4

THIS IS the fifth instalment of the Helping Hands of Christmas, a
festive tale spun by. North Vancouver writer David Jenneson, presented

in six parts by the North Shore News.

IIERE WAS more than enough for everyone.

Entrance fee was a case of beer
and the giant white Amos ’n Andy
style bathtub was packed to ca-
pacity with beer and snow.

The old shanty shimmered in
the Christmas contact high, and
the clinks and laughs that came
out of it were muffled by the fall-
ing snows.

-- And if you were standing in the
street outside, the sounds
would've blurred nicely.

~: But no one was standing in the
street.. They were all inside, and
one of those Songs of Christmas
albums that show up at super-
markets every year was on, "cause

that’s what everyone wanted to_

hear.

‘Poppy -couldn’t hold it any
longer.

.-"Let’s have the surprise!’ she
cried, like a little kid at her first
birthday party.

» .Calmly I instructed her and her
volunteer staff to clear the tables.
knew what the surprise was now.

*~ P'd almost broken my neck over it

‘when I. was getting the snow for

“the bathtub.

~*.It had come delivered in one of

., those Chiquita’ Banana tropic-pak |
"boxes, Twenty-five banana cream

‘pies. Those “ never-ending hands

” ">" nad been really busy.

‘> brought the box in and placed

“.."” one pie between. each couple, then
* stood at the head of the table with

“one resting on my palin.

“~ 22"The pies receded down the long

~table from me in perfect perspec-
tive, and over each peered a pair

‘of eager faces, all watching me in-.

tently. |

- “ss: Silence hung.

. The only sounds were the
hands, frolicking beneath my bed.

* °Thankfully no one undezstood.

‘What I: thought we’d do,’’ I
‘began, “is top things off with a
pie-eating contest. The prize is a
bottle of brandy and coffee that

wh; .

By David Jenneson
Contributing Writer

costs $32 an ounce. Now, what
you have to do is cut each pie
down the middle.’*

And I held mine up indicating

an imaginary line down the centre
of the pie with my index finger,
*‘and each partner musi eat half.’’

The row of intent faces soaked
up the rules. { paused.

There were aiso several people
standing clustered around me,
noses hung over: my shoulder, as
if i held some kind of pie-eating
book of rules in my hand.

**And, in conclusion,’ I con-
cluded, ‘‘I would sincerely like to
wish everyone a very Merry
Christ...”

«only F never said all of
Christmas. I only got the first syl-
lable out. *‘Christ.”’

Where the second syllable
should’ve been there was only a
wet, custardy wop! as 1 put the
pie neatly into the face of a rather
nearsighted friend who had been
peering over my shoulder.

I didn’t even have.to turn
around to do it. I knew exactly
where his face was and it was just
a matter of placing the pie in an
already selected spot.

I don’t know why I did it. I
guess after seeing all those old
movies the act had kind of lodged
itself as a secret desire, resting
back in the deep alleys of my
psyche.

Had | not done it, things
would’ve run themselves out as
things do and the feast would’ve
gone down in history as a rather
pleasant event. But not now. Fate
had just double-clutched into
high.

The guy kind of half-stepped
back- with the pie stuck to his
face, wearing a blank expression

“the coach houseinn —

PRESENTS

y AN EVENING.
TO REMEMBER!

DEC. 31ST, 7: PM.
YOU GET ALL THIS!

® Delicious 6 course gourmet dinner
* Dancing! Music by Jane Doe

* Party favours!

¢ Overnight accommodation —

° New Year's Brunch

of | al
a sj 1 AP. couple tax incl .

LIMITED SEATING SO ACT NOW
CALL 985-3111 FOR YOUR RESERVATION!

hozseinn

700 Lillooet Rd., North Van

you might say, while the genera!
idea caught on. .

What I had in mind was one of
those beautifully choreographed
pie-fights of the 1920s. Slow and
acted out, the scene would
dissolve into measured disputes,
until the arcs of wafting pies filled
the room like dignified ack-ack.

But I forgot one thing. These
were the paranoid °70s, not the
Roaring ’20s and ir, those 40 years
pie-fight dynamics had changed
some.

The. first reaction came as a
single surge of panic from those
trapped ‘against the east wall by
the solid, nailed-down table.

They all grabbed immediately
for the pie they’d been meant to
eat, realizing that since they could
not escape they’d best arm
themselves.

Their partners in turn either
lunged forward to contest posses-
sion or hurriedly began to squirm
back out of the line of fire.

it was at this point I left the
scene, walking rapidly, head
lowered like some dark assassin,
toward the sanctuary of the kitch-

en.
As I did, about 15 pies launch-
ed into a beautiful blossoming se-

.quence,

Screams of horror piled inte the
kitchen behind me, some
Christmas dresses got banana-
ized, and then the whole thing

Beat th

36 02.

Goose Down

departed from what would be
your strictly normal pie fight.
Approximately six pie-crazed

@ The helping hands of Christmas

guests ran into the kitchen for.

new and varied ammo: the food.

It began te rain peas. Those
pinned by the immobile table
shrieked anew as an arabesque of
potato salad suddenly formed on
the wall behind them.

Dangerous brussels sprouts
whizzed through the air like small,
internally heated comets.

I saw a friend of mine, an
off-duty fisherman, leering over 2
short, red-haired young lady,
bearing in his arms a cowl of the
iciest cranberry sauce.

She made no attempt to flee,
but stood her ground screaming
that this was.a dinner party and
an outrage and a new dress and if
he tried anything — the tirade
caught short in her throat as the
freezing berries and ‘sauce oozed
down her cleavage.

A whole boat of gravy was
placed on someone’s head like an
army helmet. I got hit in the chest
by a great sheet of toilet water, as
three rugby players had ingenious-
ly contrived a bailing line from
bow! to battle.

Then they remembered the
booze. That is, spraying one
another — and 2 bunch of the

“women barricaded themselves in

the bedroom like terrified peasant
girls before Caesar’s horniest
legion.

The hands were in there.

But it was too late. The door
was forced back and the. first
white blast of beer came in, driv-
ing the ladies out the window onto
the porch.

Someone flicked the lights off,
on, then off, the women scream-
ing. One guy ran out to intercept
them as they came out — the
same guy that I’d ambushed with
the first pie — and then came
running right back in again.

“Guess what I just saw,” he
said. .

‘‘What?”’ I said. :

“Six hands fly out your win-
dow.”’

“Oh yeah?”
there feet too?”’

I said. ‘Were

‘*Nope,’’ he said. ‘‘Just
hands.”’

“T trust you’re drunk,’’ I said.

“Exceedingly,’’ he said.

“Good. But come and tell me if
you see the feet. ! feel that’s im-
portant.”’ .

“OK,’’ he said, ‘‘I’ll do that.”

By now the surge of battle had
withered some, ‘cause mainly
there was nothing left to chuck,
and everyoné in the front room
gathered as victims of some new
IRA focd terrorism.

The guy with the gravy hairdoo
wasn't too happy. He looked like
a smear campaign against
Brylcreem.. But in the rest of us
dwelt a good feeling: we had just
done a great thing.

For what had happened was
that spontaneously each one of us
had just settled a personal score.

Remember the fateful: Whack!
“Don’t play with your .food, eat.
tr?

How many babes sit and curse
in silent baby swear language, un-
able to understand why they've.
been awarded The Order of the
Ringing Ear for merely attempting
to break the dull regimen of plate
to spoon to mouth?

And how many of us leave tot-

dom unaware that we harbor a

smouldering well of resentment,
further suppressed each time we
sit down and display our ground
in “‘good eating habits.” -

Well, you could count us out of
that club as of now. Standing in
the middie of the Pearl Harbor
of Farental Suppression we were
all dripping grinny’ children,
misbehaved, unpunished, and
wondering what we could do next. -

“Wow, this is great!’ someone
said. ‘‘What’s next?”

The answer to that was obvious.

*‘First,’’ I announced,
“everybody should go home and
clean up. And then...” and I
caught the bright dark eyes of
Marie. Flinging back my head I
locked the huntsman’s horn to my
lips and hit a note that rattled
beerglasses off the tables all along
the waterfront — ‘‘... to the
pub!’ ,

To be continued.

TWIN/DOUBLE (either size)

| Vancouver