“Welcome to Day….Day…10, is it? Of Blogmas 2018. This is your host, Reginald Swinebottom. Today we are celebrating reaching 100 blog posts on Peregrine Arc! The 100th went up yesterday, so break out the wine and grape soda, because we’ve done it!
“While you’re here, won’t you join the Arcian family? We’re trying to get to 100 subscribers! Just click that subscribe link and shimmy on over. If you like a book, check out Memory Bound and all its goodness. It’s a horror novel and yes! Parts of it take place at Christmas time.
“Today we’re venturing outside the stage into the author’s journey of finding a writing desk. It all starts on a cold, December evening. There’s a touch of frost in the air and you can see Jack Frost has visited the windows of many store fronts…”
The author and Mr. Swinebottom are at another furniture store, set in a non-descript strip mall. Both are starting to develop dark circles under their eyes. The author’s hair is frizzy from rubbing her head in frustration. Mr. Swinebottom’s Santa hat is starting to look droopy.
Author (A): “Hey, look at this one! Oh my gosh, the drawer knob just fell off in my hand. Did you see that? It literally just fell off when I touched it.”
Mr. Swinebottom (SB): “Next!”
A: “This desk is more than most people’s monthly mortgage. Does it slice and dice and make julienne fries, too?”
SB: “It’s not even level. Look at this…”
Mr. Swinebottom reaches out and gently pushes on a corner. The desk rocks back and forth. He makes it tap dance into a “Jingle Bells” rhythm until a sales clerk clears their throat abruptly from the counter.
A: “Maybe if we put a matchbook underneath the back leg. That’s incredible.”
SB: “How about this one? It’s white, like you were looking for. It has gold accents. Feels pretty sturdy. How about you sit down and try it out, pal?”
A: “Alright. Oof. My knees hit it. But if I crouch over like this…I could manage it.”
SB: “I actually think this is a kid’s desk. That clerk’s giving me a funny look again. Maybe we should go to a different store now…”
A: “It’s the closest we’ve found all day. If we could just stretch out the wood to make it taller.”
Mr. Swinebottom blinks openly behind his round framed glasses.
SB: “Stretch out the…wood?”
A: “I’m getting desperate.”
SB: “I can tell.”
A: “Let’s try another store. Like you said. We can do this!”
SB: “This is our fifth one. Today. Maybe we should cut our losses and order online.”
A: “Or maybe….we should try garage sales!”
SB: “It’s December and 20 degrees out. No one has a garage sale in the winter.”
A: “The saint and I had a picnic in the park yesterday.”
SB: “That’s because you’re you, dear one.”
A: “Dumpster diving! Let’s go treasure hunting. It’ll be great!”
SB: “Stop. Stop right there, missy. Hold everything. That’s enough. I need to speak.”
A: “Did you just missy me–”
SB: “Come on, there’s the exit. If we’ve sunk to the depths of dumpster diving, there’s only one thing I need to say.”
The author gulps and steels herself. She feels like a choir member who got caught chewing gum in Mr. Swinebottom’s pristine theater during practice.
SB: “I call shotgun. Cowabunga, dudes!”
The author watches as Mr. Swinebottom waddles across the parking lot, picking up speed in his parka and layers of clothing. He slips momentarily on a patch of ice, catches his balance and reaches the car door. He proceeds to do a soft shoe victory dance underneath a parking lot street lamp, looking much like Gene Kelly.
A: “Wow. He can move! Until next time Arcians, this is Mr. Swinebottom presents! Ker-Kaw!”