Chapter 8
Saturday morning, winter festival: Stu drops a bomb
Stu McLundy hiccups into the microphone as he cues up the next record. “Excuse me,” he says to everyone in Greener Valley. He stares at the Dixie cup. “Why did the turkey cross the road?” He pauses, waits for an answer even though he can’t hear the people of Greener Valley and the people of Greener Valley are horrified at what’s coming out of their radios. “Because he didn’t want anyone to think he was a chicken!” Stu lets out a laugh that can only be described as a guffaw. A phone rings, probably someone at the Winter Festival wanting to give him his next direction. The record spins and Bobby Helms is starting to jingle bell rock. Stu, who has a strict rule about not talking over a record after the artist has started to sing, is now talking over “Jingle bell swing and jingle bells ring.”
“Hey, guess what Greener Valley? I’ve got some big news for you!” A few blocks away, Maurice Fetterling guns his Mercedes on his way to the Winter Festival. He’s listening to Stu and he knows what’s coming next. He slams on his brakes, makes a wild K turn and heads toward the WTCP building. Maybe he’ll draw this announcement out. Maybe he will play another song before he tells everyone what he’s not supposed to tell them. Maybe, with the grace of god, he’ll drop dead of aneurysm right this very second.
Stu laughs into his mic. “I’ve been fired.”
Snowing and blowing up bushels of fun…
Greener Valley stops. Everyone preparing for the Winter Festival. Every person in every store, in every car, in every house. They all stop and stare at whatever speaker or radio they are near, as if someone’s going to pop out of it and yell “Haha just kidding!” Maurice Fetterling pulls into the station parking lot, murder on his mind.
Dancing and prancing in Jingle Bell Square
“They’re shutting me down, folks. Maurice sold the station.” Stu crushes an empty Dixie cup against his forehead and laughs. The laugh echoes through all of Greener Valley and it makes the town shudder collectively.
In the frosty air
“How do ya like that?” The phone ring, ring, rings, Hank Hoffman half in and half out of his Santa suit willing Stu to pick up.
To go gliding in a one-horse sleigh
“Motherfuckers.”
The important thing to know here is, Greener Valley is not as pure and wholesome as it seems on the outside. Everyone puts on this Norman Rockwell vision of loveliness when there are other people around but inside their own homes with the blinds drawn and the doors closed, it’s a different story. Not only do the citizens of Greener Valley curse up a storm, but they fight and fuck and watch pornography and leave dirty dishes in the sink. Behind those doors are adulterers and tax cheaters. There are people who collect disability while they work another job. There are teenagers who do drugs and adults who drink too much and at least one person who has killed someone. In other words, Greener Valley exists very much like any other town in America, except they know how to put up a good front. So hearing Stu McLundy say “motherfuckers” – to have that word sent into the air via radios and the Winter Festival PA System – is sort of like seeing your teacher in a supermarket. You know she’s just a regular person. You know she needs to buy food. But seeing her out of the classroom is weird. It sort of shakes your world to see her not behind a desk or standing at the chalkboard and oh my god why is she buying Bloody Mary mixer? Like that. Everyone knows Stu curses. Everyone knows he drinks. But to actually witness this stuff in broad daylight – on the day of Winter Festival no less – it’s surreal. It upsets the balance of goodness that lies like a soft blanket over Greener Valley.
Stu’s “motherfuckers” hangs in the air. Bobby Helms rocks on but the music only sounds like interference as Stu’s word reverberates in the minds of everyone who heard it. It’s not just the word. It’s everything that comes with it. Maurice fired Stu. He sold the station. The most beloved man in Greener Valley is drunk at 9am and it’s not snowing and it’s just all wrong.
“Well, ain’t this a kick in the ass?” Hank Hoffman lights a cigarette, which he’s never done while in the Santa suit.
Mrs. Beasley stands in the middle of the festival grounds, surveying the situation while Sasha pees on a loose strand of Christmas lights. She sees a few shadows over by the stage, shadows that don’t belong to anyone in particular. She’s seen these shadows before. They’re up to no good.
“Greener Valley is fucked,” she mutters. She tugs on Sasha’s leash and heads home. She wants no part of what’s coming. And she can definitely feel it coming.