https://fabulistmagazine.com/im-dreaming-of-a-red-christmas/
This year I got a gig as a Che Guevara Christmas Elf at Happy Family Skating Rink. My friend plays a Chairman Mao elf. We don’t really have to do anything but glide around and look cheerful.
It’s a new kind of Christmas, more modern, more edgy. Most of the kids have no idea who we’re supposed to be. They wave and point, as if we were Goofy, or Pluto.
Mao’s got it tougher than I do. Our employer, Margi, scion of Happy Family Skating Rink, is very “into authenticity,” so Mao has to skate around in the classic “Mao suit,” which has a long jacket and is difficult to move in.
Margi dots her name with a happy face, “Just like Happy Family!” she says.
Margi is home from college for Christmas, where she’s been studying new media, which is a lot like old media, but more irritating.
“Having Che and Mao as our Christmas elves is all the new aesthetic!” Margi squeals.
I don’t think Margi knows who Mao or Che were, but she sure knows what they wore.
The collar of my olive-drab army fatigues is left open, practically to my naval. Margi considered having me leave it completely unbuttoned, but luckily my physique wasn’t up to her standards. At least I get to cover my ears and face with hair and wear a beret. Poor Mao doesn’t even get to cover his ears.
“Note the boxy cut, short collar and single layer of fabric. So authentic!” Margi yips. She pronounces auth-en-tic like it’s three words.
Mao’s more popular than I am. His round, flushed face seems jollier, more Christmas-y. Parents, holding skittering toddlers in each arm, turn to point and wave.
“Look Josh, look at…” they say, losing confidence halfway through the sentence.
On Sunday the rink is crowded. Mao is having trouble staying upright. His jacket is too tight and he’s not a very good skater. Margi had to take what she could get. Mao (a.k.a. Tommy) was the only Asian who applied. In fact, he was the only person who applied. She was lucky to get a male Mao.
A small, blonde princess twirls past Mao, her arabesque whacking him smartly in the back of his knees. Mao sways and topples, falling beneath the shining blades of an enormous woman in red spandex. She skates over his thumb. Blood spurts onto the ice like an animated Rorschach test.
Mao stumbles to his feet amongst huge applause. The families think this is part of the act. They have seen so many bogus butcheries they don’t recognize the real thing.
The mother of the pink, twirling princess motions her over to snap a photo with Christmas Mao. I don’t think she has any idea that this jolly, red-faced, bleeding-thumbed man is supposed to be the architect of the Great Leap Forward, which killed about forty-five million people in four years.
But maybe I malign her. Maybe she knows, but doesn’t care.
Today I am called into the office. Margi has her iPhone out. That is a bad sign.
“Look,” she yelps. “There were twenty-five Instagrams of Mao on our rink posted today and none of Che! Now what is Che going to do to make more of an impression?”
I hate it when she talks to me in the third person.
“Maybe I could slice off my finger?”
“That is so — whatever.” She flips her hand outward. Her voice does not lilt upward. This is not a question. It lingers like a foghorn on a cloudy night.
“Or — wait —” I say. “How about if I skate around saying famous Che quotes?”
Her eyes narrow, which either means she’s thinking, or that some Styrofoam snow from the great, flashing Teflon tree has drifted into her tear ducts.
“Like what?” she says.
All I can think of is, religion is the opium of the people, and I don’t think that’s Che.
“I’ll google it,” I say.
The next day I blade around crying out, “Democracy is not compatible with financial oligarchy!”
A couple of goth teens give a ragged cheer, but mostly I’m ignored.
Mao gets toppled by a toddler, bloodies his nose and is applauded. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. I consider casting myself under the blades of a skinny four-year-old, but lack the nerve.
“Maybe you could try caroling his quotes?” Margi suggests.
On Saturday I slide around humming, to the tune of “God rest ye Merry Gentlemen”:
Bet-TER to diiiie sta-an-ding than to live-ive on your kneeees.
It’s a sad thing not to have friend-end-ends, but even sadder not to have enemies.
I am not Christ, I fight for the things I believe-eve in, and try to leave the other man dead, so I don’t get nailed to a cross-os-os-os
Parents make a wide circle around me. I don’t know if it’s my voice, my message, or that in an effort for verisimilitude, I haven’t bathed for a week.
“I know you’re here to kill-il me,” I croon to a passing pair of nine-year-old twins dressed in identical fuzzy blue jumpers. “Shoo-oo-oo-ot, cow-ow-ard, you are only going to kill a man.”
They giggle nervously.
That evening, the last day of the season, there is a check waiting for me. I have been given a five dollar Christmas bonus.
“Whilst contemplating the final defeat of capitalism, we must decide who is at its head, and it is Margi,” I yell. “Margi with a happy face!”
The round, bruised head of Christmas Mao peers cautiously around the edge of the locker room.
“Get a grip dude,” he whispers and slinks off to change.
Maybe, he’s right. Maybe I’ve become a bit overcome by the spirit of the season. I hear that Holy-Roller Rink is hiring an Easter Marx. If I dye my hair, maybe I can get the job.