More Broken Toys (A Christmas Fairy Tale Part II )

Not wanting to broach the subject of a hotel room with a woman he only just met at a New York service station, George McFarley decided to drive straight through to the Florida Keys.

Asleep in the passenger seat, Peggy Sayer seemed at peace. Though her dreams were anything but peaceful. One moment she’d have clear and fluid thoughts as to where she would take her life. At those times she’d be downright euphoric. Then the moment would pass and she’d lose her way.

Those dreams always ended the same, with her in the back seat of Thelma and Louise’s light blue ‘66 Thunderbird convertible, as all three soared over the Grand Canyon. That’s when she’d wake with start and reach for her cigarettes.

“Morning,” said George.

“Morning, yourself,” said Peggy. “Have you seen my lighter?”

“I think I saw it by the gas pedal,” said George.

“Here. Hold the steering wheel for a moment.”

Peggy hated it when men did that to her.

As a driver, she never felt comfortable in the driver’s seat. Always gripping the wheel like it was about to fly out the window, clutching it till her knuckles shone a deathly white. Always praying she’d never have to use her horn or scratch her nose.

“No,” said Peggy. “Don’t bother. I have some matches in my bag.”

“We’ll be hitting North Carolina in about twenty minutes,” said George. “We’ll stop and get some breakfast.”

“I’ve never been this far south before,” said Peggy. “You gonna hook me up with some grits? I’ve been dying to find out what grits are.”

“I reckon I can do that, ma’m” said George. “Maybe get ya’ all some melt in yo’ mouth buttermilk biscuits and a side o’ southern fried steak.”

“Yum,” said Peggy.

The mention of grits got George thinking about My Cousin Vinny. A favorite movie of his. Vinny in his shiny Italian suit and Mona in her leopard-print leotards. Two northern travelers out of tune with their southern neighbors. That about summed up his feelings at the moment.

The stipulation in his brother Kyle’s will was for George to come to Key West and take over his brother’s fishing boat business. If, at the time of Kyle McFarley’s death, George did not wish to be in the fishing boat business, the boat would then be left to someone who would be interested

George’s decision was made easy the day he accidentally dropped the load of plywood onto the Volkswagen convertible.

“Key West here I come,” were the first words out of his mouth, before abandoning the fork lift and heading home to pack.

Meeting Peggy at the service station later that night was somewhat of a godsend. He hated being alone.

That was the night Peggy had to abandon her ancient and dead Ford Fiesta - a high school graduation present from her dad - at the service station.

“I thought it was about time to get you a more practical toy," her dad had said. “You’re going places, kid. You’re going to need something dependable to get you around.”

That was ten years ago. And up until yesterday that practical toy was about the only main-stay in her life. She sold it to the station attendant for one hundred bucks and a free fill up for George’s van.

When George offered her the ride south she threw all caution to the four winds and left New York behind her. Forever, she hoped.

At the diner in North Carolina George and Peggy oohed and ahhed over the amazing large portions on their breakfast plates.

“My God!” said Peggy. “I can’t eat all this. My arteries will clog before we get out the damn door!”

“There are worse ways of going, I suppose,” said George. “Dig in. We have a long drive ahead of us. With a little rest we should be in Key West by tomorrow morning. Then we can live on the boat until we find us a place to settle.”

Peggy found George’s casual talk about ‘we’ and 'us' getting settled a little scary.

“Whoa, there, Nellie!” said Peggy. “You ain’t even proposed yet. A girl likes a little sweet talk first and something on her finger.”

“Sorry,” said George. “I didn’t mean to sound so forward. I only meant that as long as we’re in Florida we’d keep each other company until we found other arrangements. I scratch your back and you scratch-- Wait, that didn’t sound right either. I--”

”Oh, just shut up and eat your grits,” said Peggy. “I know what you meant. It’s just my nature to get defensive. I’m practiced at it.”

“Maybe you could even work for me,” said George.

“On a smelly fishing boat?” said Peggy. “I don’t think so. I can’t even open a can of tuna without wanting to puke.”

“Very funny," said George. “But didn’t you say you were a bookeeper?”

“I’m afraid I made a mess of that career,” said Peggy. “I worked at my boyfriend’s hardware store until he went full time junkie on me and had me screw with the books. His partner caught on pretty quick and we were hustled out of there in no time at all. We went from a duplex apartment in mid-town Manhattan to a studio apartment in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Then the unemployment checks ran out and we started living on my credit cards. His cards were long ago abandoned. I should never have given him a card in his own name. A classic enabler am I. No. Make that classic idiot.

“I tried my damnedest to get him straightened out, but sometimes there are things beyond one person’s control. It takes two to cooperate. The one-sided thing doesn’t work. And the more he used the more I needed to be out of there. That was when I decide to pack my things and leave.”

“With the Christmas tree,” said George.

“With the Christmas tree,” laughed Peggy. “And the rest, as they say, is fucking history.”

Later that day, as they crossed into Florida, George remembered what day it was.

“What do you know,” said George, “it’s Christmas Eve. I’ve been losing all track of time.”

“Well, Merry fucking Christmas, George,” said Peggy. “Anything under the tree for me this year?”

“If there was,” said George, “it’s long gone.”

When George was unpacking Peggy’s abandoned Ford Fiesta back at the New York service station, he noticed the Christmas tree spread out on the back seat of her car. Lights and tinsel still attached. He strapped it to roof of his van, plugged its lights into the cigarette lighter and off they went on their merry way.

Now, as they crossed into Florida, with the sun setting low, George again plugged in the tree and received many honks of appreciation from the other travelers.

“You know any Christmas songs?” said George.

“Not many,” said Peggy. “I know The Ballad of Lucy Jordan.”

“Good song,” said George. “Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show.”

“Yeah, they did it, too,” said Peggy, “but I’m talking about the Marianne Faithful version in Thelma and Louise.”

“OK,” said George. “I know it, let’s give it a whirl.”

As the tropical breeze flowed through their hair, George and Peggy sped down the highway singing their way to an uncertain future, but they went down with their Christmas spirit still intact. Singing a song of hope.

The Ballad of Lucy Jordan
by Shel Silverstein

The morning sun touched lightly on
the eyes of Lucy Jordan
In a white suburban bedroom
in a white suburban town

And she lay there 'neath the covers
dreaming of a thousand lovers
'til the world turned to orange
and the room went spinning round

At the age of 37
she realized she'd never ride
through Paris in a sports car
with the warm wind in her hair

So she let the phone keep ringing
as she sat there softly singing
pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorized
in her Daddy's easy chair

Her husband he's off to work
and the kids are off to school
and there were oh so many ways
for her to spend her days

She could clean the house for hours
or rearrange the flowers
or run naked through the shady street
screaming all the way

At the age of 37
she realized she'd never ride
through Paris in a sports car
with the warm wind in her hair

So she let the phone keep ringing
as she sat there softly singing
pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorized
in her Daddy's easy chair

The evening sun touched gently on
the eyes of Lucy Jordan
on the rooftop where she climbed
when all the laughter grew too loud

And she bowed and curtsied to the man
who reached and offered her his hand
and he led her down to the long white car that waited past the crowd

At the age of 37
she knew she'd found forever
as she rode along through Paris
with the warm wind in her hair