Good morning, People, and Merry Christmas. Seeing as your minister, Brother Phil Becky, is running a bit late, I thought I’d take this opportunity to say a few words before he wheels himself in to begin the traditional holiday service.
So here I am, Folks, filling in for Phil! (Pause for laughs.) “Who is this guy with his hand-tailored Savile Row suit?” you’re asking yourselves. Those of you with little or no education are no doubt scratching your heads thinking, “We ain’t never seed him before. How you reckon he keeps his shoes so clean?”
Now, Friends, don’t get me wrong. I’m not criticizing the way you talk. In fact, I kind of like it. As a people you so-called hill billies have made a remarkable contribution to the entertainment industry and I, for one, thank you for that.
So who am I? For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Jim Timothy and, as you’ve probably gathered by my full set of God-given teeth, I’m not from around these parts. Now, Brothers and Sisters, I’m not going to stand up on this pulpit and lie to you. The fact is that I’ve never preached a sermon in my life, haven’t even set foot inside a church since I married my third wife, a blue-eyed Gila monster named Stephanie Concord. Seeing as most of you either can’t or don’t read the papers, allow me to inform you that Stephanie Concord and I are no longer an item, a fact for which I regularly get down on my hands and knees and, as you people would say, “praise the Lord.” What troubles me, what strikes me as grossly unfair, is that the divorce granted that man-eating reptile one half of the money I’d earned during our brief and unrewarding union. I don’t want to appear ostentatious, but her settlement amounted to a pretty big chunk of change, seeing as I draw an annual salary that would make your heads spin. You see, Folks, I work in the television industry. No, I’m not a repairman (ha ha) but what you call an executive producer. I guess you could call me the guy who makes it all happen.
Due to my highly advanced sense of humor, I spent the first ten years of my career developing situation comedies, or what we in the business like to refer to as “sit-coms.” It was me who helped create such programs as “Eight on a Raft,” “Darn Those Fleishmans,” “The Dating Cave,” and “Crackers ’n’ Company,” a show you are probably familiar with about a group of ignorant rednecks such as yourself, and I mean that in a good way. According to Old Man Webster, ignorant means “lacking in knowledge and experience,” which, let me tell you, can be something of a blessing. There’s not a day that passes when I don’t spend a few moments wondering if some of us aren’t just a little too smart for our own good. You people, with your simple, unremarkable lives, know nothing about production schedules or the sky-high salaries demanded by certain so-called entertainers who could give the Arabs themselves a few pointers on terrorism. I, on the other hand, know nothing about scabies, so maybe we’re even.
You don’t climb to the top of the sit-com ladder without knowing how to understand people and what makes them tick. I’m not talking about the production assistant tying up the phone lines to weep about her latest abortion. I’m talking about real people with weatherbeaten faces and just a little bit of dirt beneath their nails. You have to be able to relate to the little guy because that’s what makes a television program take off and fly. You can have all the gags in the world, but without that little kernel of understanding you might as well take your project and throw it up on the stage where nobody will ever see it.
A wise man once said that in order to communicate, you have to be able to speak in someone else’s language. Take me, for instance. Here I’ve been rattling off terms such as “Folks” and “Brothers and Sisters” when I would never, and I mean never, use such language in a more sophisticated setting. But I use it here, in this run-down church, because, in order to communicate, I need to speak your language. I did the same during a recent visit to London, where, within the course of a single weekend, I found myself using the words “bloody” and “tuppence.” In short, I’m a communicator.
Due in large part to my extraordinary interpersonal relationship skills, I was eventually snatched up by a rival network and put in charge of dramatic programming. No, I’m not talking about the vapid soap operas people like you tend to enjoy. I’m referring to the hard-hitting, socially relevant, and meaningful programs that reflect what’s really going on in this country of ours. Without a laugh track or a standard twenty-two-minute time frame, these are the shows that touch your heart rather than tickle your funny bone. Maybe they cause you to shed a tear or two, but at least you’ll walk away feeling a sense of pride in our shared heritage. These are the programs in which good-looking people attempt to cope with a life which, as many of you obviously know, isn’t always as pretty as you’d like it to be. Sometimes these good-looking people are forced to visit poorly decorated homes or even trailers. Every now and then they come into contact with people who aren’t so good-looking, but still they’re forced to cope. Just as we all do. I’m talking about such award-winning programs as “Coping with the Cavanaughs,” “Cynthia Chinn: Oriental Wet Nurse,” “Hal’s Tumor,” and “White Like Me.” (Hold for applause.)
Stand in any one place for too long and a person is bound to get itchy feet. I found my voice with situation comedies, proved myself with dramas, and felt it was time to move on to the ratings boosters we like to call the “mini-series.” I’m sure at least a few of you are familiar with the concept. They’re called “mini” when, in fact, they tend to be much longer than a standard movie you’d see at the local theater. Part of this is due to the commercials, but it’s also our chance to dig in our heels and get to the real meat of the story. Sometimes these programs are based upon the novels written by many of your favorite authors, such as James Chutney and Jocelyn Hershey-Guest. I like to think we did real justice to Olivia Hightop’s “Midnight’s Cousin,” and E. Thomas Wallop’s searing historical saga “The Business End of the Stick.” As I said, often these mini-series are based upon works of fiction, but just as frequently we can find equally compelling material simply by opening our daily newspapers, contacting the survivors or perpetrators, and buying their stories, which are then adapted by any number of our skilled writers. This was the case with “The Boiling of Sister Katherine,” a tragic event which I think we explored with a great deal of dignity. Seeing as the nun in question was no longer with us, we bought the rights from the McCracken twins, who, regardless of their guilt or innocence, were an invaluable help to our writers, whose motto is “It’s always important to present at least one side of the story.” We recently aired another heartbreaking true-life drama, this one based upon a single mother forced to drown her own children, driving them into a lake in a desperate attempt to hold on to her handsome new boyfriend. “Sun Roof Optional” touched a lot of nerves and I was proud to be a part of it.
While the mini-series based upon novels generate a good deal of interest, it’s these real-life dramas that tend to draw a larger audience. Why? I chalk it up to five simple words we use in every print or televised promotion. Five words: “Based Upon a True Story.” Not made up in the mind of some typist, but true. Some say that truth is stranger than fiction, and I usually take that to mean they’ve spent a few hours with one of my former wives! (Hold for laughs.) Seriously though, nothing touches the heart and mind better than a well-timed dramatization of a real-life event. There also happens to be a fair amount of money in it for the savvy criminal or unfortunate victim who wants to turn his or her grief into something with a lot more buying power than a tearstained pillow! For this reason, we receive hundreds, sometimes thousands, of letters a day from people wanting to sell their true-life experiences. Our network alone has got a basement full of talented college graduates whose job it is to sit on their duffs and evaluate these typed and handwritten tales of woe. We get so many submissions, they’re no longer bothering to open any envelope unless the return address includes the name of one of our more notorious state or federal prisons. That’s not to say that the other stories aren’t compelling in their own way, but we feel these vague accounts of self-doubt and garden-variety adultery are best left to public TV, which has built its reputation on satisfying the needs of a less demanding audience.
“Yes, Mr. Timothy, that’s all very interesting, but what does it have to do with Christmas and where the H. E. Double Toothpicks is Brother Phil Becky?” I’m getting to that.
As I’ve explained, we’ve got our dramas and our mini-series and then, ever mindful of the calendar, we’ve also got our holiday specials. You’ve no doubt seen or heard of them: “Vince Flatwood’s Christmas in Cambodia,” or “Kristmus Rappin’ with Extraneous B.V.D. and the Skeleton Crew.” I could go on and on. Then there are the time-honored animated classics we’ll continue to broadcast as long as the toy manufacturers feel a need to advertise the latest video game or lifelike doll that defecates edible figs. I’m not putting these programs down because they all fill their niche. But every now and then — and it’s rare — once every blue moon we come upon a marriage of the true-life mini-series and the holiday special and that is what we in the television industry like to call “Art.”
Our viewers saw Art last Easter with the two-part “Somebody’s on My Cross” and they saw it again in “A Wishbone for Li’l Sleepy,” in which a hardened gang member carjacks two Dutch tourists so that he can spend Thanksgiving on his grandfather’s turkey farm. Both these programs won Emmy Awards on the basis of their hard-hitting portrayal of typical American life. They showed a different side of the coin from your standard “I call the drumstick” or “Santa needs a hand and I’m just the guy to help out” type of thing. This creature we call Art is just as special as the day we call Christmas and you people wouldn’t be sitting here if you didn’t agree with me. Because Christmas isn’t some meaningless postal holiday devoted to the memory of this African American or that guy who got a few boats together and accidentally discovered America. Christmas is about sharing. We take what we have and we portion it out to the people who matter in our lives, be they a family member or just some second-string joke writer we drew as a secret Santa. The point is that we give and we take. It’s the oldest story in the book. And that’s what brings me here to you very special people on this frigid Christmas morning. I could be with my two stepchildren in San Tocino Del Rey. Or with my natural child at her treatment center at an undisclosed location, or visiting any of the “Two Cents for Hope” kids I foster down in Central America. I could be with my elderly mother in her nursing home or my only brother in wherever he happens to be. But instead I’m here in Jasper’s Breath, Kentucky, because, Goddamn it, this is where I want to be! (Pound table, reading stand, whatever they happen to have. Pound forehead if no other options.)
I’m standing before you, the congregation of this simple, shack-like, Pentacostal church, because I care. I care about all of us. Now, I’m not stupid and I won’t pretend to be. I read the papers and magazines and know full well that one of your members is somewhat famous. She gave unto her only son a very special Christmas gift. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. (Smile at woman in question.) A court order prevents me from saying her name but you know who she is. She’s seated right now in this very room. Oh, she drew quite a bit of attention one year ago today when she presented her child with the greatest gift a person can give: the gift of life. Being local people you are all no doubt familiar with the story but please allow me to recount it in my own way because I like the sound of it. Call me crazy, but this story does something to me. One year ago on a frosty Christmas morning, a young widowed mother, poor as dirt but still attractive in her own way, took drastic measures in order to save the life of a five-year-old child who was dying of kidney failure. She had no health insurance or dialysis machine but she did have a heavy Bible which she used to whack the boy against the back of the head, knocking him out in order to spare him the pain that would follow. Taking a rusty penknife and a simple, dime-store sewing kit, the young woman proceeded to remove one of her kidneys and successfully transplant the vital organ into her son’s vulnerable body. She did this with no prior experience, completely ignorant of even the simplest of medical procedures. The child had a different blood type and the kidney was much too large for his body but still the organ took, defying all laws of science. This operation was performed not in a sterile surgical environment, but in a dark and dingy hay-filled barn not unlike a manger. There was manure in that barn. There were spiders and fleas but still the transplant was a success. The boy awoke and shortly afterwards was noticed happily playing in the bramble-filled ditch which constituted his front yard. A neighbor contacted the authorities, who were understandably stunned and baffled by the child’s complete recovery. When asked how she had managed to perform such complex and delicate surgery, the ignorant young woman said only, “I done it with the help of the Lord.”
Now either she’s the biggest liar since my third wife, or a miracle took place in that squalid, tin-roofed barn, a miracle witnessed only by two goats, half a dozen chickens, and a gamecock with a broken leg. And unfortunately these animals, like the young woman herself, are refusing to talk. Reporters crawled out of the woodwork, nosing around for answers, but still she held her tongue. A world conference of surgeons flew in from the four corners of the earth and again, all she said was “I done it with the help of the Lord.” How’s that for some technical mumbo jumbo!
Now, Folks, I can understand this frightened, law-abiding, modest countrywoman turning away the wolves from the tabloids who only want to feature her as the current freak of the week alongside the camel who thinks he’s a kitten or the fat man lifted by a crane through the roof of his trailer. These tabloids only want to exploit. They don’t understand this woman and her life. They don’t understand you, let alone someone like me. If you want my opinion, they’re nothing but savages and we’d be better off without them. Forgive me if I’ve offended anyone but sometimes a person just has to let loose and speak his mind.
Let me point out that there are quite a few perplexing questions involving this incident. For example, isn’t it funny how this poverty-stricken young widow could have an attorney but not a washing machine? That’s right, she’s being counseled by her brother, who just barely managed to pass the state bar exam after attending some fourth-rate state college. The man is a loser but he calls himself a lawyer. Go figure. She’s been charged with no crime but still I can understand her desire to be counseled and protected. Her brother is a public defender, a man who chooses to spend his life representing thieves and rapists. Here’s a guy who sits down and shares his sandwich with the scum of the earth, and he’s advising this young woman on how to lead her life?
Now I’m not putting down lawyers, I’ve got a whole team of them myself. They help me out every time I need a divorce or sign the lease on a new ranch or pied-à-terre. They defend me when I’m wrongly accused and they also advise me in terms of money because that’s what a good lawyer can do, protect you from making bad choices.
Let me break this down into terms you might be able to understand. Let’s say that someone offers to buy your prize piglet for seven dollars. Now maybe that would cause your ears to prick up, but a good lawyer would advise you to wait and see what other offers might come in. Two days later Scat Turdly may want to give you twelve dollars for that piglet, and the day after that Old Man Warner might promise to pay you twenty dollars. The point is that you want to take the best offer but at the same time you’ve got to think fast. Wait too long and that prize piglet will grow into a bearded old sow with none of its youthful charm. It’s like that with stories as well. Sit on something too long and eventually you won’t be able to give it away, much less sell it. Now a good lawyer is graced with a keen sense of timing forged by years of experience in the entertainment industry. A good lawyer seizes the moment and closes a deal that will benefit both himself and his client. A bad, self-serving public defender will do no such thing. This young woman’s brother has foolishly respected his client’s desire to turn down all offers in regard to her story. Even worse, he’s placed a restraining order against the very people who are trying to help bring this story out from the shadows and into the light. I can understand turning away the book and motion-picture people, but this is TV we’re talking about! (Slap Bible for emphasis.) Someone less scrupulous than myself could produce an unauthorized version of this story, maybe shifting a detail or two in order to avoid a crippling lawsuit. They could, for instance, make a two-hour television movie about a Buddhist grandmother who transplants a spleen while kneeling in a pup tent over the long Fourth of July weekend, but me, personally, I don’t want to do that.
The fact of the matter is, that until this young woman agrees to sit down and reason with us, we have no story because, without her cooperation, there’s no way of knowing what really took place in that godforsaken barn on the morning of Christmas one year ago today. And it’s a tragedy that her son is no longer available to fill in the missing pieces. Here this woman sacrificed one of her own kidneys in order to save the boy’s life and six days later he was struck down by a remote location satellite truck. Unlike certain other people, I respected her grief and kept my distance for the better part of a week, allowing this woman, in her own private way, to come to terms with her terrible irony. I even offered the use of my own personal team of lawyers, hoping that she might sue the owners of that satellite truck because, I don’t know about you, but it makes me mad as hell to see a child run down by an inferior network. Speaking through her brother, the young woman declined to initiate a lawsuit or even to press charges. Anyone with the brains of a common gnat would have squeezed those bastards for all they’ve got, but this simple countrywoman chose instead to shut herself away with nothing but a Bible to ease her terrible pain. It was her right to decide against a lawsuit, but to turn down my generous offer to dramatize her story is an act that borders on madness. It’s been rumored that she is motivated by her deeply held religious beliefs and that is why, on this Christmas morning, I am turning to you, her fellow parishioners.
Let me just lay my cards on the table and give it to you straight. You are a poor people. But you don’t deserve to be. I’ve spent some time in this area and have seen your pathetic, ramshackle houses resembling so many piles of firewood. These are places I wouldn’t use to store a lawn mower, let alone raise a family. People in our inner-city ghettos are riding around in brand-new Jeeps, yet you walk to church every Sunday, lucky just to have shoes on your feet. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Here it is, Christmas Day and your children probably woke to find a kneesock full of twice-chewed gum or a doll made out of used Band-Aids. I’m not putting down handmade gifts, but don’t they deserve something better than what you can currently afford to give them?
I’m going to be honest with you people. The truth is that your minister is not just “running late” for this morning’s service. He’s right outside this building, settled comfortably into the backseat of my car. I’d approached him a few days ago, asking if I might address the congregation. He said, “No sir, you may not.” Then I showed him some blueprints drawn up by one of our country’s most prestigious architects. They’re the plans for your new church because, People, this one is coming down. (Hold for applause.) The bulldozers are arriving first thing tomorrow morning to begin construction of a magnificent temple designed by the same man who brought us the Wasp’s Head Convention Center in Houston, Texas. The new steeple will playfully resemble a hypodermic needle. You’ll have stainless-steel pews and a burnished concrete altar so big even the Catholics will be jealous.
This new church is a Christmas present. A very expensive Christmas present from me to you with no strings attached. But a new church won’t put food in your stomach or pay the doctor bills the next time little Jethro swallows a fistful of thumbtacks. What if I was to tell you that, in return for one small favor, I’d be willing to offer a little help in that direction? Ladies and Gentlemen, this is one year when Santa’s definitely coming to town. The question is: Do you welcome him with open arms or turn him away, much like a certain young woman and her devious brother to whom money means nothing?
You know, flying in early this morning, I thought I might offer each of you a brand-new car and a thousand dollars in cash. Now, though, looking out over your kind, sallow faces, I’m thinking of upping that to a brand-new car, a factory-fresh side-by-side refrigerator/freezer, and twelve hundred dollars in cash. Sound good? (Raise eyebrows, establish eye contact.) That’s what I promise to give each and every one of you if you can convince this young woman to help me tell her story. Apparently the finer things in life mean nothing to her, and so be it. But is it fair for her to force you, her friends and neighbors, to suffer the same lifestyle?
By refusing to sign my contract and spend an afternoon recounting the facts to me and my topnotch writers, this young woman is ensuring that none of you will ever experience the pleasures that most civilized people take for granted. She’ll be saying, “Fine, let their newborn babies die of malnutrition and staph infections.” She lost her son the hard way and maybe, in her mind, you should, too! Me, I’m more than happy to provide you with a clean and modern building in which to hold their sad little funerals. If, however, you want the money to prevent such wasteful, untimely deaths, you’ll have to talk it over with your so-called Sister. Maybe you can reason with her.
Is this the Christmas your holiday dreams come true, or is it the day you discover just how petty and spiteful one person can truly be? If, like her, you’re not interested in money, cars, and appliances, you could still convince her to sign the contract and then donate your rewards to charity. You’d have a pretty hard time finding people less fortunate than yourselves, but if that’s your bag, I’d be more than happy to respect it. Giving is what the holiday season is all about. I’m giving you a brand-new church and you don’t even have to thank me for it if you don’t want to. That’s not why I gave it. And if you don’t want to repay me by talking some sense into your friend, then I’ll just take it on the chin and head on home. I’m just wondering how easy it will be to sleep tonight with your threadbare blankets and Christian ethics knowing that somewhere outside your plastic-paned windows an old crippled woman is begging for coins in some glass-filled gutter because you were too wrapped up in yourself to give her a side-by-side refrigerator/freezer. Because, let me tell you something, not giving is no different than taking. (Good point. Let it sink in.)
I was going to leave you with that thought but, as long as I’m here, let me add a little something else. Even if you refuse to reason with this young woman, I will still produce my holiday special. This, though, will be my story, requiring the help of no one. It will be about a small group of so-called evangelical Christians so busy rolling on the floor and beating their tambourines that they’ve forgotten what Christmas really stands for. It won’t have an uplifting seasonal message and may very well send a good twenty million children off to bed thinking that perhaps this God person isn’t everything he’s cracked up to be, that maybe they’re celebrating the birthday of a con artist no different than the stick figures worshipped by the Pygmies or the Moslems. I’m going to write that idea onto a piece of paper (pull out pad, scribble) and hand it to one of my associates just as soon as he returns from his vacation in Bahoorahoo. I’d prefer to do the more compelling story of your young friend, but that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is up to you. It takes time to produce a topnotch holiday special and my people need to get on the stick if we’re going to have something ready for next Christmas. Do the catering trucks roll into town early next week, loaded down with cola and mouthwatering pasta salads, free of charge to any shabbily dressed church member wanting to earn good money as an extra? Or do we film an uglier version of the story on some faraway soundstage? One year from today will you be seated on a nice new sofa, watching as this young woman’s heart-wrenching miracle is brought to life on your wide-screen TV, or will you be picking the thorns out from between your toes and wondering where you went wrong?
Maybe you can let things happen in their own sweet time but me, I can’t wait that long. I have a plane to catch early this afternoon, so that leaves you with three hours to hash things over with your young friend. That’s three hours without commercials, which amounts to two hours and twelve minutes in my time. Your minister has refused to address the topic in his holiday sermon, so he’ll be talking about something else. Eventually though, he’s going to stop talking and you will have to start thinking. And I would advise you to think carefully. All I’m asking for is a few details. They’re little things, details, but they can make all the difference in the world when it comes to fulfilling a dream. Maybe while you’re thinking you can entertain a few detailed dreams of your own. I want you to imagine yourselves leaning back against the warm, fragrant upholstery of a brand-new automobile. Your healthy children are still fighting over who got to ride in the front seat but you don’t allow that to bother you. In time they’ll return their attention to that bounty of toys lying at their feet. Back at the house the ice cubes are eagerly awaiting the kiss of a finely aged bourbon, and there’s still enough money in your wallet to make your neighbor jealous. It’s Christmas Day, and all is right with the world.