A Christmas Kitbash*

Frank Madwood’s my name, and model making for a living’s my game. Or at least it was.

Christmas Eve

I rolled my chair away from my workbench and scooted over to the window. I parallel parked, pulled up the blinds, and watched the Christmas lights come on up and down the street from my fourth storey perch. The calendar said Christmas Eve, but it felt like any other winter day in the late afternoon: bleak and depressing. I had a number of end of the month commissions on the go that needed to be finished by the end of the month. And there were bills to be paid. And customers to be placated. And creditors to be cajoled. And so on and so on. Hopefully I’ll get out of here before midnight. 

The deli was to close early today so I thought I’d better go down and get a sandwich. Problem was I was tired, and did’t feel like getting my butt in gear for even that simple task. I rolled back over to the bench. Maybe if I just put my head down for a minute and rest my eyes. 

Rest my eyes turned out to be a euphemism for falling fast asleep.

Al

Groaning and rattling woke me with a start. And for once the groaning and rattling wasn’t coming from me. I looked up. Standing at attention on the other side of the bench was a grey and dishevelled man in a worn hoodie and faded jeans. It was my old model making buddy Al Sim. The problem was Al was dead. I shook myself to see if the hallucination would pass. It didn’t. Instead, it spoke.

“I’ve come to talk to you Frank.”

I decided to try confrontation. “You’re not Al, Al. You’re just me hallucinating. You’re just some glue vapours I’ve inhaled.”

An unholy wailing issued forth from Al’s side of the bench that blew me and my chair up against the window. Al thew his head back and waved his arms around with wild abandon. To his wrists were shackled large, lumpy sacks that pummelled his head. 

The wailing and pummelling froze my insides. 

But, thankfully it ended before I reached absolute zero.

I felt like jumping out the window, but I was frozen in place. I couldn’t think what to do, so I stalled and asked for clarification, “What the hell are those sacks?”

“They are a lifetime of unfinished kits that I am doomed to drag through eternity,” was his dejected reply.

I looked at the wall behind Al. Ok, well, more precisely, I could see through Al to the far wall. It was lined floor to ceiling with unopened kits waiting for that someday, someday when I’d build them.

I tried the innocent angle. “They say you can’t take them with you Al.” 

Al threw his head back, and it looked like the hounds of hell were to howl again.

“Ok, ok, I’m listening.”

Al lowered his head, looked me in the eyes, and pointed a painty figure at me. “You will be visited tonight by three spirits. Pay heed to save your soul.” 

And with that, he vanished. 

I was shaking like a leaf and still frosty inside. 

I carefully eased myself from the chair and headed for the coffee machine in the outer office. The coffee was never that good, but the glue vapours in here were doing a number on my head. 

Little did I know there was far worse than bitter coffee on the other side of the outer office door.

Brian

The outer office sure didn’t look like the outer office I knew. This one was clean, with unstained furniture and new paint on the walls. The coffee machine didn’t look like mine either. It was bright and sparkling and the aroma coming from it smelled quite pleasant. And to top it off there was a jovial looking fellow standing beside it handing me a cup of the lovely brew. 

“Here, you need it.”

“Thanks. I don’t think we’ve met? What’s your name?”

“My job title is The Ghost of Christmas Past, but everyone calls me Brian.”

I drank a little from the cup. “Ah, that’s lovely stuff.” I studied the cup and its contents, then commented, “This didn’t come from my coffee machine.”

“It did when you first moved in here.”

Come to think of it, it did. Lack of regular cleaning probably had something to do with its current wretchedness. 

Oh hell, it was clear the glue fumes were locked in my head, so I decided to take another sip and go with it, “What brings you here Brian?”

“You do my friend. Why don’t you take another sip?”

Brian motioned that I drink up.

I did with great pleasure, but the taste came with a wallop. Peering over the cup I could see a person who looked like a child version of me playing with the train set I got for Christmas when I was eight. I had a lot of fun with that old thing.

Brian looked me in the eye and gently asked, “See anything you recognize?”

I wasn’t going to be flip with a glue vapours retort this time. Once with the wailing was enough for me. I gave up a hesitant, “Yes.”

“Take another drink. A good long one this time.”

So I did. And I saw a whirl of many hours building kits, painting, running trains, slopping plaster around, cutting up things to make new things, balsa bashing, and all-round general happy model hacking as a youngster.

I wanted to ask Brian if the coffee was laced with LSD, but like Al, he might not have a sense of humour. 

“Does anything come to mind? Maybe you need another cup?”

“No, no, the one is fine. Thanks for reminding me about those happy times, but I shouldn’t linger there. There’s work to do.”

“Yes, there is always work to do,” said Brain in a reflective tone.

I handed Brain the cup. “It was good meeting you Brian. Thanks for the coffee and memories, but I’ve got to get back to it if I want to get home by a reasonable time.”

I started to walk back to the door to the workshop and my bench. 

“Not so fast,” called Brian.

When I reached the door it wouldn’t open. I twisted and pulled on the doorknob, but the door wouldn’t open even a crack.

I gave up and turned and faced Brian. He was standing there with an outstretched arm pointing to the door to the hallway. “There’s someone else for you to meet.”

I’ll bet there was. 

CP

“Dude, it’s good to see you! It’s been a long time!”

“I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“Dude, I’m hurt. I’m The Ghost of Christmas Present. Christmas present is every Christmas, because every present is the present until it becomes the past.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“Dude, it’s a time and space thing. Don’t get too bummed out by it.”

“Do you have a name, like Brian?”

“People just call me CP.”

CP. Ok. The spirit realm seems to have far more informal naming conventions than I had realized. And dress sense too. CP was wearing a lot of beads that rattled in a disturbing manner.

“CP, what do you want me to do?”

“Do? You don’t have to do anything bro, just watch.”

Before I could ask watch what, he tossed me a bead. Which I failed to catch. Although it bounced off my forehead, and apparently that was enough to have the desired effect. The hallway melted away to reveal an all enveloping environment of…me at my bench, back in my workshop.

“We could have just used the door and walked in CP.”

“No man, we couldn’t. Take a look at the clock.”

“It’s after midnight. It’s Christmas.”

“Yeah, and where are you?”

“Still at my bench,” I said with some remorse.

CP took that moment of introspection to bounce another bead off my head. I gave him a sharp look, but before I had honed my glare the room had morphed again. I was still there at my bench.

“Big deal, we’re still here and that’s still me. Can I hear me?”

“No and no, bro. We’ve gone back a year, and no you can’t hear you. Or me. Or see us either. Notice where you are.”

I gave him a quizzical look and answered blankly, “At my bench?”

“At your bench on Christmas Eve last year too.”

I stared at myself. My hairline had receded a lot over the year. CP took my inattention to him to throw one bead after another at my head. I tried to intercept them by flailing my arms, but to no avail.

“Hey, cut that out!”

While shielding my head a series of all encompassing images flashed before my eyes: me here at Christmas Eve two years ago, then me here at Christmas Eve three years ago, and so on and so on right back to the time when I set up this place.

“Ok. I get it. I’m here a lot over Christmas.”

“And not just Christmas just so you know. And did you take a look at that wall?”

CP pointed over to the kit stash wall. We were still immersed in my first Christmas Eve scenario and there were only a couple of kits on the shelves.

“Let’s fast forward back where we came from, shall we,” asked CP in a not asking way.

I covered my head expecting to have beads rained on me, but CP had a new trick. He snapped his fingers for a time shift. At each snap through the Christmas Eves, that kit stash shelf grew fuller and fuller until we arrived back to the present where the shelves were completely full. 

“Ok, I get that too. The unbuilt kit stash has grown over the years.”

“Dude, grown is a bit of an understatement.”

CP snapped his fingers one last time and we were back in the hallway. 

I looked around to confirm this was indeed the present, and then had to ask the obvious, “I assume there’s one more of you guys that I have to see?”

CP adopted a tone that completely contradicted his happy go lucky hippy beads; “Dude, he’s not just one of us guys. He’s The Guy. You should probably go back to your workshop and sit down and rest before he gets here.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

The Guy

I used to think it was the future, or maybe just thinking about the future, that gave me stress. No, the real stressor was meeting The Guy, aka, The Ghost of Christmas Future.

I went back to the workshop as CP advised, plopped myself in my chair behind the bench, and waited. Did I fall asleep? Faint? Black out? Damned if I know. All I know for sure is The Guy stood right where Al had been who knows how long ago. No wailing and flailing from The Guy though. He didn’t need histrionics to chill me to the bone. It was all in his vibe.

The Guy was tall and stood there in a black, hooded, monk-like robe; he never looked at me, just towered. I tried to summon some courage, figuring the sooner I did, the sooner this would all be over. I looked up at him and croaked, “What do you want?” 

He didn’t answer, just pointed to the obscenely full kit stash wall, and then swept his arm over to point at the model train layout, before directing my gaze to the build table littered with unfinished projects. As he swept his arm, colours changed, objects came and went, and all sorts of people appeared and disappeared. It was like a stage set had suddenly materialized that sort of looked like my workshop, but sort of didn’t, and was populated by actors I’d never seen before. Unlike The Guy though, they all had speaking roles:

Man #1: Look lady, I’ll give you a grand for the works.

Woman: A grand! It’s worth at least ten. There’s all kinds of rare items in here.

Man #2: Most of it’s junk.

I looked over to The Guy aghast, “Junk!”

Man #1: That layout looks like it hasn’t been run in years. Look at that dust.

Woman: How about five?

Man #1: How about fifteen hundred?

Woman: Two grand?

Man #1: Fifteen hundred and we won’t charge you to haul it all away.

Man #2: And we can break up that layout and toss it in the dumpster on our way out.

Woman: Ok.

“Fifteen hundred!? Break it up? Dumpster? Good lord!” I said to no one in particular.

The Guy peered down at me. I looked up at him. There was some sort of void where his face should have been. I looked away real fast.

They say you shouldn’t stare into the void, and that’s good advice as far as it goes. But, maybe the void isn’t so bad when the only alternative is having The Guy direct your gaze to your own headstone.

At least The Guy wasn’t cruel. After falling to my knees while sobbing uncontrollably, but before I had time to rend my own flesh, he diverted my attention with the sight of two hideous trolls, one to each side of my headstone, and allowed me to hear him speak.

“This one is the procrastinating modeller,” he said pointing to the left troll, “and this one,” pointing to the right troll, “is the armchair modeller. Of the two, beware the joy-deferring procrastinating modeller the most.”

Christmas

I woke up under the workbench. Even after a bender, I’d never done that before. I crawled out and looked up at the clock. Its hands were on the floor. It wasn’t giving away any time today.

I went to the window and pulled up the sash. I saw a boy in the street. 

I leaned out the window and shouted down to him, “Hey you, what day is it?”

He looked up and replied, “It’s Christmas Day of course! Are you drunk?”

Drunk? No, but I was giddy. I pulled out of the window, peered across the bench to look for The Guy, and upon not seeing him, danced a jig around the workshop. I wasn’t dead after all. The kit stash wall was still full, the model railroad was still there, and the unfinished projects were still on the layout table.

I ran back to the window and shouted to the boy before he walked away, “Wait there a sec!”

I left the window, grabbed some kits from the stash wall, and then, returning to my window perch, with a hearty “Merry Christmas” tossed them down to the waiting boy. 

The first one hit him on the head, and elicited an exclamation of “Hey, watch it you old fart!” But, seeing the array of fine kits on the ground, his tune soon changed to a cheerful, “Thanks mister!”

And so I spent the day tossing kits out the window to bewildered passers-by, hoping that in the process a few would be introduced to the joy of model making. 

And when the stash was gone, I dusted off the layout, got rid of irrelevant unfinished projects, and left before sundown, shouting to all in my vicinity, “A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

---

*My sincerest apologies to Charles Dickens and all the A Christmas Carol variations from which I lifted.