Christmas Nightmare on Elm Street
by
This story is a semi-parody of the popular Christmas movie National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Like the movie, it is set in the 1980s.
PART ONE: On the First Week of Christmas…
It was the first Saturday of December 1983, and in the outskirts of Los Angeles County , a late-model Ford station wagon drove along the California State highway at 55 miles an hour – the posted speed limit.
From that car, Michael Jackson's Thriller cassette played at full blast. And for late fall, the weather outside was a balmy 90 degrees, so all the windows of the station wagon were down at least half way, so that the air could circulate into the car. Motorists and hiking passers-by could hear the annoying combination of Michael Jackson's smooth if effeminate falsetto and the singing voices of what must have been five teenage girls in the cargo area of the car. The girls' singing voices were of varied ranges of talent, which wasn't saying very much – at least, to the driving Roy DeSoto, who had to hear Beat It , Thriller and the new Top 10 hit PYT (Pretty Young Thing) three or four times since they left the house. Annoyed, Roy grabbed two Tylenols from Joanne's hand and popped them into his mouth without water. That left a sour, gritty taste in his mouth, but he didn't care. His daughter's MTV-influenced musical tastes were enough to give any parent a headache.
Right now, Jennifer DeSoto and her friends sang Billie Jean , with John Gage entering the chorus from the back seat, which he shared with Christopher who, at 15, was becoming a young man with most of his dad's features etched into his face. Like his parents in the front seat, he grew sick of his sister's music collection, which consisted of Michael Jackson, Boy George and Duran Duran.
“How many times do I have to listen to that faggot Michael Jackson,” shouted Christopher who, despite his playing Cum On, Feel the Noise on the Walkman, could still hear both the Thriller cassette and the girls' terrible singing voices. Suddenly, the spiky-haired Sally Gage stopped singing: “Well, the One-Glove Wonder's not a faggot.”
“Yeah, and it's coming from the freakiest-looking girl at Mullholland High. Everyone laughs at you behind your back, trying to be that new chick Cyndi Lauper.”
“And you look like a loser, still wearing your hair like they did in 1978.” Sally Gage evolved into a fashion-conscious teenager who had a huge crush on Tom Selleck and watched Magnum P.I. religiously each week. Her musical tastes were more The Cure, The Clash and Depeche Mode than Michael Jackson and Boy George, but she respected the tastes of her more mainstream fellow passengers. What Sally had no patience for, though, was people who did not keep up with current style trends: “As a New Year's Resolution, get a haircut. 1950s-style hairdos are in again for guys. Just spike it a bit.”
“Well, Sarah Anne Gage,” said Christopher, mentioning Sally's full name, “I'm trying to grow my hair. I love heavy metal.”
“YOU LISTEN TO HEAVY METAL! SKID MUSIC! UGH!” That was the cry coming from Jennifer DeSoto and Angela Stanley, who stopped singing after Christopher made his announcement.
“Don't tell me that you're in love with Emily McCann,” chimed Lisa Stoker, whose layered clothes and wild hairdo almost mirrored Sally's fashion sense. “She's such a slut. Have you seen what she wore to the school dance last week? Feathered hair, that rank-looking T-shirt she must have bought at that Def Leppard concert, and skin-tight hooker jeans. Let me tell you, she'll be asking you whether you want fries with that after she graduates from high school – if she ever does. She's so dumb.”
“Now, that's not very nice,” argued Christopher. “Emily made the honor roll last term.” Turning to Sally, he smirked, “She's got a 94 average. You got an 82. And the guidance counselor told her that she has what they call the aptitude to become a lawyer. So, you girls don't judge a book by its cover, okay?”
“BOR-R-R-R-ING!”
Now, it was Roy DeSoto's turn to make an announcement. “Guys,” he said, still concentrating on the road in front of him, “you're wondering why we're driving 50 miles out of nowhere on this beautiful day?”
“To see if we could find anything resembling snow in California ,” said Sally sarcastically. She was born in an area where a White Christmas was real, rather than two words in a famous Bing Crosby song. She hoped that Roy was driving his four-wheeled sleigh into Aspen , where she could find snow and rich boys at the same time. But Roy had to work the next day and Aspen was out of reach on a fire captain's salary, even after Joanne went back to work full time just before Jennifer went to junior high in September of 1982. Besides, the DeSotos were determined to send both their offspring to college, and college tuitions were not cheap.
“Nope,” replied John Gage, his evil grin shining through. “Roy and I picked a great place to pick out a tree for our fun old-fashioned family Christmas.”
Uh, oh. Joanne thought mutely, looking out her front passenger window. Whenever Johnny and Roy planned an event together, disaster ensued. And every Christmas since 1971 had to be events to forget. Back in 1977, they participated in what Joanne now called “The Station 51 Gong Show,” primarily because whatever could go wrong in that talent show did. Not only did Chet Kelly burn his mouth badly while performing his famous fire-eating stunt, but also the kids nearly massacred each other on stage during their performance of A Charlie Brown Christmas . Worse, John hired a group of strippers to dance to the disco versions of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus and Santa Baby . Even Chuck Barris, who hosted The Gong Show at the time, would have stayed out of this mess. Chief McConnachie banned all fire-eating and other dangerous stunts from future talent shows that the Los Angeles County Fire Department held since then. None of these talent shows was as entertaining or amusing as the 1977 edition, but the latter was embarrassing, even disgraceful, to the new battalion 14 chief, Hank Stanley.
Joanne hoped that neither Johnny nor Roy planned to drive the group into a bear area. There were many signs along the side of the road reading “WARNING: BEARS. DO NOT FEED OR LEAVE FOOD UNATTENDED. BEARS CAN KILL YOU!”
“Didn't they set up tree lots so that people don't have to risk their lives in this jungle,” asked Joanne, nervous about what her husband was up to this time.
Jennifer added, “Don't they sell Christmas trees at K-mart?”
“A tree lot,” cried John. “Tree lots are for suckers who are satisfied with scrawny, dead, overpriced trees that'll turn brown and become fire hazards by Christmas Eve.”
“And why would anybody want to buy a fake tree,” chimed Roy .
Lisa Stoker replied, “So that you wouldn't have to vacuum the floor around the thing everyday.”
“And you don't have to kill trees to celebrate commercialism in America,” added her sister, Susan, whose left-leaning views on the environment were several years ahead of her time, but rather out of place in the Reagan Era. “All people do after Thanksgiving is waste their money on those ugly Cabbage Patch Kids and those dumb Care Bears, so that they'd shut their brats up – and for what? Those brats will want something else on New Year's Eve, and those ugly Cabbage Patch dolls will end up in the garbage, where they belong.”
“Well, you look like a Cabbage Patch Kid with spiky hair,” said Christopher. “I'll offer $40 to put your ugly face underneath the Christmas tree. Everyone who tries to look like they're on MTV is a freak.”
“Oh, DeSoto, won't you ever shut up?”
The station wagon stopped in a laneway that turned off the road. All nine passengers in the car stepped out. But since it rained the previous evening, there were muddy puddles in the dirt road, and Sally and Lisa's trendy Peter Pan Getaway boots proved impractical for the conditions. Their suede uppers became muddy.
“Shit,” cried Sally, examining her dirty new boots. “My new shoes are ruined.”
“I hate this stupid field trip,” added Lisa.
“This is so-o-o pointless,” said Jennifer. “Had I known that I'd end up in this hole, I would have gone to the mall with Monica and Kelly.”
Christopher cried, scraping mud off his Nikes with a spare Kleenex, “Those Valley Girls? They have the combined IQ of a clothes hanger. All they think about are clothes, Dynasty , clothes, boys, clothes, the American Top 40, clothes, makeup.”
“Well, you take that back, loser!”
John Gage refereed, “Guys, guys! I'm sick and tired of your arguing. And,” he turned to Sally and Lisa, “you should have worn more practical shoes to the country.”
“Practical things suck shit, old man.” That was Sally Gage, who had recently taken to calling her uncle “old man.” Johnny was only 33 years old and engaged to marry Carrie Ciccone, a Canadian woman who moved to California to take a job at a top Hollywood public relations agency. While Carrie would have laughed off Sally's “old man” remark, the self-conscious John was hurt, even deeply offended. After all, John did not consider a person old until he was at least 65 – and even then, a person was only as old as he felt. There were 90-year-olds who were more sprightly and youthful than the average 30-year-old.
Roy and Joanne had just disappeared into the woods, wearing the more practical plaid shirts, Levi's and hiking boots. Roy carried a hatchet in a holster fastened around his waist, and his eyes began hunting for the perfect California pine to put in his living room. Joanne fought a losing battle with the mosquitoes that bit into her skin. She killed two or three of the critters, but there were more from where they came from.
“Goddamn mosquitoes,” cried Joanne, slapping yet another biting mosquito.
Sally, Jennifer, Susan, Lisa and Angela also fought off mosquitoes: “Stupid bugs!” “Mosquito, go away!” “Anybody got Off?” “This is retarded!” “Bite Chris, not me!”
Finally, Roy stopped in front of a lush, green, full young pine tree. “This is the tree with our name on it,” he proclaimed, before pulling the hatchet out of the holster and cutting the thin trunk through. Soon, the tree fell onto the ground, and Roy and his party smiled at the selection of the 1983 DeSoto Family Christmas Tree. Everyone, except Susan Stoker, who collected pine cones from the ground to put into her plastic J. C. Penney bag. She wanted to plant more pine trees to replace the ones lost because of Christmas.
Joanne and four of her teenaged entourage continued scratching on their mosquito bites. But after Johnny and Roy lifted the six-foot tree and carried it to the car, Roy noticed that someone removed the car rack from the roof of the car. “I hope that Christopher didn't play around with it,” said his father. Christopher already received his permit to learn to drive a car, and he felt that a rack gave him an uncool image in front of his peers.
Christopher then announced, “Hey, girls! Looks like you'll have to share your seats with the Christmas tree.”
That was exactly what happened. The trip home proved uncomfortable for Jennifer and her friends, who wondered how sardines feel when packed into a little tin can. Then again, at least the fish were already dead and obviously could not feel a damn thing.
The girls could.
Susan Stoker and her Eighth Grade science class hiked into the Canyon Road area that Monday, during an overnight field trip that involved planting trees, an archeological dig, learning how to forecast weather, and doing a simple topographical survey. The students were excited about the combined science discovery and camping trip, but they were even more excited about the upcoming Christmas holidays. School was to recess for Christmas and New Year in less than two weeks, but the weather didn't feel that way. It was still warm and the more forward-looking weather forecasters predicted a rainy Christmas for Los Angeles County . Susan's simple weather forecasting tools did little to contradict this.
During the campfire on the last night of the field trip that Thursday, Susan, Angela and Jennifer huddled together to read the January 1984 edition of Vogue magazine. Nevertheless, their minds did not focus on the spring and summer fashion trends forecast by that magazine.
“What are you guys doing this Christmas,” asked Angela. “My dad's sending me and Lindsay up to New York to stay with Devon . He's just gotten himself the coolest job in the world: concert promoter.” She pulled out two pieces of paper that looked like concert tickets. “ Devon 's met Michael Jackson….”
“Wow,” chimed Jennifer. “How is he like?”
“ Devon says he's a nice guy, but a little flaky. Devon 's also met Paul McCartney, The Cure, Depeche Mode, and Duran Duran – and they're just as gnarly in person. Just feast your eyes on these things, girls. Those are front row seats with backstage passes for the Duran Duran concert at Madison Square Garden on New Year's Eve. Then, Devon's taking us to Times Square to see the ball drop on 1984. I might never see New York again, and Devon tells us that it's snowing up there right now – 30 feet of the white stuff this week alone.”
“Get some photos from the top of the World Trade Center for us, okay?”
Jennifer DeSoto wished she could join the Stanleys on their fun trek to the Big Apple. She never visited that city, but heard too much about its garbage, crime and nastiness. There have to be positive things to say about New York , too, with its lively arts, mass media and music scenes, cutting edge fashions, and rich architecture. Los Angeles , by comparison, was tacky and most of the film, television and music industries lived and died on popular opinions. Then again, Jennifer lived in the Los Angeles area for all of her 13 years. It was already time for a change – so many people who lived in areas that were cold and snowy in December died to live in a place like Los Angeles County despite the smog and tawdry charm. There were people in Los Angeles County who dreamed of a White Christmas. For the Stanley girls, this dream might come true.
Just then, the thick woods echoed a new Top 10 hit, Owner of a Lonely Heart , which was Jennifer's favorite song right now. She also heard several teenaged voices.
“This looks like a great place for a party,” announced one of the female voices. The girls knew it belonged to Sally Gage, who held bush parties with her fellow new wave peers, both from Mullholland High and UCLA, where she hoped to take undergraduate studies before heading to an Ivy League college in the eastern United States to study graduate forensic medicine. She wanted to become a coroner or a crime scene investigator, and had even done a job shadowing with Dr. Quincy early in the school year. In the meantime, she had to have fun, and to do that she stole several bottles of wine coolers and beer from her uncle's refrigerator. She also asked a 21-year-old UCLA senior to buy more booze at the local 7-11.
Another female voice cried, “Gage, you retard. My sister's class is having a field trip over there. Want to wake them up?” Angela knew that voice belonged to her sister Lindsay, who belonged to the same wildly attired peer group as Sally and Lisa.
“Are you kidding? It's only 10 o'clock. We're not talking six-year-olds over there. They're 13 or 14 years old, and they're old enough to stay up ‘til 2 in the morning.”
“Okay.”
The new wave and Top 40 music grew louder, and so did the ballooning party crowd. Jennifer and her friends took notice.
“Stupid college kids,” grumbled Susan Stoker, crawling into her tent. “There are people trying to get some sleep here. This isn't goddamn Montana . People live in this area.”
Sally Gage crawled into the darkness, stopping at a tree next to the campfire. “Hey, DeSoto,” she beckoned Jennifer and her friends. Susan's head peered out of the tent door, looking at the direction of the tree.
“Not now, Sally,” said Jennifer, who poured sand onto the campfire, extinguishing it. “We're trying to get some sleep here. We have to leave this place at 8 a.m.”
“Wanna have a good time, guys? There's a party right over there.”
“I don't know,” replied Angela. “Mr. Robertson's sleeping right there. He'd have us suspended if go to boozy parties on a field trip.”
“And our parents would murder us,” added Susan, who stepped out of her tent. “Remember Jamie Reed?” Jamie Reed was Staff Sergeant Jim Reed's oldest son and Jennifer DeSoto's crush.
“His folks put him in military school after he got drunk at the school dance,” remembered Sally, her disdain for parental rules inflected in her voice. “These are the ‘80s, not the ‘50s. Everybody gets drunk at a school dance.”
“Not me,” said Susan.
Angela had a change of heart. “Oh, alright,” she said, walking slowly into the woods. “Just as long as we come back here sober before Robertson sees us.” Jennifer accompanies her.
Susan followed her friends and Sally to the bush party. It was everything the older kids said: music, dancing, and cute older boys. And, of course, there was booze.
“This is awful,” cried Jennifer, who sipped into her first bottle of wine cooler. Her face hardly disguised her hatred for the flavor.
Sally seemed unaffected by her second bottle of peach schnapps for the night. “Drink up, mon ami,” she smiled. “This stuff will give you a real good time, guaranteed.”
Jennifer sipped more of her wine cooler. Somehow, it tasted better with every sip, and the earlier grimace that etched into her face disappeared. Soon, she got excited over her underage drinking and “illegally” sneaking into a bush party. She danced drunkenly around the bonfire, the ghetto blaster playing such songs as Rock the Casbah , She Blinded Me with Science , and Love Cats . In the meantime, her equally inebriated friends were either dancing wildly themselves or trying to lose their virginity to a college boy.
Their parents warned them about this situation. Emily Stanley even told her daughters not to have sex until they were married. Unfortunately, Angela lost her virginity to a UCLA freshman in his car, and Susan was drunkenly kissing and necking with a Mullholland senior in the woods. Jennifer wasn't interested in sneaking sex with a boy, just dancing around the bonfire and trying in vain to act sober when she wasn't.
It was around 2 a.m. before Mr. Robertson woke up at camp to take a bathroom break. After relieving himself behind a bush, he walked slowly back to his tent – and noticed three drunken Eighth Graders staggering back to their campsite. The light from his lantern flashlight reflected upon their faces: Jennifer DeSoto, Susan Stoker, and Angela Stanley.
“Oh, shit,” whispered Jennifer. She and her friends scurried to their tent.
Their teacher stopped them: “Young ladies, you had too much fun over there?”
Like deer in front of a headlight at night, the three girls froze in fear.
They knew they were in trouble. And Sally Gage was to blame.
So were they, for going along with her latest and greatest stunt.
Roy DeSoto, Hank Stanley and Mike Stoker assembled in the principal's office the next day. Their daughters sat next to the standing Mr. Robertson, who looked over Principal Brokaw's notes sternly. He knew what Principal Brokaw was about to decree, but didn't want to blurt it out.
“Drinking underage is a misdemeanor under California State law,” said Principal Brokaw, still sitting behind her desk. “Normally, I would get the Los Angeles County Police involved in such cases, as well as child welfare authorities. But since this is a first disciplinary offense for all three of your daughters, I will overlook the police and child welfare legalities. However, I have no choice but to suspend Jennifer, Angela and Susan for five days, effective Monday. All assignments due during this period will get a failing grade, and afterwards you will not be allowed to participate in school extra-curricular activities, dances, pep rallies or field trips until early February.”
“That's so dumb,” protested Jennifer. “It's not as if I ever got drunk at a school dance.”
“But you did get drunk during a school field trip,” snapped Mr. Robertson, “and, by proxy, you got drunk on school property.”
Angela cried, “By proxy? Speak English, Robertson!”
“That's enough, young lady,” yelled Hank Stanley. “You're not going to New York now because of this.”
“That's lame!”
“No, it's not,” her father replied. “I am extremely disappointed with you. I expected this from Lindsay, hanging around with that Sally Gage girl, but not from you.”
“Now, we can't go to the Christmas prom, either,” added Susan Stoker. “I already picked out a dress.”
“We're going to be taking it back to the store,” said Mike Stoker. “And you're not going to that Cadette Scout winter camp up near Tacoma this Christmas, either, badge or no badge.”
Susan knew what her father would decree when they returned home: a week of household chores. She might as well be going to boot camp because her father would also decree the following: no video games, no TV after 8 p.m., and no phone calls to her friends. She would even see her fashion magazines, ghetto blaster, Walkman, LPs and cassettes confiscated, and her traveling privileges suspended. That meant no trips to the mall even for Christmas shopping.
As for Jennifer, her father shot her a dirty look. However, he said nothing until after the meeting, when he drove her home. “I thought you knew better than this,” he said.
“I'm sorry, dad.” Jennifer was close to tears.
“I know that being a teenager is tough,” responded Roy , “but you have to learn how to follow rules, and drinking underage is against school rules and state laws. Not only would you get very sick, but also you'll end up doing stupid things, as you did last night. Now, you and your friends will get a failing grade on your science project, and you're smart enough to deserve better grades than this.”
Jennifer wanted to turn on the radio. Roy stopped her hand from reaching the dial. “No TV or radio for the week,” he said kindly.
I'm not going to like the following week , though the teenager, as she saw her other friends Monica Babinetz and Kelly Marsden walking home from school. When they noticed Jennifer in the car, they waved at her enthusiastically. In addition, as Christopher suggested, they were true fashion plates, wearing brightly colored baggy T-shirts and two tiered hem mini-skirts with their jelly shoes. Jennifer wished she walked home from school, free from Principal Brokaw's decree. Still, she waved at them, and so did Roy DeSoto. Roy liked their parents who, unlike the Stanleys and the Stokers, were not firefighters, but college professors and doctors. And despite their mall-hopping tendencies, Monica and Kelly had active outside interests. Both were volunteers with the local cable television station, the local SPCA and the inner-city soup kitchen, already had part-time jobs at the local Burger King, and involved with a youth public speaking group affiliated with a local Toastmasters club. Monica was involved with her school's Canadian Students Association, since she was born in Toronto but moved to the United States only a year ago, when her parents took teaching jobs at UCLA. And Kelly was the head cheerleader at her school, and even took Jennifer to tryouts for the team. She made it into the group for the year.
Had she stayed in the tent with Monica and Kelly rather than Angela and Susan, Jennifer thought, she would not have to face the week from hell.
Her family wouldn't, either.