Santa Surfs?

Santa Surfs?

         “Hi, sweetheart, I’m home.”
         “What took you so long?”
         “I told you, I was going to Hawaii for a surfing contest. I won!”
         “I know, I also saw the awards ceremony.”
         “Beautiful cup, wasn’t it? I don’t know what I’ll do with it, I’m running out of space.”
         “Yeah, a 36 Double-D cup takes up a lot of room. I’m sure she’ll have suggestions about where to put them.”
         “She...What? What’re you talking about?”
         “The purple-haired bimbo that gave you the silver cup, and the other two D-cups too. I don’t know how she kept that top on the way she was moving on you. If you could call it a top. Two stamp-sized pieces of something with string.”
         “Sweetheart, nothing happened. I love you, no one else.”
         “I want a divorce!”
         “Oh c’mon, Gina, what’s got you so riled up?”
         “I’m tired of spending months here alone with all these weird little bearded workers running around in their droopy hats while you’re off getting awards. I want a life with theater, libraries and people.”
         “But what about all those kids and others who expect me to deliver on Christmas? What am I supposed to do for someone to watch over production?”
         “How about Miss DD?”
         “What...oh, NO! She’s an idiot that thinks with them. They’re not real anyway.”
         “Oh? Of course you paid attention to that!”
         “It was hard to miss, it felt like two stones pressed against me.”
         “There’s finally someone here who loves books and theater and staying home rather than running all over looking for big waves. I hate all this salt water, it ruins my hair. I want to live somewhere that has mountains and trees and snow and civilization.”
         “We’ve got a mountain and trees.”
         “You’ve got an old volcano and they’re not trees. Palm trees are just giant grass. One attacked me again the other day while you were getting awarded.”
         “What?”
         “A coconut hit me, again. Do you know how many times I've been hit or how many times I’ve walked around the island? Do you know how many miles around it is? No, you don’t.”
         “No, I don’t.”
         “It’s 138 miles, which is over 300,000 of my steps, I know because I count them. It’s my only intellectual exercise.”
         “But, all those books, I bring you all the new books.”
         “Most are junk, fluff, not written for intelligence. I have over five thousand years of study stored away with virtually no experience of it. I want to FEEL that knowledge and I think I’ve found it.”
         “What have you found?”
         “Not what, who! Alonzo. He’s gentle and kind, he talks to me like I’m somebody, not just a convenience.”
         “Convenience? You are not just a...What? Alonzo? You mean that new foreman? His family line goes back to our beginning, but__”
         “Yes! Have you ever asked my opinion about anything except production or what I thought about your last surfing contest? NO, you haven’t! I’m SICK of production and surfing! He talks about ideas, places, theater and things other than making another version of G.I. Joe.”
         “But—“
         “No, buts, I quit. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
         “But—“
         “Arrange it or you will regret it.”
         “But—“
         “Call Miss Double-D, she’s mindless enough to enjoy it.”
         “But...Wait...Sweetheart...”