"Repeat the Sounding Joy" (A Short Story)

Soft snow fell gingerly from the heavens, set aglow by the shafts of sunlight that pierced through the wispy clouds. The streets were bustling with the spirit of Christmas, and the sound of children’s laughter could be heard faintly over the radio’s lively rendition of “Joy to the World.”

It was a nightmare.

See, I was pulling into the parking lot at the mall for a last-minute shopping spree, and— let the records show— I’m not much of a Christmas shopper. Whenever I step foot in the shopping mall, which doesn’t happen often, my wife’s voice materializes in the throne room of my subconscious, assuming command over me, its one and only subject. “Get something practicallll…” Her voice echoes through my mind with such ease that my skull seems emptier than I’d like to hope. “No one actually uses scented candlesssss…” 

Every year I get so caught up in my own thoughts (and my wife’s thoughts) that I end up spending about five hours and five hundred dollars more than intended.

So like I said, I’m not one for Christmas shopping, and that’s under ordinary circumstances. But to shop for someone I barely know anymore, two days before Christmas, at a mall whose directory looks like an exact replica of the New York City subway map? I was more likely to vacation in the Bermuda Triangle. 

My car radio was rattling off the final few verses of “Joy to the World” as I searched for somewhere to park. It was a cover by a band I’d never heard of before, but based on the instrumentation (a keytar and a synthesizer on some kind of “Fargo” patch), they were probably called “Maverick and the Gnarly Gremlins” or something along those lines. Anyway, the song was ending in a fade-out typical of the decade of synthesizers on “Fargo” patches, and I still couldn’t find a parking spot. I knew better than to park along the street, because the second I pulled out of the lot, I’d have drowned in traffic so dense that it may as well have been a vacation to the Bermuda Triangle.

I continued my seemingly futile search, all the while frantically racking my brain for gift ideas for cousin Chuckie. He had called me up out of the blue a couple nights ago, asking if he could spend the holidays at my place. I was about to deny his request and maybe even throw in a “remember the time you popped the heads off all my G.I. Joe action figures in grade two and told me it was because their minds were blown at how much of an idiot I was?” for good measure, but before I could open my mouth, my wife’s voice infiltrated my thoughts once again. “Remember the true meaning of Christmasssss…” it whispered into my ear like a shoulder angel (or a shoulder devil, I can’t decide which). And so here I was, looking for a parking spot among a sea of last-minute shoppers whose desperation was just as fueled by the consequences of their procrastination as mine was. 

Over my car speakers, a preppy news reporter voice that sounded a little too influenced by the holiday season started announcing the next song. Her nasally voice was distorted with radio static, but I could make out that it was a group called “The Disco Divas” and they were playing yet another cover of “Joy to the World,” as if the eighties glam rockers-in-spandex version wasn’t enough. I tried to change stations, but I turned the wrong knob and the cover doubled in volume.

While I fiddled with the dials on my car, I saw a parking spot in my peripheral vision. An empty plot of concrete, unobstructed by wheels of any sort. It felt like Christmas morning.

I started to pull up to the heaven-sent parking space, the refrain of “Joy to the World” blasting just as loud in my mind as it was on my radio. In fact, my inner voice, my wife’s voice, and the lead singers of “The Disco Divas” were all singing together in perfect four-part harmony, like a choir of heavenly hosts. Our vocal performance was cut short mid-chorus though, because to my dismay, when I got closer I saw one of those plastic red-and-yellow Little Tikes “Cozy Coupe” push cars, parked in my spot. If I had a quarter for every time I thought I’d found a parking spot but then discovered it was just being used by a really short car, I’d have enough money to bribe cousin Chuckie into spending Christmas alone. But a toddler’s toy car? I’d never seen anything quite like it. 

If it hadn’t been for my wife’s constant reminders of “the spirit of Christmas” and “doing the right thing,” I’d have parked right on top of the plastic car and gone about my day. Instead, I continued bitterly down the rows of traffic.

The radio announcer’s grating voice started introducing a third cover of my new least-favourite carol— a death metal adaptation this time— when I saw my second chance. Another available spot. I didn’t have time to celebrate though, because coming from the other direction was a jet-black monster truck with flaming skulls emblazoned on the fenders. It was commanded by a shaggy-bearded man whose face was more tattoo than it was skin. 

He glowered at me through his windshield, and we sized each other up like wild animals. He bared his teeth and revved his engine. I clenched my steering wheel with both of my white-knuckled fists and broke out in a nervous sweat. 

Then suddenly, he barrelled towards me on a collision course with the speed and the volume of an artillery cannon. I stepped on my gas and lurched forward too, desperate for the sweet refuge of those benevolent yellow lines of paint, but next to the cannon of a monster truck, my minivan was a nerf gun. It was an unspoken game of “chicken,” soundtracked by an appropriately dramatic screamo vocalist, bellowing about the “wonders of His love.”

My opponent wasn’t backing down. While he drove, he pointed at me with his index finger and then drew it over his throat, all while glaring at me with eyes that were narrower than the parking space. Other than swerving, my only hope was fitting my entire minivan underneath his skid plate, and while it may have been possible, I doubted my wife would have appreciated the tactic. So I whispered a brief “farewell” to both my parking spot and my pride, and swerved only seconds before my shopping trip became a demolition derby.

At this point, I was desperate, hungry, and willing to try anything. Death metal “Joy to the World” eventually became Dixieland “Joy to the World,” which soon transitioned into an old-timey hillbilly country “Joy to the World.” I was planning to drive my minivan straight through the mall’s automatic sliding doors, if that’s what it took, when I passed a gloriously empty handicap parking spot. My wife’s voice inside my head was objecting loudly, but the temptation was louder. Like a swan gliding through silky waters, I gracefully pulled into the spot and got out of my car before my wife could convince me to change my mind.

As I was speed walking towards the entrance to the mall, ready to finish my trip and retreat back into the safety of my home, I passed a bleary-eyed woman pushing what must have been her son in a wheelchair. I subconsciously averted my eyes, but I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“Mommy?” The child asked meekly.

“Yes, Billy?”

“Why do you always have to push my wheelchair across the entire parking lot?”

“Because, pumpkin, there are monsters in this world who are far too concerned with their own convenience than with little disadvantaged angels such as yourself.” 

I dug my hands deep into my pockets and started walking a little faster.

“But what about the law, mommy? Don’t the monsters care about the law?”

“No, Billy,” the woman answered gravely. Her eyes clouded as if burdened with a painful history. “No, they don’t.”

I sped past the two, staring at my feet and bustling through the mall doors without looking back. Inside, an a cappella “Joy to the World” rang past the kiosks and food courts, and I looked up to see a group of a hundred or so preteens in red and green choir uniforms, right by the entrance, singing with the blissful festivity of kids who don’t yet have to park their own cars.

I stepped past the choir, venturing deeper into the labyrinth of a mall, and bumping elbows with frantic shoppers of all ages. I felt stressed and claustrophobic, but more so than that, I felt resentment toward cousin Chuckie. I mean, he had tormented me throughout my entire childhood, outshined me when we were teenagers, and completely ignored me into my adulthood, only to call me out of nowhere, asking to ruin the most important day of the year. I mean, the dude doesn’t even show up to my wedding, and he thinks he can just—

Suddenly, my train of thought was interrupted by something that had caught the corner of my eye. The perfect gift. It was a Christmas miracle. It stood gloriously in its rotating display case, radiating wonder. It was perfectly symmetrical, yet new from every angle. It shone with unopened novelty, yet it felt like I’d known it all my life. It was fit for royalty, yet its warmth made it approachable to anyone. It was the perfect emblem of our relationship as cousins.

Something changed inside me upon seeing it, sitting in the display window in all its glory. Maybe my shoulder angel wife was finally getting to me, or maybe it was the spirit of Christmas. Whatever the reason, I felt all my bitterness dissipate. At that moment, I knew I was put on this planet for a purpose, and that purpose was to purchase this gift for cousin Chuckie. 

I entered the store and lifted it delicately off its display, too enraptured to check the price tag. Cradling it in my arms like a newborn, I walked towards the check out line, and the cashier rang it through.

“That’ll be five hundred dollars,” she said in her sing-songy customer service voice, flashing me a shiny smile.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, snapping out of my daze and staring blankly at the cashier. 

“Five hundred dollars, sir.” 

I gazed into the brilliance of the gift on the counter. I knew it was expensive, but at a certain point you have to ask yourself: what’s five hundred dollars next to the face of a cousin who knows he’s loved? Cousin Chuckie and I have been at each other’s throats since forever, and if five hundred dollars was what it would take to finally mend our relationship and step onto the path towards forgiveness, then it was worth it if you asked me. In fact, it was a cheap price to pay.

“Um, are you going to take it or not, sir? We’ve got a long line and I don’t—”

“Keep the change.” I dumped the contents of my wallet on the counter— five hundred dollars worth of bills, a crumpled grocery receipt, and some pocket lint. Then, reaching over the counter, I gently lifted the gift out of the cashier’s hands and marched toward the mall’s exit in a state of triumph.

I half-walked, half-skipped out of the sliding doors, and was met with a gust of crisp winter air. When I looked up to find my minivan though, my euphoria vanished instantly. I had made it outside just in time to see it being hitched onto an enormous tow truck, and towed away.

Billy and his mom were sitting next to each other, sipping on hot chocolates and laughing like stock photo models. 

“Merry Christmas!” Billy greeted me.

“Shove a sock in it,” I greeted back.

Just then, my cell phone rang. It was cousin Chuckie. I picked it up and held it to my ear.

“Hey cousin Chuckie. What’s up?”

“There’s been a change of plans,” he declared, his voice muffled through the receiver. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Look bro, I know your holiday’s gonna be totally lame without me,” he said. “But I met this girl at a sports bar last night, and things are moving pretty fast. She wants me to meet the parents. You know how it is.”

“You mean you’re not coming?”

“Nah, bro. I can’t.”

“But I already bought your present. You have to come.”

“That’s okay you can ship it to me. It better be something good—.”

 

I hung up the phone and shoved it into my pocket. My resentment and bitterness came rushing back, all at once, and I looked down at the gift in my hand, a vintage 1967 G.I. Joe action figure. 

I dug my fingers into its neck and popped the head clean off.