Black Ink
People, Arts and Entertainment
Project: Christmas Eve Perpetration
Page 9
December 10
I was a Kid Secret Agent.
Around Christmas time, anyway. Who
wasn’t? Which one of you glorious readers
can honestly raise his or her hand to testify
that not once did you ever do a little illegal
snooping, sneaking, or ransacking (for the
less patient) to get the jump on your gift
reception list? Excuse me: addressing the
brother reading this in his Morrison dorm
room raising his hand, please note the word
HONESTLY. Remeber that time you got
caught and whooped all the way back to
yo’ room? Yeah, that’s better.
You see, not all of you are trained in
being 24-7 Spyz like myself. Thanks to a
special government grant called N.O.S.E.
(Noctumally Ordained Special Espionage),
I was selected to have Bond-like traits at a
young age, and was trained in the way of
the Agent. So, whenever Christmas time
would roll around, I utilized my spy train
ing to infiltrate the foreign territory and
gather information via advanced surveil
lance. I have pulled one of such true ac
counts to share with you. I could tell you a
few others, but then I’d have to kill you.
And Lenoir and Chase are doing sufficient
jobs of that already. Remeber, this portion
of the Ink will be destroyed in seven min
utes (not by an advanced mechanism; you
will probably rip it out and throw it away
‘cause you’re sick of this Chris Brown
guy)-
FromN.O.S£. File codename Boo Gar:
Mission Christmas Eve Perpetration
I sit almost breathless in my Mom’s
Regal, quietly leaving the school paiking
lot Little does she know that I ran to the car
not only out of glee to see her, but because
Modde Covington chased me around the
building seven times for trying to loan him
my afro comb. The life of a Kid Secret
Agent is never an easy one.
As the Spinners harmonize on the radio,
my Mwn turns to me and asks if I’ve made
my list out for Santa Claus yet. Hmph. She
thinks that I don’t realize just what the
whole deal is about this Santa Claus char
acter. I may be young, but this third-grader
wasn’t bOTn yesterday! I know that Santa,
or should I say Master Agait Cringle, has
millions of agents all over the country,
posing in Malls as the real thing and send
ing the orders out to the big man himself.
Yep, even my Dad is an agent for Cringle;
last year on my mission I spied him in the
den, sitting over a bag of toys, arranging
them quietly. I figure by the time I’m
twenty or so, one of those Santa agents will
aprroach me about joining the force, then
I’ll kiU him on the spot! Such is the way of
a Kid Secret Agent
I tell my mother that I haven’t finished
making my list yet. She says to get it done
soon, that the church Christmas Play is
Point After Touchdown
Chris L. Brown
tonight and she wants it before we go.
Maybe I can get out of going by not doing
my list. She just said that if I try to skip the
play again. I’m going to have to come to
school on Christmas day. Crime and Pun
ishment, that’s how this country works.
When we get home, I try to find the
Brendle’s catalog. We always have to get
our Christmas toys out of this book. I’m the
ony one who knows that this store is actu
ally a gigantic front for that Cringle guy.
He’s thourough. I’ll give him that When I
get the book and flip to the back, scissored
gaps abound where my broths and sisters
have already cut-and-pasted their selec
tions. No problem, I usually don’t want the
things they got—wait!! Somebody got the
Super Loop Nite Glow Daredevil Race
track! ! That is mine! I search the house for
my brother, Corey. I calmly ask him if he’s
seen the missing piece. “No.” LIAR!!
Begone with thee! I look on Cedric’s list,
which doesn’t have the track but has a set of
Encyclopaedia on the concepts of Jazz
Musicians— not bad for a nine-year old. I
ask Carol, who doesn’t know what I’m
talking about and starts crying, then in turn
Sandy imceeds to tell my Mother. I esuqie
the scene before any damage can be done.
When I get back to my room, I flip
through the catalog for the other things I
wanted; a Six-Million Dollar Man, Digital
Derby, a model Battleship, a Michael
Jackson Book of Surgical Alterations (a
little anachronism, there), a football, and so
on. I would make sure that this Cringle guy
knew just who he was dealing with (I’m
positive that he’d have a few choice words
for me).
Before I knew it, the time for the Christ
mas play had rolled around. As I donned
my lliird King costume, I wondo^ aloud
if we could do something more fun this
year, maybe go scrape manure off of the
bottom of the Lion pit at the Zoo. My Mom
told me to shut up.
As we neared Church, I thought about
plotting an escape, but knew that to be
impossible. If I was caught. My Mom would
probably send me to School on Christ
mas—besides, they had “Security Guards”
at the doors at church. Of course, I could
take those bunch of pansies, but I didn’t
bring my guns. We went downstaris to the
children’s dungeon-1 mean, department-
and met with all the other kids to get ready
to put on the play. I looked around, and felt
sorry for these directionless clones. Not the
kids, the adults that “coordinated” the stuff.
Here’s this eighty year old man telling me
to speak up. Sir, I advise you first refit your
teeth into your mouth, then pull that one
foot out of the grave, and we can do busi
ness. Uh-oh. There’s Nathantha Davis. A
troublemaker with a principal ’ s office crimi
nal record as long as my left leg. Have to
keep an eye on him-he’d probably try to
steal the Frankencense. And, of course,
there’s Karla. She’s smiling. Yeah, I figure
by the time we get married. I’ll have a
zillion bucks and a car like Speed Racer.
Well, here goes: it’s showtime. May as well
win another emmy.
The refi^shing non-school R & R before
Christmas comes and goes. It is now Christ
mas Eve. and I know that I’ll have to solve
this mystery and trap Agent Cringle on the
only night he truly comes out every year,
tonight. The day dissolves into night, and I
began my trap-setting.
Carol and Sandy bake cookies, and after
they set them out, I lace them with some
poisonous stuff I found on top of the refrig
erate'. I can tell it’s poison becuase I can’t
read the name (it reads. Nutmeg). I go into
the Den, and when a commercial comes and
my Dad goes out, I implant a letter of
warning in the chimney. It simply states to
this Cringle guy, that he better watch out, I
am going to apprehend him. I then place a
few water balloons at the bottom.
“All children go to bed. Santa Claus has
been spotted, all children go to bed.” At
least I know that I can trust my worthy
accomplices at Channel ! 2 to inform me of
what’s goin’ down. My Mom quietly es
corts us to our bedrooms and tucks us in. I
overhear my brother telling her to tell Santa
Claus ‘Hi.’ WeU, I’U teU him ‘Hi’ alright—
when I capture him and expose the whole
setup! Hahahahahaha! My Dad then comes
down the hall, audibly questioning whether
we’ll get anything this year since we’ve
been so bad. Evct want to scare the scrap out
of a kid, then tell them that they aren’t
getting anything for Christmas. It was quiet
as a mugg on that Night Before Christmas.
I wake myself. I reach ovet to grab my
watch, and through squinting eyes see that
it is 4:12 am. I don’t know if my traps have
been set or not, but— HOLD UP! I hear
someone rustling around (If I were smart.
I’d be worried that it was not a burglar)!!
It’s him! I quietly climb down from my
bunk. Corey is sound asleep, and so is
Cedric. I silently open my door. The coast is
clear. I tip out into the foyer. Aaaaa! He’s
coming!! Agent Cringle is coming this way!!
I speedily hide near the closet. Instead of
taking this path, he goes around the foyer
the other way. It wasn’t Cringle, it was my
Father. Am I too late?! Has the secret
meeting already toc^ place? I sneak through
the kitchen to see. Look! My poison trap-
disarmed! He scraped the Nutmeg off on
the table! A wily one, this Cringle is. Here
it is: the Den. I see the flickering shadows
cast by the Christmas tree lights. I ever so
carefully peek around the comer and
can’t believe my eyes. Toys, toys, toys! It’s
too dark to see specifically, but once again,
Santa has proven my Dad’s threats to be
idle. I glide back to my room, unable to wait
for get up time. Bustin’ Santa can hold out
‘till later— I’ve got toys to tend to.
Later. I feel like a housefly in the middle
of an untouched pizza. Everything is here:
the Six Million Dollar Man. the football, the
Digital Derby, the no. Everything is not
here. I wildly scope the room, to see if it was
mistakenly placed in any of my siblings’
toy piles. But no. it is nowhere to be seen.
Santa must have known that I was out to get
him. Hedidn’tgiveme theSuperLoopNite
Glow Daredevil Race Track. I’ll get you for
this. Cringle! I will have my
“Chris?”
“Ma’am?”
“You forgot something.” My mother
motions to the comer. Ahhhhhh. I love it I
just love it Despite my plotting, despite my
being bad at times this year, despite my
questioning. Santa came through for me.
The track beckons me like a pond to a fi^.
Hours of play later, my Dad is making
the traditional chimney fire out of the not-
needed boxes in the chimney. Indeed, it is
very rare to see everyone so happy. Later,
we will go to Grandma Ruth’s for the fam
ily gathoing and show-off session. My Dad
ceremoniously strikes a match, and leans
into the paper to ignite it...what’s that red
thing at the bottom? It looks like an
unused water balloon?!? Too late. Evwy-
thing’s in flames. Oh, well, my Christmas
has been Merry, and I know that some
where northward, Cris Cringle is smiling,
also.