Holiday Stories and Poems

Billibob, a Disaster in Progress

One six-year-old little boy I do not want to know . . .


A "The Writer's Cramp"  prompt: Write a story or poem that includes a Toys 'R' Us store, a Coke bottle, a can of WD-40 and a snowman with a mouth full of sharp, pointy teeth.

Billibob, a Disaster in Progress

I am just entering the Toys ‘R' Us store, with a half-empty caffeine-free Coke bottle in one hand and a list equal in length to Santa's in my other, when I run into my friend, Jody. She and her husband have only one child, a red-haired demon named Billibob. (Why anyone would call their kid that, I'll never understand, but maybe it's the reason why her son has more freckles than conscience.)

Jody has a list in her hand, too - a list even longer than mine, although I know for a fact that both she and her husband are practically relative-free.

"I see you've got shopping to do," I say, as my eyes rotate to watch out for her six-year-old Disaster in Progress.

Jody apparently interprets the look -- one halfway between a cringe and a speedy retreat. She giggles, "Billibob isn't here. Sam took him on an outing so I could do the Christmas shopping. I plan to scoop up all my son's Christmas loot today and wrap the presents before the two of them get back from the zoo."

Jody's husband, Sam, is a sweet guy, an engineer who works for Boeing. He's the quiet sort who gives a hand wherever it's needed. I've never heard him raise his voice in anger, never even heard him scold his son. I shudder to think about Sam being alone with a wild animal, and I don't mean the ones in cages.

As we enter the store and proceed past a display of Christmas wrapping paper and colorful ribbon, we stroll by the most horrendous snowman I've ever seen. It has a mouth full of sharp, pointy teeth. I start to comment on its distastefulness when Jody tosses one into her cart and checks off an item from her list. Mouth open, eyes bulging, and wordless, I follow Jody as she pushes her cart forward.

The two of us continue to chat as we head through the tech section of video games and telephones that transform into mini computers, cameras, and stereophonic radios. Mainly, Jody and I talk about the up-coming church pageant. My friend is in charge of decorations, while I'm handling refreshments. Jody explains that she hasn't found anyone to lend a hand. I wonder if that's because everyone figures Billibob will be there. I commiserate, but I don't volunteer to assist. After all, I'm going to be awfully busy designating which cookies go where and managing the score of women who've signed up to help me.

Jody and I soon say our goodbyes in preparation for our sashay through the rest of the aisles. Before I turn the corner, however, I see Jody grabbing up a boxed dragon that growls and hisses while issuing pretend fire from its mouth. The one on display is so loud it can be heard roaring above the canned music -- Jingle Bells sung by a whiny elf. A nearby child is having a temper tantrum over not getting a particular toy. She is no competition for the dragon's hiss. And the two-hundred member crowd, all jostling and yelling at an amplitude equivalent to a football game one moment after touchdown, are mere background rumble in comparison. I shake my head at Jody's choice of toys and head off for the doll section.

My husband, Joe, and I are childless. We desperately want to have kids, but fortune hasn't taken us there - not yet, anyway. We're still young, though, and the doctor has told us everything's in working order. But the fact that we've been trying for nine years with no results makes entering this kingdom of wishes difficult for me. Each curly-haired doll crying out "Mommy" when you squeeze it brings a tear to my eye.

Still, I have my nieces and nephews to buy for - thirteen of them, in fact, so I quickly fill my cart with two wooden trains, four pairs of skates, seven Barbie dolls, a can of WD-40 for Joe (not for Christmas, of course, but because he has promised to repair our squeaky front door,) and thirteen assorted boxes of candy -- the kind that magically turns into bubble gum when chewed for sixty seconds. Then, I take a deep breath and with my heart flapping about like a sad-eyed clown, I plunge into the nursery area. Sarah, my sister-in-law, is about to have her third child - a girl. Baby Christie isn't due until after Christmas, but I figure she should have a present under the tree, anyway.

"Mrs. Teebecker? Phone call for Mrs. Teebecker." The intercom is calling for Jody. Why hasn't the caller used her cell phone? My curiosity pauses me a moment, but I've just arrived in my own personal land of enchantment. I forget about my friend and immerse myself in shiny white bassinets, Donald Duck and Winnie-the-Pooh baby toys, and soft, pink baby blankets, each more delectable than the other.

The time goes quickly. But just as I reach the check-out stand, I hear them paging Jody again. "Mrs. Teebecker. Mrs. Teebecker. Phone call for Mrs. Teebecker."

Poor Jody. Maybe I should go to the information booth and see if she needs help. Then I remember about Billibob. I pull out my credit card, sign the bill, and rush out the door.

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That afternoon, while I'm wrapping presents, I turn on the radio wanting to hear Christmas carols. I tune to our local station, hoping they'll give us a weather report. Even though I know Joe hates shoveling the stuff, I'm praying for snow.

No snow expected, but I hear the strangest story on the local news about someone opening up all the monkey cages. It seems that gibbons, chimpanzees, and something called spider monkeys have all gotten loose and are swinging from poles, fences, and trees.

I know I should be concerned for the safety of all the visitors and animals, but I can't help giggling. Poor Sam Teebecker. I bet that poor man never volunteers again to take Billibob to the zoo.

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1,000 words


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