It’s the middle of a recession. Helluva time to schedule a Christmas. I mean, after all, how’re ya supposed to show yer love for family and neighbor if ya cain’t buy ‘em some really great stuff?

I reckon I’m just bein’ morose. It’s cold and windy outside and the new Kuryakyn hip joint is crampin’ fierce. Some people don’t wanna admit that the pain is botherin’ ‘em, and th’ Roo is one of that group. I wuz brought up stoic.

Well, if yer in pain and ya don’t groan every now and then, ya go nuts and blame yer bad attitude on the wife or the Democrats or the Pope…anything other than yer own stubborn self. And Christmas Eve don’t make it any easier.

Th’ Roo’s new hip is barely six weeks old. This mornin’s physical therapy session went well enough. I wuz tickin’ off the protocol one exercise after th’ other until it came time to work on walkin’. It’s downright un-roosterlike to limp around like Festus on “Gunsmoke”, so I spend about 250 yards walkin’ and doin’ balancin’ tricks like holdin’ th’ cane with two fingers. And I’m not allowed to limp, no matter how much it hurts.

Well, today it didn’t hurt. So th’ Roo put away that old bentwood cane and picked up a unipod. It’s used for huntin’ deer and looks like a shiny black walkin’ cane that ya might take to th’ opera house on openin’ night.

I’m walkin’ real good with this thing. Sorta got my Fred Astaire goin’ on. And right ‘bout then, Miz Roo looks up an’ starts to sing…

“If you're blue and you don't know
where to go to why don't you go
where fashion sits…Puttin' on the Ritz”

Only she does the “Puttin' on the Ritz” part like Peter Boyle did in “Young Frankenstein”. That started a chain reaction, with the therapist humming along and then suddenly th’ Roo breaks out in a cute little five-second Broadway number…spinnin’ the walkin’ stick and doin’ a two-step shuffle. Puttin’ on the Ritz.

“Well,” sez Melissa The Physical Therapist, “you guys don’t need me no more.” And she quits.

To celebrate, we went Christmas shopping in Meridian. We bought brown chaps at the Yamaha store, then took ‘em back and bought Pig Spit and a parkin’ puck and a brown vest. Then we bought lunch at the only Chinese restaurant to ever be closed down by the city for servin’ cat meat. Not cat food. Cat meat.

Then we went to Harley Davidson, and I spent a quarter hour talkin’ to Geezer Glide 56 ‘bout nothin’ in particular, then offered him a chance to poke me in th’ mush fer th’ trouble I caused earlier in th’ year (or, he could have a free beer). He was a gentleman and chose th’ beer.

Then we braved the afternoon traffic ‘round the new shoppin’ center and stopped off at Honeybaked Hams, tryin’ to buy th’ In Laws their gifts at the last possible minute. I was supposed to have already taken care of the ham situation, but kept puttin’ it off. Now it was too late in the day to get hams to the relatives for Christmas. So they get nuthin’ this year, ‘cause of me.

Then the rains start, and the traffic gets worse, and did I mention that th’ Roo is a bad passenger? I don’t mean that I complain or that I try to drive from the right seat. I mean that I'm sittin' in the passenger seat and you can smell fear comin' from that side of the car. I suppose it coulda been th’ cat meat.

Then we went visitin’.

So six o’clock rolls around and we pull into the farm and I take a pain pill…one of them small ones, ‘cause I’m trying to cut back. I been takin’ an awful lot of Happy Asprin lately. The DEA sez that I can’t flush the terlit without their permission no more ‘cause my pee is now a scheduled substance.

Nothin’s on TV ‘cause the rainstorm is blockin’ th’ satellite signal. So I tried lacin’ up the new leather vest which wuz my Christmas gift, and one of the lace-up eyelets falls off the vest. And then the cramps start. Left hip. Left quadriceps. Left buttocks. Right great toe. Right second toe.

Th’ Roo’s attitude deteriorated. I shut off the laptop, hang up the vest, and kick back in the RoosterBoots Automatic Recliner for a good night’s sleep. Not a creature wuz stirrin’, ‘cept for the cat (who wuz trying to play with the loose leather ties from the new vest that had broke earlier). A well-placed tennis ball took care of that, but initiated a mandatory Dog Game that lasted until I yelled at th’ critters and they fin’ly calmed down a bit.

Miz Roo fell asleep readin’ her book. Not me. I woke up every half hour between eight o’clock and midnight. Sometimes, the hip pain woke me up. Sometimes the storm outside got to be too loud. Twice, I just had to pee.

On the way to th’ bathroom, I’d walk past our little Christmas tree and fight back the shock of how small our Pile of Loot was this year. I felt bad ‘bout getting nothing fer the In Laws and near-to-nothing fer Miz Roo.

So I was a little unprepared for the shock of wakin’ up at 2:00 AM (havin’ to pee again), and findin’ The Fat Man in Red sittin’ in the chair normally reserved for Melissa The Physical Therapist. He looked like hell. Red and sweaty, his sack of toys lay crumpled at his feet. He was rubbin’ his right knee and mumblin’ cuss words.

Then he looked up and saw that I was awake. He waved one hand in my general direction and said, “You saw nothing here tonight. You are sleepy. Close your eyes and forget…forget…forget.”

“Your Jedi tricks don’t work on me, Old Man. Besides, I gotta pee.”

“It’s Christmas,” he said. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“Why? Did you bring me something?” I asked.

“Maybe I did,” he grumped, “and maybe I didn’t.”

“Well, drop it off and be on yer way,” I said.

“Testy, aren’t we?” he observed. “Ain’cha got no Xmas Spirit?”

“Well…NO. I got an empty wallet and a full bladder.”

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded his head. “I’ve seen this before. EWWW syndrome, they call it.”

“EWWW?” I asked.

“Yeah…’Empty Wallet Wee Wee’.” He continued. “Strikes middle-aged, self-absorbed, shallow bastards and turns ‘em into whiney little Christmas turds. Got any cookies?”

I picked up my cane and hobbled into the kitchen. I put a couple of Blueberry Newtons on a paper plate, folded a paper towel into a napkin, and returned a moment later.

“Here ya go,” I said, handing him the plate.

“Newtons?” he wrinkled his nose. “Haven’t ya got any sugar cookies? I like the ones with red and green sprinkles on ‘em. Walmart sells ‘em at the checkout aisle. Ya coulda bought a whole big box of ‘em when ya went shoppin’ for these…Newtons.”

“Well, it’s Christmas mornin’,” I said. “I think Walmart is closed. What’s wrong with yer knee?” He was rubbin’ it and wincin’.

“Got it replaced a coupla months ago,” he said. “Got me a new one. Hurts like hell, ‘specially when I’m getting’ in and out of the sleigh.”

“I know the feeling,” I said. “I got a new hip and can’t do a thing with my bikes. Can’t ride ‘em, yet…can’t even work on ‘em.”

“Yeah, I saw that garage on my way in,” he said. “Never seen one person with so many Harleys.”

“It’s a long story,” I said. Santa’s eyes squinted in pain and shock. “OK…OK,” I said, “I won’t tell it.” He looked relieved.

“You’re right, though. I got too many bikes. I’m trying to sell that big Sporty,” I said.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Naw. It’s winter, it’s rainin’, and it’s a recession.”

“Man, I’d love a Harley,” Santa said. “Do ya think I’d fit on a 1200?”

“I don’t know. You’re a little on the short side. Ya oughta lose some weight, too,” I recommended. “Might make yer rehab go a little easier, if nothin' else."

“I’M…SANTA…CLAUSE…” he pointed out sarcastically. “I have to be fat and jolly. Don’t you ever read any classical literature?” He handed me a flyer with a picture of himself holding a Coke and looking really happy.

“You look real good in this picture,” I told him.

“Better times,” he explained. “Back then I was just burly. Life was my oyster. Th’ damn elves hadn’t unionized, yet. Now the little breeders have better insurance than I got.”

He leaned in close, and painfully said, “I got a fifty percent copay!”

“I got Tricare,” I told him. “Twelve dollar copay.”

“You got a new hip for twelve dollars?” he asked in disbelief.

“No!” I corrected. “Th’ hip was major surgery…I had to pay twenty-five bucks!”

Santa put his face into his hands and groaned. Then he sat silently for few seconds. Then his stomach gurgled.

“Sorry ‘bout the cookies,” I said.

He waved off my apology. Then he looked around the living room. “This is a really nice house,” he observed. “How old is it?”

“About fifty years,” I answered.

“Front yard is nice and big,” he said. “Big enough to golf on. Ever do that?”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “It’s a 130-yard par 3.”

“Righteous!” Santa grinned. “How ‘bout the back yard?”

“About 40 acres,” I said.

He perked up. “Anywhere to fish?”

“Two ponds on the farm itself,” I told him, “and two more ponds within hikin’ distance if yer not partic’ler ‘bout the Posted signs.”

“Can I ask how much rent you're paying?” he inquired.

“We own it,” I said.

He smiled and nodded his head in appreciation. Then he pointed at Miz Roo, who was still sound asleep. “Does she like living in the country?”

“I think so,” I said.

“You THINK? You don’t know?”

“We haven’t sat right down and cogitated on the matter.”

He looked at her up close. “She’s real pretty,” he said. “You oughta talk to her every now and then.”

Santa picked up the three blueberry Newtons off the plate and popped one into his mouth. He made an ugly face and stuck the other cookies into his pocket. “Better than nothin’,” he said, handing back the paper plate.

I took the napkin and plate into the kitchen. When I came back, he was gone. On the chair, he had left a carefully penned note. It said, “See ya next year, Roo.”

Underneath the note was a colorful coupon for Walmart’s Day After Christmas Sale. Sugar cookies, one dollar for three dozen.

I choked down two Lortabs dry and sat in my chair watching Miz Roo sleep. As I slowly slipped off into an early morning nap, I couldn't help but think that better days were coming. I felt happy long before the pills kicked in.