travel to my brain and my head will explode.” I have a knack for drama.

“You are exaggerating.”

Yes, but that’s not the point. “I’m too short to reach them where you just threw them.” You enormous slug.

“What is a slug?”

“I did not say that out loud. Give me a break.”

“OK. If you need zem I vill get zem for you.”

“Every 20 minutes? Like you’re really going to get up and get my crutches for me every 20 minutes of this nine-hour flight. Slug.”

“You have a point.”

So, with my bum leg, I climbed up on a seat and put my crutches back at the front of the overhead bin. We took off, had a light snack, worked the crossword puzzle. When the fasten seat belt light went off, I got up and opened the compartment; at which point one of my crutches fell and hit the slug’s wife in the eye. Needless to say, I spent most of my time standing up at the back, far far away from my seat, pretending to chat and do anti-thromboidal leg exercises (which worked).

Stay tuned for the surprise arrival.

I must be off,


  1. I love to read your stories. They make me feel merry and lighthearted. After all, I didn't break an ankle. I think you should post a photo of you with mane in full flow.

  2. I BA,
    I love your unabashed schadenfreude. I would laugh at me too. Wait, I think I did laugh at me. I distinctly remember pointing at myself and laughing.

    The hair. Hmmm. That was pre-digital camera days for me. A solvable problem...for someone smarter than myself. I'll see what I can do (well that will be very little), or I'll see whom I can find (better).

    And thank you. I'm glad you laugh. I made Bad Alice laugh. hehehe

  3. I'm glad you thwarted the telepathic Crutch Nazi. We have to take a stand against them. Well, you do.

    You're all bunched up on the left in this new format. But I like it. The political tides are turning left, of course. It's prescient.


  4. Why did I write "I BA" up there? I meant to write "Hi, BA!" Oh well. I Claudius. You Jane.

    Hey, greasy Mark! Do you mean my picture at the top? I couldn't figure out how to get anything in that rather larger butterscotch square. I wonder what its purpose is.

  5. Hahahahaha!! I love your stories! They amuse me so! I can't wait to see you soon!!

  6. Okay Christopher--I'm in love with any man so in touch with his inner prostitute who can also telepathically call a slug a slug and be heard. (not to mention the snorting and chortling do me good). Though I will warn you, parents, after distance and time... become very STRANGE. It is possible you will decide to disown yours... it's not your fault.

  7. The only adults I ever get into fights with are inconsiderate people. I have keyed cars, left nasty, demeaning notes on SUV's taking up two spaces, yelled at women who go into convenience stores during rush hour and leave their car at the gas pump, etc. I would have melted this guy into a putrid pool of lard. As a matter of fact, find him now, I'm in a bad mood.

  8. Will any fat Bavarian do, Derek? I'm sure I could find one . . . although it would have to be one I don't like. Hmmm. Difficult. Fat Bavarians are so cuddly.

    Hi, Maly! Thanks. Can't wait to see you as well.

    Hi, Watery Tart. Does this refer to a physical problem? Bad baking skills? Or are you just a teary tramp? Thanks for stopping by. Our comments bump into each other at M.J. Nicholl's blog. See you there. :)

    Christopher :)


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