The Great Storm of ’11, A Fat Guy in A Red Suit, A Bunch a’Frickin’ Reindeer and the Day Fast Eddie McKnight finally broke the sound Barrier-
A Fractured Santa Fantasy
By Pete “The Elfman” D’Alessio
“Stupid fuckin’ reindeer! Ga’dammit, Comet, I said the Black’s house, not the back house!” Eddie had come up on an impact sight with old Chris right in the middle of the rubble field. There were parts of what had been an old fashioned sled, parts of the outhouse, and miscellaneous reindeer strewn about the neglected barnyard. “Now what the hell are we gonna do?! This wouldn‘t have happened if Prancer was here!” The old guy was ranting at the reindeer as if it could really understand him. He was cussin’ up a blue streak and looking ridiculous in the red Santa suit he was wearing.
“Chris? Is that you?”
The old boy look away from the reindeer and right at the cop peeking over the fairing of the bike at him. “Of course it’s me, ya damned fool cop! It’s too friggin’ cold for the Easter Bunny! Look at this mess. Serves me right for trusting that crazy reindeer!” From the lead deer, a sound that was highly reminiscent of grumbling emitted, and Eddie thought he heard it say “bullshit” under its breath. He shook it off. Eddie was helping the old guy up from the two-foot drift he had settled in. “Damned reindeer. Occupational hazard, ya know?”
The deer were having no part of it and were starting to walk away… except for the two that took a flying leap (and kept on flying) towards the town. Eddie just gawked at them. “Jesus, Chris. Where do you find reindeer like that?”
The old boy was digging through the crushed remains of what had once been his sled. He glanced over his shoulder at McKnight. “It depends on where I leave them.”
“I mean… what do they have that other animals don’t?”
“Baby reindeer? Look. Eddie. I got a real problem here, boy. I got less than twenty-four hours to either put my sleigh back together or get another…ach. Here it is, thank God!” Pushing aside some debris, he pulled out a large empty red velvet bag. “Hey, is the shop still set up for business?”
The cop looked at his friend. “It depends. Can you work on a couple of bikes?”
“Well, originally, that was plan ‘A.’ But I need a favor from you. I think I’m gonna need to borrow the Christmas gift me and the elves tinkered together for you. I’ll take good—”
“Elves?”
“You mean to tell me you ain’t figgered out who I am yet?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“But yer ass! Look. Eddie. I like you and your little community. There are some really good folk here, and they get into the spirit of things. I even got some ties here, the family of a… a… an old… a…”
“Girlfriend? Before or after Mrs. Claus?”
“Hell, after 1,371 years, ya know how tired a man gets with same damned piece of—”
“A chippy! Santa’s got a chippy in Podunksville!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, since 1773. Now can we go to someplace warm, I’m freezin’ my jingle bells off!”
With a night to go before Christmas Eve, things were starting to really get out of hand. It was a blizzard of the first degree, folk were still trying to get to the safety of the grand old houses, and chaos was reigning supreme over the little town of Podunksville. Over at the Moneysunk Inn, two reindeers actually did walk into a bar!
The Inn was packed with all the invited quests escaping the frozen weather and high fuel prices that crippled their abilities to feed and care for their families. They were finding sleeping places and warm punch and making the expressions of the season that old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a while make. While the joint was packed, the bar was empty and quiet, few people with money in their pockets for the night before The Night Before Christmas. So when two reindeer walked in and leaned on the bar, the only person stunned was the bartender Ollie, who had just taken four quarters out of the till to kill some time at the pinball machine. And he was trying really hard not to show his surprise. They ordered two beers, and the bigger deer offered the bartender a hoof with a twenty dollar bill in it. Without batting an eye, the bartender poured a couple of cold ones and set them in front of the reindeer. As he was still rather stunned, Ollie absent-mindedly handed the reindeer the coins he was still holding and said, "You know, you're the first reindeer I've ever seen in here." The reindeer looked hard at the hoofful of change Ollie had placed there and said, "Hmmmpf. Let me tell you something, buddy. At nineteen dollars for two stinkin’ tap beers, we’re the last reindeers you'll see in here!"
Besides being a superb closet drunk, Ollie was a consummate bartender. Realizing his faux pas, he gathered the correct change, apologized, gave the next round on him, and started telling jokes. “What do the female reindeer do when Santa takes you guys out on Christmas Eve? They go into town and blow a few bucks!” That opened the door. All three fell into the cheer of the season and the chauvinistic joys males of all species get into when they know their wives aren’t around.
“Hey, I thought there were eight of you?” Ollie asked.
“Naw, we’re down to seven. Prancer took up with a hairdresser and moved to San Francisco! Ha! What did Mildred the Doe say when she stepped out of the woods… that’s the last time I do that for three bucks!”
Meanwhile, on the back of Eddie’s Harley, Chris was raising high holly hell: about the weather, the reindeer (who were keeping pace with Eddie’s bike), the people he knew, and particularly about Mrs. Claus—who seemed to have cut old Santa off in the bedroom about eighty years ago (which was more than McKnight really needed to know!). But Chris kept talking. He had instructed Eddie to take him to Goodbanger’s house and proceeded to blow out his head gasket when they arrived at the dark dwelling. “Where the hell is that idiot, I told him I’d be here today!” The poor trapped cop, who was starting to freeze, just shook his head. “Chris, this is the worst blizzard in a century, in what’s shaping up as the worst winter in two centuries! The Rev’s as broke as the rest of the town, so he’s probably over at the Moneysunk…”
“The Moneysunk? What about the daycare kids who…”
“There is no daycare, Chris. Most of the folk who had their kids in Goodbanger’s care lost their jobs. They had to pull their kids out. Daycare had to shut down. And the medical center too, the new healthcare laws…”
“Well I know one American President who’s gettin’ up tomorrow to find coal in his stocking!”
“Santa’s a Republican?”
“Santa ain’t jack-shit! I died fifteen hun’red years ago, think I give a damn about a political party? Democrat, Republican… they’re all nuts to me—and lately, they do more harm than good! They don’t even know these kids! Right out into the blizzard they throw’d them! What the hell are the little bastards gonna do for Christmas?”
“Go to Mrs. Quims’. She opened up the Christmas Cathouse Bar an—”
“Quims? Quims took ’em in?”
“Yeah! The old girl never batted an eye, just threw open the house to—”
“Quims, ya say? Well, let’s go see my old friend Quims, shall we?”
“You? Know Mrs. Quims?”
“Santa knows ALL the naughty girls… and where they live! Why d’ya think he’s always so jolly! I keep a special Naughty AND Nice list for private use.”
“Mrs. Q! There’s a fat guy in a red suit, a bunch a’ frickin’ reindeer, and the Police Chief knockin’ on the door! Ya want I should let ’em in?” Mrs. Quims’ bouncer hadn’t quite made the adjustment to his boss’s Christmas spirit. Under more normal situations, he would have been more likely to let the reindeer in before the cop. You can take a man out of Chicago, but you can’t take Chicago out of the man, and that’s what Quims liked about him—but not tonight! She had her cooks preparing all kinds of foods for kids tomorrow, her bouncers stoking wood fires and the girls—when she couldn’t keep them under control—were being both naughty and nice! She’d had gangs of children roaming about, all lit up by sugary treats and the lights of the season before their parents got them to sleep. Choirs of moms questioned the morality of being there, and more than one dad had accidentally walked into the wrong bedroom at an invitation to get a special X-mas gift… for a slight shipping and handling charge!
So far she’d kept the lid on the whole bloody thing, but it was two in the morning and it was wearing her down. Her normal place at the end of the bar where she sat when she had the blues, right by the smoking section, was her crutch against sadness. It was where, for years, she’d idled away the slow nights, as the insignificant corner was lit by the tiny specks of fire illuminating the darkness and patron’s cigarettes. But tonight there was only an abandoned crutch by the fire place! “Don’t touch that door, Barrack, I’ll be right there!”
When she peeked through the little viewing port in the door all she saw was a big patch of red and the glare from the Star of Bethlehem, nailed to the highest balcony from the Master Bedroom, shining off the Policeman’s badge. “Oh God,” she thought, “what now?!” Prepared for a fight, she threw open the door.
“I know when you’ve been bad or good—so let's skip the small talk, sister! And I see you when you're sleeping—and you don't wear any underwear anymore, do you? I like that! Big improvement.”
“Chris??? Chris!!!” Eddie almost got knocked over as Mrs. Quims jumped Santa’s bones. Eddie never noticed how really petite the Madame was. She leapt at Chris as if she could fly. “Whoa, Miranda! Get… get off of me, dam’mit!” There was a chorus of the sound “Miranda” that blew through the house like a north wind. As Chris was battling the Madame off him, Eddie realized he had never known Mrs. Quims’ first name; judging by the expressions on the faces of her work forces in the foyer, they hadn’t either. He also realized he couldn’t tell if Quims was a younger women with old features or vice versa.
Then the nostalgia wore off the greetings. “Damn you, Chris, where’ve you been for the last four decades! What happened… the wife finally learn to kiss the South Pole? Or did you find yourself short one ‘ho’!”
“Now Miranda…”
“Miranda my ass, you fat red bastard, I haven’t seen you in forty years, come to find out you were AT THE OTHER END OF TOWN FOR SIX MONTHS AND YOU, YOU DIDN’T, YOU…” Quims broke down in a river of tears and it was making the cheap Santa suit’s color run. “There, there, old girl.” Chris patted her back. “Look! I got some work to do and need someplace to ‘hole up.’”
“Nice way to put it, that’ll make her feel better!” Eddie interjected absently, which kind of centered Quims. She just looked at the cop. “No. ‘Hole up’ is the right phrase. He’s been the charter member of the Mile High club for the seven hundred years I’ve known him. The Ripe-Jolly-Old fart has left more female elves high and dry than global warming. There’s just something about a fat man with a whip and a flying sleigh!” She let go a deep sigh. “Besides, he got a nasty deal on this Saint thing.” She looked at Eddie. “The Big Guy couldn’t let it go at makin’ him the patron saint of sailors—which should explain where he got his morals—no! The Boss had to hang him with giving out gifts!” She turn back to Chris with a stern look. “Okay, fatso, I’ll help ya, but it’ll cost you. You promised Goodbanger you’d be back for his childcare kids. Well, they’re here, and a few more. You’ll take care of them and leave the girls alone! So what’d you need?”
The crack about leaving the girls alone didn’t seem to thrill him, but she had him right by the Christmas tree ornaments. The storm had dropped another three inches of snow in the time it took to walk inside. “Ya got me! I’m gonna need a place to sleep, and I gotta find a way to get to the old deserted Black’s farmhouse.” He looked at the cop. “You better call your wife, Eddie. If you try to make it home, you’ll get killed, and I need your help!” Eddie shook his head (the idea of telling his wife he was spending the night at Mrs. Quims’ was NOT a good idea). “Chris, I’ve been on these roads for…”
“Yo! Dumb cop! There’s a drunk trucker with a semi slidin’ down a highway! If you leave now, you can just be at the spot he’s gonna fly off the road sideways into some trees dragging you with him.”
“It’s that Saint thing!” Quims interjected. “Barrack, please escort the officer to the phone in the dining hall. Fat boy here gets his usual ham sandwich and milk. What’s John Law having?”
“Ah, burger and fries… and a Coke?”
“I don’t suppose you want dessert with that?”
“No ma’am.”
“I figured.”
The snow fell and fell. It was four feet deep and falling harder when Eddie and Chris, after a few hours of sleep, set out on foot to get to the General Store/Mayor’s Office/ Courthouse at the other end of town. Goodbanger and his wife saw them off at the door, the Rev passing on a blessing for their safety. As the couple stepped back inside, Goodbanger said to his wife he had never seen snow like this before. The statement was overheard by Mrs. Q’s head bouncer, Rudolph. He had come from Russia as a soon as the Soviet Union had fallen. He had been a committed member of the Communist Party and was suspected of being KGB. “Snow? No. Is rain!” Goodbanger, a natural born debater, begged to differ, to which Rudolph just shook his still-Russian-Communist-Party-head and stated, “Is no snow! Is rain! In Moscow is rain!” Goodbanger was getting crazy and before he keeled from a stroke, his wife settled the issue. “Now calm down, Reverend. It possibly isn’t snow. I’m certain—Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear.”
It took Chris and Eddie nearly an hour to walk through the snow to get to the shed. The county plows pushed through the snow in an attempt to clear the main drags but to little avail. The wind had joined the winter festival and was blowing drifts as tall as a man in some spots, and refilling the cleared streets almost immediately. They made it to the shed wherein rested all the bikes Chris had refurbished (except for the one Eddie had ridden last night—that one was buried in the drifts behind Mrs. Quims’ and wasn’t coming out until Spring). Eddie had expected to find the shed frozen solid, but when they pushed the door open, they found that someone had turned the space heater on. There was a freshly brewed pot of 50-weight coffee on a burner and the place smelled like a pine forest. The poured out a couple of cups and drank them by the heater in an attempt to defrost. They sat in silence for a while. Then Eddie spoke up.
“Do I need to know who made the coffee and turned on the heat?“
“No.”
“Ya know, that Mrs. Quims is an alright lady.”
“Yeah, well, you never slept with her!” Chris paused thoughtfully. “No, you’re right. It was a real nice thing to do, opening up the Cathouse for local folks.”
“Did you know she had turned to hooking?”
“Back in the day she was workin’ as a gift wrapper up in the shop. I suspected something was gonna happen. She always had a bad case of low elf-esteem! I remember…” The old boy broke off mid-sentence, then craned his head as if was listening to a distant conversation. “For Chris’sake, McKnight, does that idiot cop go into over-drive at Christmas time… uh! I take that back. It’s not Smitty, it’s the other one!” At that exact second, through the shed window, the lights in the courthouse could be seen to snap on. “You’d better get in there and see what’s up. I don’t think that old judge’ll be in a good mood!” The idea of walking into the snow even just across the yard didn’t thrill McKnight, but he had to agree.
But to the Police Chief’s surprise, the Judge was in a happy mood, very much in the holiday spirit. Mac led his collar in, looking more like Nanook of the North than a cop, and it was obvious he’d been up and out for hours. The Judge asked the prisoner standing in front of him, “What are you charged with, son?”
The prisoner replied, “Doing my Christmas shopping too early, sir.''
“That's no crime,” said the magistrate, looking at Mac. “Just how early were you doing this shopping?”
“Before the shop opened, your Honor!” Mac offered.
At this point Eddie realized there’d be a guest in the police station over the holiday, so he made a beeline back to shed. No sense inviting unwanted over-time babysitting a crook on Christmas Eve. Mac caught him, he can keep him! He walked through the still-falling snow back to the shed. It hadn’t taken him more than fifteen minutes, top to bottom, to go to the court, turn around, and come back. By the time he got back into the shed all the Police bikes had their oil changed, their dings and scuffs from being dropped were removed and repainted, all the bikes were washed, waxed, and their chrome parts polished… and Chris was gone! Attached to the fairing of one of the bikes was another note: Had to go out to the Blacks’ farm. Meet you back at Quims. Left you a pre-Christmas gift over on the shop bench. Pour it in the coffee and drink it. It’ll keep you warm all the way to Miranda’s place and probably make you as jolly as me. Don’t believe that bullshit about Santa, milk and cookies. It don’t work at the North Pole.
Over on the bench sat a steaming hot cup of coffee and a shot-and-a-half glass filled to the brim with Irish Mist.
Eddie made has way up Main Street through the still-raging blizzard. He thought he was making good time considering, in his estimation, considering that he was still half-ripped from the Christmas eye-opener Chris had left him. He reached Mrs. Quims’ and was shocked to find out it was mid-afternoon, nearly three o’clock. The kids in the house were lit up and circling over the joint in expectation of the early visit from The Man himself! By four o’clock, there was a rumbling clatter from the far end of street which drew everyone in the house to make a dash for the porches to see what was the matter! Eddie stood at the front door with Mrs. Quims and watched Santa burn his way up the main drag on what could only be seen as a… Harley-Guzzi. Chris had taken the old Moto Guzzi and welded it to the Harley trike. All five wheels were cranking away and tearing a path through the snow better than a reindeer could do—reindeer don’t have chains on their hooves! On the platform of the trike was a red velvet bag stuffed to the brim with Christmas presents, lashed to the trike’s safety rail. Chris had mounted a 200-watt pioneer sound system under the fairing of the Guzzi and rigged top-of-the-line Sansui speakers on both bikes—one would think to play Christmas music—but it seemed that Santa preferred the Allman Brothers ‘Live at the Fillmore’ when he was on the road. Eddie wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Chris smokin’ a bone. The cheap Santa suit was gone, and the old guy was now in a black Harley-Davidson leather riding suit trimmed with white ermine. The black suit and the white beard (which was now quite full) hanging out from the open-faced helmet cut a great visible bikers’ Christmas card against the snow.
The old boy rolled up to the Cathouse looking like the Christmas cover of ‘Easy Rider’ magazine! With the engines turning, he sat and blearily leered at McKnight and Quims. “That’s not a candy cane in my pocket, honey. I'm just glad to see you! What are you lookin’ at, cop? It’s a “Holly” Davidson! And it’s yours after ta’night!” He slid off the bikes and grabbed his bag, then the other bag, and only stopped long enough to ask Quims if she had any Ritz Crackers stashed away anywhere, as he had a wicked case of the munchies. Before Eddie could ask him if he was stoned, Chris tossed the keys at him and told him to go take a nap as he was driving tonight. Then he disappeared into the house and McKnight was left holding the keys to the world’s strangest motorcycle.
Perhaps it was better Eddie had stayed outside. Chris was doing his Christmas thing through a purple haze. When little Annie McBride asked if Santa could send her a baby sister for Christmas Day, Santa replied, “That depends. Can you send me your mother for Christmas Eve?” One of Quims’ girls wanted to know if naughty young ladies still get coal on Christmas morning, to which he replied, “Nah, Santa’s gone ‘gangsta.’ She wakes up with a reindeer head in her bed. Now, baby, wanna see Santa’s twelve-inch elf!?” Gran’pappy Hecht , wearing only a bathrobe, was woken up from his nap by the racket Santa was causing and came downstairs to see why there was a riot in the main ballroom. Seeing his name on a present he bent over the Christmas tree to pick it up. Chris looked up the robe and asked, "Hey Dad! Who's getting the bagpipes?" It didn’t go over well. But when he told Rudolph The Red not to worry, Santa was going to fix his problem and give him a mistletoe belt buckle… well, that one almost got him set on top of the tree in the place the where big star was supposed to go. Mrs. Quims showed up with a box of Ritz crackers just in the Saint Nick of time. She dragged him up to her bedroom and put him to bed… for a nap.
Eddie, in the meantime, was studying his new bikes. There were joined through the three wheels in the rear by an axle that would indicate a differential. The front wheels were joined through the steering posts; you could sit on either body and have the same control from either sets of handlebars or there were foot boards so you could stand and ride Ben-Hur style, and Eddie could see it was tillered like a side-car, not steered or leaned. He couldn’t locate any filler ports for gasoline. Also it was obviously a police model, as it was painted black and white, equipped with a siren, lights, GPS, two way radio, as well as short wave, AM/FM stereo, and for some strange reason, an altimeter. He didn’t realize how long he’d been out there, but when Miranda Quims stuck her head out the front door and shouted, “Hey! Copper! Wanna cup of hot chocolate, with a shot of schnapps? Or Dessert? It’s on me.” McKnight looked up and tried to grin a half-frozen nod to the chocolate.
She led him to a tiny breakfast nook off the kitchen that seemed to offer a view right through the house. Eddie could see Christmas Eve on a collective scale most people don’t. Between Quims’ old mansion and the Moneysunk Inn, almost the whole town had gathered to snuggle up in front of the old fireplaces and Franklin stoves. It was cheating old man winter of the fear and despair of having to live through the worst storm anyone could remember, including himself.
“1865!” Eddie was snapped awake by Miranda, who was approaching with a cup in one hand and a bottle in the other.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Quims, what did you say?”
“1865. During the war between the states. It snowed on and off for three weeks. That was the worst storm anyone ever saw. And I mean it snowed! It was so cold, a buck went to take a leak and it turned to ice before it hit the snow. The poor bastard was frozen by his pecker in one spot until spring.” She placed the cup in front of Eddie, handed him the bottle, and sat down. “But it is bad out there. And he isn’t getting any younger. I’m glad you’re going with him tonight.”
“I am?”
“What did you think? That he was kidding? Without that sled… why do you think he got all gooned up? He’s afraid of that bike. He told me all about you and the salt flats. You really wanted to break that land-speed record, didn’t you? Well, hold on to your helmet, cop. Tonight you’ll be moving a lot faster than that! He needs you to hold those bikes down, or Christmas goes right down the shitter! In his mind, it’s a trade-off. You won’t be in any record book, but from now on ‘Fast Eddie’ will have a whole new meaning!”
Around eight o’clock Chris reappeared. From his seemingly-empty sack, he produced another black leather suit and instructed Eddie to go put it on. As he dressed, the sounds of the Upstate New York county snow plows could be heard passing by again clearing the road as best they could. Eddie could hear Chris talking with Mrs. Quims, telling her the worst of the storm would hit through the night. Eddie wondered how crazy was he to be doing this.
The engines fired up like deep-frying meat cookers,
in the house no one stirred…not even the hookers!
The bouncers were stoking the fires with care,
and wondered how long all those damned kids would be there!
And Quims in her parka and Ed in his leather,
walked out to the bikes, where Chris got it together.
It was not sugar plums that danced in his head,
but visions of bike wrecks and lying there dead.
He needed Fast Eddie to tiller with care,
it would help to allay ole’ Santa Claus’ fear.
But this was for Christmas, a right Merry cause,
so if this was the end of old Santa Claus,
he’d go out in a burst of old biker’s glory!
And that would be it… the end of the story.
Eddie went out and mounted the Guzzi. Much to his surprise, it was an automatic! Only two gears seemingly would keep his speed down. Chris, in the Harley seat, looked at his navigator and said, “An honest politician, a kind lawyer, and Santa Claus were walking down the street and saw a twenty dollar bill in the road. Which one picked it up? Santa! The other two don't exist! Now let’s ride!”
Realizing all this was actually happening, Eddie looked over at Quims, who was there—and then she wasn’t! Fast Eddie saw immediately that this gig wasn’t the way they portrayed it in the movies. Quims had looked like a scene from ‘Star Trek’, turning from a crystal-clear three-dimensional image to a series of neon lines wending their way into infinity. In fact, the entire world looked like that—except for the reindeer. They seemed perfectly normal as they ran alongside the bikes. But Chris? Chris looked like he was in a strobe light, blinking in and out of reality as he jumped in and out of chimneys as he made his rounds. The bike itself handled well, considering they seemed to approach the speed of light. Rivers? No problemo! Eddie found that, despite the size and weight, he could jump the rig like a dirt bike and leap them like they were nothing. Outside of Cleveland Chris signaled the bike down and Fast Eddie decelerated it into the parking lot of a closed White Castle hamburger joint. There they sat, surrounded by a herd of breathless reindeer.
“Break time!” Chris retrieved a ham sandwich and glass of milk for himself and a thermos of coffee and a buttered roll for the cop. “Ya want half my sandwich?” he asked. “Last few years sandwiches were gettin’ scarce, but this year? Times are so hard, they ain’t even leavin’ cookies and milk out for me. Imagine old Santa havin’ to bring his own lunch! Or imagine old Santa having to listen to some little kid ask him to find a job for her daddy for Christmas. You want half my sandwich?”
Ed looked up at the old boy, shaking his head. “Chris, you okay? You seem to be movin’ pretty fast.”
Chris just tugged at his beard and grinned. “You should talk! Fast Eddie, motorcycles ain’t like reindeer—they can’t stay on a course without a driver. You keep drivin’, I’ll be fine. I plotted in a course on the GPS, you been holdin’ the bikes down, and Christmas is happening. You realize you’re now one of the world’s fastest humans?” Chris paused and looked at the moon, high overhead. “We need to get goin’, it’s getting late.”
By 2:00 AM, they had gone cross country. Then they jumped the Pacific Ocean, went through the Orient, went across Africa and up through Europe, managed to hit the North and South Arctic regions, and by daybreak they were on their way across the Atlantic back to the USA. Chris’ sack was empty and while the old boy looked tired, Eddie was still all lit up, exhilarated by the intense speeds he was hitting. The bike’s speed began diminishing from Albany on as they sliced through normal-looking snow-covered roads towards Podunksville, stopping only long enough for Chris to pour a half ton of coal from his sack into Smitty’s backyard. The snow seemed to be abating, and by the time the rig pulled up in front of Mrs. Quims’ Christmas Cathouse Bar & Grill it seemed to have stopped. At the front door was Mac, Quims, and more Cathouse Coffee.
Chris dismounted immediately, but when McKnight tried to get off Chris pushed him across the bikes and onto the Harley Saddle. “This side shifts like a regular Harley. Forty miles of clear, empty road from here to Jergyton. How fast can you make it there and back?” The old man pulled a stopwatch out and held it under his nose. “The world’s record of 360.913 miles per hour still stands as far as I know. Hell! Don’t sound that fast to me! But that wasn’t on a sixty-year-old bike… or two. Fast Eddie, you been wonderin’ for thirty years what bein’ the world’s fastest man would feel like. Yo! Cop! Here’s your chance. You won’t be in a record book, but you’ll know! Mac and Quims there will know. Hell, I’ll know! And a Merry Christmas to all who get up and look out their bedroom windows to see you!”
And then it got quiet. The quiet of a New York State on Christmas morning at daybreak, icy cold and clear.
McKnight fired the engines up and the sound of a serious machine tore through Christmas morning like a stampede of horses. He ran the town circle to get the feel of the Harley side of the bike, then shot down the snow-cleared road at rocket ship speeds. The noise of the motorcycle doing the circle had awakened the guests at both the Moneysunk and Mrs. Quims’. They leaned out windows, and little children stood in their bathrobes and slippers on balconies and porches, made aware that something very special was afoot. I mean, even in Podunksville, it wasn’t usual on a Christmas morning to see Santa standing in front of a cathouse, wearing ermine-fringed riding leather and holding a stop watch! It was a sight to behold and not to be forgotten as one of those special Christmas memories, the kind of thing you stumble over explaining to your grandchildren decades later. Or as little Lizzy Henderschot, who actually had started this whole story, recalled it years later:
I heard him exclaim, ’ere he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
Of course, folk in Podunksville were never certain if Lizzy was referring to Fast Eddie or Santa leaving the cathouse that night. Lizzy was never ‘quite right’ again after the Mayor’s kid slammed into her rear bumper one night and sent her flying over the handle bars.
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