Stanley the Reindeer by Baden
Soft light on the fur. Of course it isn’t real fur and those aren’t real antlers either. You stand there wondering what you’re looking at as if that could change anything. He smiles under the goofy eyes and red nose and there’s just a black hole there. Rudolph is toothless. Rudolph is toothless and Rudolph has long gangly arms and Rudolph is a man called Stanley and the costume is older than it looks and it never looked that good anyway. But in this light, it may pass. For the four-year old watching him, at least, my little brother, JoJo, who is stimulated in the way only the young and mentally deficient can be by this kind of thing. I mean, the dude is toothless (and it wasn’t fights either, they just fell out, they rotted out).
The gangly arms waving and the holes in the suit's elbows and side straining open as Stanley leans forward--what? Is he making to double over laughing? But no sound coming out and the mouths gaping further open, all of them, his toothless monstrosity and the torn seams tearing more, 'riiiiiiiiip!' and his body twists, gangly arms reaching, a further lean and he stumbles, reels, topples…
See, now I’m realizing, unlike my little bro’ standing transfixed, that this is not part of the performance. Rudolph is falling, Stanley is flailing, my father is on the ground rolling and grunting and moaning and Jojo is chirping ‘Dada’ and pointing. And really, as various people are to tell me later, there's nothing I can do. Beyond the obvious. Of course I get the phone. Of course I call 911. Of course the medics come, frantically do their thing, rip off his suit, provoking, at last, my little brother's tears. Christmas is ruined. But Christmas was ruined anyway. So, that’s not the issue here.
Let’s go back a bit, Stanley, pre Rudolph gear, at the table, staring at me, skew-faced, mottled skin, jutting cheekbones, saggy cheeks, streaked red eyes and that mess of eyebrow so wild it almost creeps all the way through the short forehead and into the hairline above. He’s not bald. He’s got that saving grace, but his hair, combed and oiled, looks like it belongs to someone else. Looks like he stole it. Did I mention he’s got the face of a thief? Which is a kinda ironic segue into last week.
“Where is it?” A grunt flung across the table at me. “Where is it? Tell me where it is!” Another angry hurl.
Now the thing is, and I’m not lying, trust me, I don’t have any reason to, here in the present, staring at Dada on a stretcher, keeled out, dead as a doornail. I'm not lying, no clue, I don’t know where his fucking ring went. No idea.
So when he asked I was just kinda shaking my head and trying to avoid his stare, Jojo silent in the corner, and the bottle on the table. Nothing odd about a bottle being on the table. But when Stanley's dirty nails crept around it, the finger pads whitening out at the sides, searing blotches of red in their middles, I guessed he was grabbing the thing with intention, so I ducked and it flew over my head and hit the wall, starbursting it's liquid guts over the plaster, then its JoJo under the table and me heading for the door and Stanley jumping over the table, and my disappearing shape filling his vision, and him wondering stupidly at his slowing momentum before realizing he'd lost me. Until later.
But I don't want to talk about that.
So, no, I didn’t steal the ring, I swear. I didn’t even know it was stolen. For all I know Stanley lost the thing. For all I know he has it and was just looking for a fight.
That was Stanley and that wasn't the first time. So now (welcome back!) watching him stretchered out, a stiff, stiff as the stuff of the stretcher, am I whining? No. Am I tearing up? Not so much. More like trying to repress the pull on the edges of my lips that's turning into a kinda objectionable expression (caught by one of the medics—who looks some mix of disgusted and surprised). Whatever! Stanley, Stanley the reindeer, Rudolph, Dada, is dead! And I'm just dandy with that!
JoJo isn’t though and that’s the thing and that’s why the next day, everyone gone, Dada laid up in a hospital basement, I’ve got this needle in my hand and the damned suit. Kind of symbolic I guess that when it's all closed up, it will be like his resurrection... Kind of.
“Is Dada OK?”
“Yes, JoJo”
“When he’s back?”
I look at the furry mess of holes in my arms and the needle and the thread and the Wikihow page on sowing and give my best guesstimate.
“Tomorrow”.
It’s going to be Christmas day every day or what? Well, I don’t have a definite plan but the kid needs his Dada and I don’t need the whining, so I’m going away for a while and Stanley the Reindeer is coming back.
Standing in the doorway, fake antlers brushing the doorframe. Goofy eyes and red nose. Had to black my teeth out. And the voice—Christ! as if I can’t mimic him, but don’t over-ice the cake or the kid’ll cotton on! Dammit, I almost need a bottle in my hand for real. Whiskey smeared over the suit. And JoJo looking at me bright.
“Hey, kid.”
“Dada!”
Must have got away with it. The little bastard even gives me a hug.
“I missed you, Dada.”
“Me too.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry I took your ring, Dada.”
He opens his little hand and right there on his palm is the ring.
“You took the fu… “
There’s a world of thieving innocence in his eyes.
“That’s OK, kid. It’s really OK.”
The gangly arms waving and the holes in the suit's elbows and side straining open as Stanley leans forward--what? Is he making to double over laughing? But no sound coming out and the mouths gaping further open, all of them, his toothless monstrosity and the torn seams tearing more, 'riiiiiiiiip!' and his body twists, gangly arms reaching, a further lean and he stumbles, reels, topples…
See, now I’m realizing, unlike my little bro’ standing transfixed, that this is not part of the performance. Rudolph is falling, Stanley is flailing, my father is on the ground rolling and grunting and moaning and Jojo is chirping ‘Dada’ and pointing. And really, as various people are to tell me later, there's nothing I can do. Beyond the obvious. Of course I get the phone. Of course I call 911. Of course the medics come, frantically do their thing, rip off his suit, provoking, at last, my little brother's tears. Christmas is ruined. But Christmas was ruined anyway. So, that’s not the issue here.
Let’s go back a bit, Stanley, pre Rudolph gear, at the table, staring at me, skew-faced, mottled skin, jutting cheekbones, saggy cheeks, streaked red eyes and that mess of eyebrow so wild it almost creeps all the way through the short forehead and into the hairline above. He’s not bald. He’s got that saving grace, but his hair, combed and oiled, looks like it belongs to someone else. Looks like he stole it. Did I mention he’s got the face of a thief? Which is a kinda ironic segue into last week.
“Where is it?” A grunt flung across the table at me. “Where is it? Tell me where it is!” Another angry hurl.
Now the thing is, and I’m not lying, trust me, I don’t have any reason to, here in the present, staring at Dada on a stretcher, keeled out, dead as a doornail. I'm not lying, no clue, I don’t know where his fucking ring went. No idea.
So when he asked I was just kinda shaking my head and trying to avoid his stare, Jojo silent in the corner, and the bottle on the table. Nothing odd about a bottle being on the table. But when Stanley's dirty nails crept around it, the finger pads whitening out at the sides, searing blotches of red in their middles, I guessed he was grabbing the thing with intention, so I ducked and it flew over my head and hit the wall, starbursting it's liquid guts over the plaster, then its JoJo under the table and me heading for the door and Stanley jumping over the table, and my disappearing shape filling his vision, and him wondering stupidly at his slowing momentum before realizing he'd lost me. Until later.
But I don't want to talk about that.
So, no, I didn’t steal the ring, I swear. I didn’t even know it was stolen. For all I know Stanley lost the thing. For all I know he has it and was just looking for a fight.
That was Stanley and that wasn't the first time. So now (welcome back!) watching him stretchered out, a stiff, stiff as the stuff of the stretcher, am I whining? No. Am I tearing up? Not so much. More like trying to repress the pull on the edges of my lips that's turning into a kinda objectionable expression (caught by one of the medics—who looks some mix of disgusted and surprised). Whatever! Stanley, Stanley the reindeer, Rudolph, Dada, is dead! And I'm just dandy with that!
JoJo isn’t though and that’s the thing and that’s why the next day, everyone gone, Dada laid up in a hospital basement, I’ve got this needle in my hand and the damned suit. Kind of symbolic I guess that when it's all closed up, it will be like his resurrection... Kind of.
“Is Dada OK?”
“Yes, JoJo”
“When he’s back?”
I look at the furry mess of holes in my arms and the needle and the thread and the Wikihow page on sowing and give my best guesstimate.
“Tomorrow”.
It’s going to be Christmas day every day or what? Well, I don’t have a definite plan but the kid needs his Dada and I don’t need the whining, so I’m going away for a while and Stanley the Reindeer is coming back.
Standing in the doorway, fake antlers brushing the doorframe. Goofy eyes and red nose. Had to black my teeth out. And the voice—Christ! as if I can’t mimic him, but don’t over-ice the cake or the kid’ll cotton on! Dammit, I almost need a bottle in my hand for real. Whiskey smeared over the suit. And JoJo looking at me bright.
“Hey, kid.”
“Dada!”
Must have got away with it. The little bastard even gives me a hug.
“I missed you, Dada.”
“Me too.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry I took your ring, Dada.”
He opens his little hand and right there on his palm is the ring.
“You took the fu… “
There’s a world of thieving innocence in his eyes.
“That’s OK, kid. It’s really OK.”
Comments (16)
My constructive criticism: the ring felt incidental to me., and therefore a bit out of place as the close of the story. I wonder if there is a way to increase its significance.
What we have here is a short story that dares to invite the reader into the all-too-common realities of a broken home and abusive parent. The protagonist, presumably the result of said parent, is a nonchalant almost uncaring figure, save for the bonds between his younger sibling, who he perhaps sees as himself when he was that age. The reader is beckoned to ride shotgun on an intimately personal journey of substance abuse, family drama, and alternating disregard, appreciation, and acceptance for life and death itself. The protagonist's overwhelming nihilism is ultimately redeemed by his care and compassion for his younger brother, demonstrating the unbreakable bonds of family even when all else has collapsed around them.
The story remains intentionally open-ended posing many questions the reader must ask themselves. Was the father really dead, he was motionless and references to a mortuary are only presumed by the protagonist. Might he come back? Did the theft of the ring bring on actions or events that led to the father's (assumed) demise? What will happen next? Surely the older brother cannot simply carry on this facade indefinitely? We are left with a tale that asks as many questions as it conveys events, a format that is difficult to achieve, yet does so in an unexpectedly smooth and captivating manner.
The line, Quoting Baden, still perplexes me. I’m not sure from what point in time I’m supposed to interpret it.
The line, Quoting Baden, is an example of a commonly made mistake in 1st-person narrative: the writer has the narrator speak like an omniscient 3rd-person, illegitimately entering the mind of one of the other characters. There is no warrant here for the narrator to know that his shape filled Stanley’s vision: he is running away from him, and has no idea what Stanley sees. Nor can he know what Stanley is wondering as he loses his momentum...or that he is losing his momentum at all: for his back is turned in panicky flight...
...this line should be rewritten from the point of view of the narrator.
Very well-written story. The punishing stink of squalor comes through shining like a diamond. Everything about Dada is gnarly. His arms, his mouth, his soul. His world is incredibly small, it revolves around his ring, his drink, his kids, his fist.
A nice twist of the story: the kid who liked his dad causes him to die, and the kid who suffered under his dad's abuse gets his freedom by being accused falsely for a crime his little brother committed. In a way the little kid saves his brother without wanting to, by an act he regrets later, and regrets for a different reason... I like this non-linear emotional-social causation.
The quote above is the only thing I did not like. "Welcome back!" is an insult to the intelligence of the reader. In other words, it is explaining the obvious. Granted, it may be of use for some of the readers.
A pair of lips with an objectionable expression by the pull of the edges -- well, too convoluted a way to say "I could not repress my smile, only achieved a distortion of my inner laughter that fooled no one" or something similar. The effort to be poetic and not be overly obvious has taken too much out of the author and therefore of the story, and ultimately of the reader, for a very small return of little value, was my feeling.
My take on the ring actually shows the author's belief it might have mattered, which speaks to something maybe more personal, but I go way out on a limb trying to figure that one out. My point being that the ring was just a random argument from an irrational person, having nothing to do with his death. The ring didn't kill dad. Dad killed dad.
I believe there's an old saying about the value of hesitancy to judge when it comes to certain aspects of literature..
I know, I know, and that's a fact. Appearance is important, otherwise advertising wouldn't be a billion dollar industry. In the advent I was being too subtle or discreet the quote I was referencing was "don't judge a book by it's cover"..
Nicely written, though there were bits that seemed unnecessarily a little difficult to follow and broke the flow, like this sentence: "More like trying to repress the pull on the edges of my lips that's turning into a kinda objectionable expression (caught by one of the medics—who looks some mix of disgusted and surprised)." Altogether the meaning is clear, though at first, I wasn't sure if the expression expressed objectionalbeness (whatever that looks like). Something like, "...trying to repress an upward pull on the edges of my lips..." may be clearer and not break the flow. Maybe I'm being too critical.
Anyway, circliing back to mom and her occational vodka benders, which could last for days at a time, this story brought some of that back. I always figured her benders were kind of mini vacations from the nihilistic emptiness of being a suburban housewife. What really resonated (unpleasently) in the story though, was the aspect of denial. I don't recall the circumstances but I remember once pointing out to my older brother and dad that "mom's drunk". I think it was at an inappropriate time of day to be drunk. They both flatly denied it and insisted that she wasn't. I could tell if my mom had just one drink, much less whatever quantities she consumed in the closet. For them to deny it was as absurd as donning a tattered Rudolph suit and calling youself Dada. What did they take me for? Granted I wasn't the brightest kid on the block but I wasn't fucking retarded, and the whole thing stung too much for gasslighting to work. But enough about me.
I think the thing with the ring provided an interesting emotional twist at the end and wasn't supposed to be what caused Rudolph's demise. In the midst of a charitable act the older brother discovers that the recipient of that charity is partly responsible for some past grief. That must be an odd feeling.
Quoting Baden
The soft light which hides the fakery. Of Christmas delights. It will make JoJo, the 4yr old younger brother, happy. That is what is important to the author.
Then Stanley, their Dada, falls over. JJ has yet to realise...until the medics arrive and rip open the suit.
Christmas is ruined and JJ cries.
Quoting Baden
JJ knows that the Reindeer is his Dad. He ain't stoopid, even if he has a mental disability.
Flashback: Quoting Baden
So, what does a 'thief' look like ? And what is this irony recalled ?
Earlier, Dada had accused the author of stealing. Apoplectic about his missing ring.
The description, here, is fantastic. We feel the anger and fear. And know it's not the first time that JJ has hidden from his drunken DaDa and the author had to scarper to safety.
Quoting Baden
Back to the present. And the author proclaiming.
Quoting Baden
Jojo isn't though. He asks if Dada is OK and when he will return.
His happiness is all that matters to the author. He thinks he will make it alright by repairing and resurrecting Stanley the Reindeer. He answers tomorrow.
Quoting Baden
The author is taking care of Jojo's present needs and his. He can't cope with the current emotions.
So, delay is the answer.
Jojo sees Stanley the Reindeer, thinks it is Dada.
Quoting Baden
Admits to taking the ring. The unexpected twist in the tale.
Quoting Baden
'Thieving innocence'.
I wonder just how 'innocent' - Jojo was attracted by the ring, wanted it, took it.
With no idea of the consequences, I suspect he still knew it was wrong.
Doesn't matter.
Definition of a thief is:
a person who steals another person's property, especially by stealth and without using force or violence.
You can't tell a thief by the way he looks. There can be a 'soft light' shining.
Either way, it's OK with his older brother, the author.
Everything worked out fine.
Dada is dead and his body can wait.
Taking care of his brother is going to be difficult.
He needs to work out how to break the news to JoJo.
I'm not sure that JoJo doesn't already know...at some level.
-------
At first glance, this story didn't appeal. I guess I have a thing about Christmas and the fakery.
I skimmed it without much interest.
On a second read, I understood it better. At least, I think I did.
Heart-breaking and heart-warming.
Thanks for sharing :sparkle: