A Yuletide Tale

The only real problem is I keep tripping over the full-length white bed sheet I've draped over myself as a robe. The styrofoam wings are holding on alright though. My halo is drooping a bit into my line of vision, but that's what you get when you buy the cheapest halo at the costume store.

"Is you an angel?" says a little six year old with dusty blond hair, picking his nose as he looks up at me.

"I is!" I say proudly, putting out my cigarette. And for all these sucker kids know, that's exactly what I am.

I hadn't actually attended church in a while -- not since I was seven, and the "incident with the yellow holy water." But I was beginning to kick myself for not coming back sooner. From what I could see, Sunday School was a total cake walk.

"If you're an angel," says a small boy sitting on the floor colouring, "does that mean you come from Heaven?"

"Yes sir, youngster!" I reply, moving my shoulders to get the wings waggling dramatically. "I used to be a human like you and your mom and dad! Then I died!" Waggle waggle go the wings. "Like your grandparents!" I add, guessing.

"How'd you die?" says a cute little girl sucking on her finger. She's shooting me odd looks. Is she onto me?

"I was hit by a car!" I reply, not missing a beat. "Nice drawing," I say, picking up the work of some snot-nosed kid drawing at a table. "Is this you and God?"

"Yes, angel."

"Make his breasts bigger," I offer helpfully.

"Who was driving the car?" asks the finger-sucking girl, who's tailing me around the room. What a bitch-minx! She's definitely onto me.

"Uh," I say, stalling. "Jesus. Jesus was driving the car."

The kids howl at this. They've been taking Sunday School all their lives. They know an outright fib when they hear one. "Jesus can't drive!" they holler, enjoying the moment.

"Why not? Why can't Jesus drive?" I counter, rolling up my sleeve to pull a goldfish out of its bowl. I toss it on the floor. "The problem with you kids is you're racist."

"Racist?" they howl. These fucking urchins are smarter than I gave them credit for. "Racist against who?"

"Against him," I say, singling out an Asian kid. "Get him!"

This keeps them busy while I grab the garbage bag out from under my robe, and empty the church collection plates into it. By the time the grown-ups get back from their grown-up Mass, I'll be sipping beers and watching Wrestling pay-per-views. The only blame for the seven empty collection plates, totaling well over five hundred dollars in crumpled bills and coins, will be "tiny fingers." Ha! The patsies. Let them take the fall. Where's Jesus now?

I hightail it out of the room as fast as I can, slugging the bag over my shoulder as I make tracks for the delivery entrance I let myself into.

Blocking my path is the finger-sucking girl, who's decided not to beat the Chinese kid like her counterparts. I silently salute her courage and individuality. Still, she might screw the whole deal.

"What's up, kid?" I say. I'm looking around for the exit. Did I come in through the left hallway, or the right?

"You're ruining Christmas," she tells me with her childlike innocence, melting my heart. I kneel over, and scruff up her hair a bit. I scratch behind her ears. Then I remember that's what you do to dogs, not kids -- but it's too late to take it back. She gives me an odd look.

"You takin' all the church's money," she tells me. "You stealin'."

What can I tell her? That I'm stealing from a church, so it's okay? That the money would only go towards lining the priest's pockets anyway, so it's alright? That the money represents collective guilt from parents like hers, giving a dollar not for charity but because they know their neighbours are watching them, judging them? That the money is evil? How do I explain this to a six year old? And do I even believe it myself? I hang my head in shame. My wings droop.

"Alright. I'll put it back."

She pulls her finger out of her mouth. "Fifty bucks and I never saw you."

Ten minutes later I'm racing down the 401 with Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti playing in the tape deck. It's snowing lightly, and even though the roads are getting a little dangerous I don't care. My faith in the future generation has been confirmed.

Jimmy Page burns out the solo for ‘Custard Pie’, and I bob my head in sympathy. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.