Red Blood and Fresh Meat
by David Sherry
It’s December 1st, and as I step out into the light, I realize that the coat I have chosen to wear is completely inappropriate for the weather. Taking into consideration that it is the first day of December, it is strangely warm; like a hot tub that’s located outside at a ski resort. The only way that anyone could possibly tell that Christmas is around the corner would be the bright lights and festive decorations hanging off of many houses and/or establishments. Immediately I begin to sweat profusely under my heavy duck down, coyote-fur-hooded mammoth. To say I am ill-prepared for this wintery desert climate is a statement that probably could use a bit of refining, if you know what I mean. Holy Hell! Is Christmas really only 25 days away? The only reason I left the house this early is because I need to get a fuse in my car replaced. And I guess it was supposed to happen that way.
I pull around to the the other entrance to the service station since the one I usually drive into is blocked by a booth selling Crete-Monee Warriors merchandise. Banners and flags fly hailing the team as state champions. Now let me ask you this: why should we care? I’m not saying necessarily that we should not care, but why should we, if at all? All that aside, I pop into the office just in time because they are about to close up for the day. Rob quickly changes my fuse. He stands up from the side of my car.
“All done. It should be working fine now,” he says. I start to pull out my wallet to pay him for the work but he stops me. “Don’t worry about it,” he says to me. “It’s just a fuse.”
I’m kind of taken aback for a second. I had the money ready and everything. How often do you run into a mechanic nice enough to fix your car for free? I thank him graciously and then take off to park the car over at my house. The walk back into town is eerily quiet. But this only holds true until I reach Main Street.
There’s quite a few people traipsing through the streets, but it could hardly be called a crowd. They all have faces and stories of their own, all different yet eerily similar. It’s only 1:30 PM, and maybe more would make their way into the streets later tonight, but unfortunately I won’t be there to see it. Tonight’s a work night for me. I notice the booths set up next to the gazebo where Santa Claus resides. There’s also a smoldering fire pit in the middle of the street with a circle of empty benches set up around it. There isn’t much going on near the gazebo, so I decide to catwalk up and down the streets to survey the life-forms as well as the ice sculptures.
First I come upon ice chiseled into the form of a knight. This installment is sponsored by the Crete Chapter of the Order of St. John. Scampering around the back of the sculpture is a little four-eyed boy wearing a startling amount of blue. His hoodie reminds me of a cold pool that was subjected to a little too much dye and chlorine. The kid’s hood is pulled up over his red Santa cap, with a puffy white ball peeking out from under the blue cloth. He pokes at the ice curiously. Who knows, maybe he had dreamed of being a knight in shining armor at one point in his young life.
As I walk a little farther down the sidewalk amidst the Crete folk, another sculpture catches my eye. It takes the form of a small helicopter sitting atop what looks like a giant magnet and a heap of snow. This one is sponsored by Crete Steel. I guess that I failed to wake up early enough to see the sculptures being created. Oh well, at least I get to see them before they melt completely. As I stand and stare at the dripping helicopter, a heavy-set middle-aged man comes and stands next to me, studying the same ice that I am.
He looks at me and shakes his head. “Kind of a shame, isn’t it? Such a warm day that these sculptures won’t live for very long. It’s just ‘art of the moment,’ if you will.” I look him over without saying anything. The man gives me a nod and a salute, turns and goes on his way. After this I decide to investigate for more information. The booth near the fire pit looks like a good place to make enquiries.
So I shuffle over to the booth that’s covered in advertisements. A man and a woman sit within. The woman is probably late 20s or early 30s with long brown hair and a slim face. The man is bigger, overweight with thinning hair. He has a somewhat jolly air about him. They both acknowledge my presence.
“Can we help you?” The woman asks.
I pop my head in through the window of the booth. “Yeah, I was wondering what you can tell me about what’s going on today.”
The man gives out a big hearty belly laugh. “Oh, child,” he says with a smile. “It’s Christmas in Crete! Where all peoples come to be jolly and festive! These are the days when the streets run with red blood and fresh meat!”
I subtly raise an eyebrow. “I’ve been checking out the ice sculptures and noticed all the other booths set up.”
“Yes, sir,” he continues. “They came out to sculpt about, oh, maybe ten o’clock this morning. You missed that.” He winks at me with a toothy grin. “Santa Claus is across the way and there will be music playing in that setup later on tonight.” He points to an empty stage across the way. He hands me a piece of thick blue cardboard with snowflakes and text printed on it. “Here you can peruse over this. It tells you everything that’s happening this weekend.”
I take the schedule from him and briefly skim it over. There is going to be bands playing later tonight, but I’d have to be headed to work by then. Everything else was definitely merriment, but didn’t seem very fun. The kind of “Christmas Dull” you get once you hit a certain age. Sometimes Hanukkah can be more interesting than the ever-merchandised Christmas season. I hand the schedule back to the jolly man and thank him.
It’s about that time to fill the stomach, so I pass by the rest of the sculptures and people, some silent, some boisterous. I make my way to The Edge, a little cafe on Main Street. They have their own ice sculpture outside of a rhino sitting on a small stool; he’s holding a coffee cup which is being filled with the drips falling from his nose. So I enter The Edge to get a sandwich and some soup. The tiny cafe is somewhat cramped today since there are way more people out on the streets of Crete than there normally is. It’s encouraging to see that The Edge is getting some good business since it’s a smaller establishment, but what they serve is actually very tasty. After I sit down with my food, I notice a young man, maybe about twenty-one, performing card tricks for people around the restaurant. I eye him for a while, as any writer would do, until he comes over to my table. He’s a bit short, probably about 5’8”, thin build with short cut brown hair. Looks a little like a college kid type to me.
“You want to see a card trick?” He asks me.
“Sure,” I say, putting my spoon down into the soup.
He fans the cards out in front of me. “Pick a card,” he says. I pick one and look at it, it’s an eight of spades. He cuts the deck in half and tells me to put my card in the middle without showing it to him. I do this then he places the top half back on the deck, covering my card. He taps the top of the deck then snaps his fingers and picks up the top card. It’s a three of hearts. “This obviously isn’t your card, right?” I shake my head then he cuts the deck a couple times. “Well,” he says. “You’ve tainted that card you touched just enough for the rest of the deck to want to reject it.” He waves his right hand over the deck then snaps his fingers. A card shoots out from the middle of the deck and he catches it in his right hand. Flipping it over, I can see that it’s the eight of spades. “Is this your card?”
I hold my fist up to my mouth in disbelief and burst out laughing. “That’s pretty impressive.” He thanks me and we end up having a conversation about filmmaking, writing, school, etc. Before I leave he gives me his card. His name is John Heide, a sleight of hand/card artist. And a talented one at that.
Back outside there is a little bit more going on, but I decide that I’ve seen about enough of Christmas in Crete. There are crossing guards stationed at the crosswalk near the fire pit and the gazebo, which seem to me to be a little unnecessary because there is barely any traffic on that street as it is.
“How are you doing today?” One of them asks me as we wait to cross.
“Pretty good,” I say. “How about you? Enjoying helping people across the street?”
“Safety first!” He says with a smile. “It’s important to make sure that everyone gets across the street safely.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But if a planet or a meteor were to collide with the earth right now, it wouldn’t really matter if you got everyone across the road safely. They’d all be dead anyway.”
He is silent for a second then responds. “That’s true. No one knows when that time is coming.” He walks out into the street with his stop sign above his head. The cars stop and I cross toward the booths and the fire pit.
I nod to the crossing guards and bid them a good day. That’s when I notice that there are people sitting around the fire pit now listening to a strange looking Santa. I walk over and stand behind one of the benches to hear what he’s talking about. He’s wearing a green tunic with a long red robe over it. Around his head is a wreath made of evergreen branches. He’s explaining the origins of Saint Nicholas. Most of what comes out of his mouth seems like a load of hogwash and glamorized myth so I decide to depart.
As I walk home, satisfied that I have seen all I needed to see, a hawk swoops down over head and lands in a tree a few feet in front of me. Not a huge bird, but a majestic one nonetheless. It surveys the landscape with its razor-sharp eyesight. I think of Horus as his striped tail feathers ruffle in the breeze. To me, this singe occurance has been by far more inspiring than anything I have seen today in the streets of downtown Crete.
