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Atop the Christmas Tree PAGE
TWO: Dragging the tree back to the road, my brother cursed himself for going so far into the farm as he did. He knew he was late for the rendezvous with us, and he started getting paranoid. And there Terri and I were, sitting in my grandmother's kitchen, being plied with all sorts of goodies, giggling at the fact granny had no idea we were high. Everything she said was funny. That is until she asked how Mark was doing. Our eyes got as big as saucers and Terri and I took off like our asses were filled with firecrackers. Now we were paranoid about how long we had been gone. A half-hour? An hour? Two? Upon arriving at the rendezvous site, we were greeted by my very angry and stoned brother dragging a huge Christmas tree. We had to move fast, but unfortunately we were unable to work as a team. Paranoid about getting caught, Terri and I were of no use to my brother loading the tree onto the roof of the car. We grabbed the rope and started wrapping it around the tree, then through the windows of my Bug, expecting at any moment to hear the sound of the Christmas tree farmer as he slid a shell into the chamber of his shotgun. The more we hurried, the more it seemed we were moving in slow motion. We were also suffering from snow blindness. The brilliance of the bright winter sun and blue sky did not help our dilated pupils, and we had to continually blink our eyes to see to tie knots with the rough inch thick rope. There must have been a hundred feet of rope but we were too stoned to realize we did not have to use it all My brother and I began arguing who would drive home, he saw himself as the better get-away driver. But I insisted that since it was my car, only I got to drive it. We both reached for the door handle and pulled. It opened an inch and then stopped. In our hurry to tie the tree on we had tied all the doors shut. The windows were only down three-fourths of the way so we had to reach in and crank them down. We each climbed in head first, my brother managing to get into the driver's seat. He refused to budge. We were Cheech and Chong meets The Three Stooges. Off we drove, triumphant that we had pulled the heist off and not gotten caught. …Until we got home. As we drove up to the house, not quite ready to assume a straight face, my mother stormed out slamming the door behind her. "Why have you been gone almost four hours, it should have only taken 30 minutes?" She demanded an answer. This was a development we had not considered. With my brother tap dancing around, hemming and hawing, and Terri telling my mom how pretty she looked, we made up some stupid story I don't remember now, and presented the tree to my mom. I had not taken a good look at the tree my brother had selected, trusting that his expertise in Christmas trees from the previous summer would enable him to pick out a good one. The specimen before my mother was bare, no needles at all on one side. The other side had the long needles of a fir, and not the short needles of the better spruce. The limbs were not symmetrical, and the base of the tree was all splintered. Angry at the tree lot man for taking advantage of kids, my mom instructed us to load the tree onto the car again. "We'll all go back, and I'll make him give us a better tree, or refund my ten dollars," She said. We begged and pleaded knowing that once there, the jig would be up, and there would be hell to pay. We told her how we walked the lot and picked the tree special because it reminded us of the story we watched when we were little kids -- A Charlie Brown Christmas -- and how it was one of the last trees left, and surely not going to have a home unless we took it. My mother was a tough nut to crack but as we told her of the ugly, unwanted tree and how we knew she was the only mom cool enough to accept it into her home, her heart was melted by her thoughtful children. By the time my brother and Terri were done I'm surprised she didn't go inside and bake us cookies, and make hot chocolate with little marshmallows. Mark leveled off the bottom and stuck the tree in the base with some water; I went and took a nap. Terri managed to leave with the nickel bag stuffed down the front of her jeans, and we didn't see her for a couple of weeks. A few years later we confessed the whole thing over Christmas dinner to my mom who, with the wisdom of age, and glass of wine or two, laughed at the whole thing. And every year since then, Mom has told the story to whatever friends or family we are gathered with -- the story of her two stupid, stoner kids stealing a Christmas tree. God bless us every one.
[Author's Footnote: A couple of years ago I wrote this true story into a screenplay that made the rounds in Hollywood. About a year later my mom called and said she saw it in an episode of That '70s Show.=)]
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I
found out later that while we feasted, Mark searched for a tree.
But without the decent coat, warm boots and gloves that he was too
cool to wear, he started getting cold. Frustrated and tired, he
started sawing away at whatever tree he was in front of. Working
in the snow, and freezing his nuts off, my brother realized he had
picked an old rusty and dull saw. He worked that saw until he could
stand it no more and then kicked the tree over the rest of the way.
