The Ghost of Christmas Pest

I need a corn dog and an Icee. Don’t judge. It’s my busy season, and I comfort eat.

Everyone has that one boss who rides them. My boss has been on my butt for millennia. So I’m going to get my corn dog Jeff, damn it.

Fudge! He hates it when I call him Jeff. Or in his original Hebrew, Yahweh. Jehovah. God. Whatever you call him, he’s my boss. He was already on my case because my reports were late, but now I’ll never hear the end of it. You’d think that being all-powerful and all-knowing would come with a certain confidence. But no, thousands of years, and Jeff still gets testy when you use his childhood nickname. I’ll have to buy him a box of chocolate truffles to keep the peace. Don’t get me wrong, he’s as kind as you’ve read. Full of peace and love. But, there are deadlines to stick to, souls to save, and if you fall down on the job, well, let’s just say you do not want to be on his bad side.

I am taking my lunch break at the Galleria Mall in Hoboken, New Jersey, and that corn dog? I’m going to expense it. I’m on the job. You see, I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, and in this day and age, my humans are not spending Christmas Eve at their offices like old Ebenezer. No, these paragons of hard work and goodness are at the mall, looking to score that last two thousand inch TV for $499.99.

My newest charge, Barry, sits one table away at the food court, chatting away on his $900 smart phone. He’s screaming at his secretary, Cheryl, to “get those damn reports out!” Cheryl, I know the feeling.

Barry is what you’d expect: twenty-eight years old, dressed in a silk suit, Gucci loafers, and gold Rolex, and he’s screaming into his Bluetooth at his underpaid secretary while typing away on his iPad. Among his other stellar traits, Barry convinced a children’s charity to buy over $10,000 in stock in a company he knew would tank. Barry himself short-sold the same stock. Barry has been a bad boy. I am to show Barry the error of his ways, to show him the Meaning of Christmas, blah, blah, blah. But Barry is too engrossed in his iPhone to care. They may as well have named it mePhone

I am about to indulge in the deep fried, sweet and savory goodness that is a corn dog, when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Still doing this?” a familiar whines.

Do not turn around, I think. The voice continues. “Christmas, and here you are trying to help one soul again. They don’t even need you! Memories of Christmas Past. Ha! Barry has all of his memories on Facebook. It reminds him of his past each year. What does he need you for?!”

“But — “, I begin

“But — ” the voice mimics, “Make something of yourself!” it whines, jabbing my shoulder with each word. “My daughter won’t wait around for you for ever.”

The voice belongs to my soon-to-be mother-in-law. The Ghost of Christmas Nagging. Or, as I call her, Gertrude. I turn around. Gertrude is dressed in a form-fitting Vera Wang gown, and like the other restless souls of the greedy and deceased, sports Jacob Marley chains.

“Let me guess?” I say, “Chain Gang? Unchained Melody? Chains of Love?

“Very original, Ringo.”

This is not her attempt at a joke. That is my name, for the past fifty years anyway. The rest of us are named after apostles or saints: John. Paul. George. But for the past fifty years, Jeff has called me Ringo, who says he lacks a sense of humor?

Before I can get away — I do have work to do — Gertrude grasps my hand and transports me on one of her journeys.

Where I prefer to use subtlety to inspire, showing my humans their pasts to remind them what they could be, Gertrude favors the heavy-handed approach. In rapid succession, she shows me Gabriel offering his revelations; Moses taking the Ten Commandments. She jumps a millennium to Salk and his polio vaccine, Bill Gates and his computer, and, of course, Steve Jobs with the first version of Barry’s iPhone.

“You’re wasting your talents, Ringo, showing people their pasts. The innovators show the future! They prognosticate! Predict! Invent! They are the world-changers.”

“I can’t exactly moonlight. This is the job Jeff assigned me.”

“Nonsense”, Gertrude says, “show some chutzpah. Innovate!”

With that, she is gone, and I am back in the food court, sitting one table away from Barry.

I glance at Barry’s iPad, and briefly consider short selling whatever stock he is hawking to his next victim. Then, I have a better idea. I pull out my phone (are you really surprised?) and text Jeff:

Boss, I have an idea how to help Barry, all of the Barrys. Each time Barry yells at his assistant, or each time he tries to swindle someone, let’s transfer $10 dollars from his account to a charity. Let’s have a text pop on his phone reading, “your act of greed has been transformed to one of kindness. We have transferred $10 from your account to Feed the Children. Thank you, Jeff. I mean Jehovah. I mean, God.”

In a few seconds, I get a text back:

First, Don’t call me “Jeff”. Yes, I heard you. I always hear you. Second I like it! It may take a while for Barry to catch on, but all the better. I’m sending the software to his phone now. Now, get back here with those truffles, and they better be French. Finally, Ringo, Merry Christmas. Good initiative, and welcome to your new job as the Ghost of Christmas Change.