PART TWO
Later that night, Lumpy began to feel a little sick to his stomach. He shouldn't have let Roo bet on the jacket. Lumpy's Grandfather had bought him the jacket as a souvenir from the Michigan 400 at the International Michigan Speedway. Earnhardt Junior was Lumpy's favorite driver. The jacket was flashy, warm, and expensive. The jacket was the last present that his grandfather had bought him before he died. Lumpy sat on his bed clutching the jacket close. Then he glanced at the picture of him and his Grandfather that sat on his night table. They were together at the Michigan International Speedway. Both looked happy, and were wearing matching jackets. Grandfather wore a Dale Senior one, and Lumpy was in his brand new Earnhardt Junior one. Lumpy was also clutching a huge cup of cherry coke. Then Lumpy looked at his poster of Peyton Manning that hung over his bed. Just staring at the perky face of Manning, made him feel better. It was snowing outside, a soft, docile snow. Lumpy peered out the window at the spectacle of Christmas decorations that the neighbor had across the street. Lumpy's neighbor was one of those old ladies that loved klutzy shit such as Precious Moments, Lifetime movies, Chicken Soup books, and Charlie Brown. Lumpy had been in her house a few times to see that it was a monstrocity of Wal-mart chic with Snoopy characters, glass clowns, cross stitch samplers, music boxes, and stuffed animals all over the place. This also transferred to her front lawn at Christmastide, which was a museum of those huge god-awful blow up snowmen, Santas, and Snoopies that also could light up. Not to mention her tiny little house was decked out in so many lights that it could give one a seizure. It was Christmastide, and Christmastide was a time for miracles. Lumpy climbed into bed and turned out the light.
"Good night Peyton," he said aloud to his poster. "I will be seeing you soon."
By the following week, Lumpy was not feeling so sure about his bet. When he put feelers out about Santa to the other school kids, he got the same spiel that he got from Roo, and even got laughed at. Even little Jenny Berger, a heffalump girl that Lumpy had a small crush on, and always seemed so sweet carrying her Bible through the halls of the school responded by saying
"Of course there's no Santa Claus."
"How do you know?" Lumpy pressed.
"Because," said Jenny. "Two years ago I asked Santa for a Barbie dream house. I found a Barbie dream house a week later in my mom's closet. On Christmas morning the dream house had a tag that said from Santa Claus on it. "
Jenny wasn't one to lie like some of the schoolboys were. After that, Lumpy began to see his Dale Earnhardt Jr. jacket dancing far away, along with his dream of meeting Peyton Manning. He needed some adult help. That afternoon on the way home from school, he found Eeyore outside behind the Hundred Acre Wood morgue, where he worked. He was burning old clothes, body bags, and bedding. Lumpy warmed his paws by the fire of burning rags. Eeyore was smoking a cigarette.
"You know those are cancer sticks," Lumpy said primly.
"Good," Eeyore replied gruffly.
"What do you want for Christmas?" Lumpy asked.
"More cancer sticks," Eeyore replied. "Maybe a cheap whore."
"Can't you just drive to downtown Detroit at night and find one?" Lumpy asked. "Tigger says you can."
Eeyore flicked the butts off his cigarette.
"Oh you can find many cheap whores downtown at night," he said. "But most will only give you a hand job. They're nasty, so I guess that's all you'd want from one anyway. But it would be sweet to get a fairly new one, one that wasn't all crusted up, one that worked cheap, but you could still get laid." He took along drag on his cigarette, a dreamy look spread on his face. "Be pretty sweet."
"Aye," Lumpy agreed. "I am going to ask Santa for Peyton Manning to come to my house and meet me."
Eeyore almost choked on his cigarette with laughter.
"You better ask for something else, or else you're going to have nothin' to open," he replied. "I got a better chance of meeting a cheap virgin whore willing to get her cherry popped for just twenty bucks, than you do of having Peyton Manning come to your house!"
"Maybe," Lumpy said. "But if I ask Santa, he can make it happen. Santa is magic. He could get you, your cheap virgin whore."
Eeyore was laughing harder than he had in years. He popped a Vicodan in his mouth.
"Lumpy, you're old enough to know that there is no Santa Claus," he laughed.
"Of course there is," Lumpy defended, feeling his cheeks growing hot. Now here was an adult siding with Roo. Eeyore stomped out his cigarette.
"Lumpy, where was your cock sucking Santa Claus when I was a kid your age and I got nothing for Christmas except a kick in the ribs, and the living shit punched out of my face from my shit-ass drunk old man? Too drunk to even fucking know that it was Christmas! Too flat out broke to buy presents, and too stoned and drunk to even go to the charity drives! I am a fucking living proof that there is no Santa Claus." And with that Eeyore went back inside the funeral parlor, leaving a saddened Lumpy standing by the pile of embers, in the bitter Michigan cold.