Page 1 of Bed of Roses

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Is there anything worse than manufactured holiday cheer? The fabricated b.s. pushed by industries dependent upon you shelling over your hard-earned dough in some kind of forced display of affection. If your home doesn’t smell of fresh baked sugar cookies and Pinterest gingerbread houses, complete with gingerbread doghouse on dyed coconut shaving grass, do you, as a mother, really love little Timmy and Tommy? If you don’t spend all night putting together Barbie’s beach house, which is an upgrade from last year’s Barbie penthouse, does Daddy really truly love his little princess?

Because wouldn’t you do anything for your little lamb? If Grandma’s house doesn’t serve the little croissants in the blue package, and have a bubbling casserole dish full of green bean casserole, and four different pies to appeal to every whim of her family, has she really done enough? If your house doesn’t smell like fresh cut pine trees, or candied cranberries, or “Laughing through the Winter Snow” purchased for the low holiday price at the candle and fragrance store, so that it coordinates with the guest towels and matching toilet seat cover you bought at fifty percent off at the home decoration store, are you truly imbued with holiday magic? Good grief people wake up. We’re living in a manufactured hamster wheel of fabricated seasonal magic.

You know what I say you should do this holiday? Reject it all. Reject consumerism. Reject the need to live in a cultivated reality. Get off Pinterest, get off Instagram, get off Facebook. The Jones’s don’t give a flying you know what if you’re trying to keep up with them, so why do you?

“And, that’s commercial. Jesus, Bear! Why hold back? Tell us how you really feel while gaslighting an entire holiday. Fuck me standing, we’re about to get hit with a barrage of hate everything—email, social, phone calls.”

Raven, my cohost, and engineer of our morning show, barely waited for the jingle to start playing before ripping off her headphones and laying into me. It appeared it would be a morning of people waiting in line for the opportunity to give me an ass reaming, as our general manager paced around the door to our studio waiting for the “On the Air” light to turn off. “Fuck me,”I muttered, pressing the button that would signal he could enter.

“Do you realize you have just pissed off every advertiser at this station with your bullshitTiny Timspeech? Reject consumerism? That consumerism pays all our salaries…most of all, yours. The second you are off the air at ten, I want the both of you in my office.”

“Unbelievable,” Raven muttered, shoving her headphones back on before opening our mics back up and forcing her face into a pained smile. “‘Twas the month before Christmas and here at the Pole, our staff has worked hard, knowing our role. Like every year, we try to better last year’s treats, and this year we are pleased with our amazing feat. North Pole New York is magic you see, and WNPL wants to spread that magic to every family. So, this year we ask you text a nomination, of someone you think could use some holiday inspiration.”

“Aw Rave, your little ditty is so cute.”

So was the finger she flipped me. Raven was a total dichotomy, especially while reading about Santa and Holiday Elves dressed in a Vixen T-shirt, ripped jeans, and Doc Martins.

“I just read what’s on the card, Bear.” She flicked a deep purple coated fingernail against the card in her hand for emphasis.

“Someone at this station deserves a gold star for using of all of their rhyming words.”

“And someone out in radio land deserves to have some holiday cheer. Do you know of a deserving someone that you want Santa’s Elves to surprise? Nominate your friend, family member or total stranger by texting in to the Mistle Tunes text line.”

“You know the drill,” I read from my cue card. “A lucky winner will be chosen at random for each day of the Twelve Elves Holiday Helpers to have their Holiday dreams come true.”

“And while I know some of our listeners might be tempted to nominate him since Mr.Scroogeover here needs an entire gallon of holiday cheer,” Raven shot me daggers from across the booth, talking through a saccharine sweet smile, “…the rulesclearlystate Bear can’t be nominated. Up next on North Pole’s Mistle Tunes, one of Bear’s personal favorites, this is Mariah Carey,All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

It was my turn to flip a bird.

* * *

“I don’t know why I’m getting roped into your shit.”

Raven sulked in one of the overstuffed chairs in Mr. Rosenstein’s office. He had a sweet set up going, a corner office, windows on two sides overlooking the Adirondacks in the distance. I guess the view was the bonus to being the general manager of a station in some tiny Podunk town in the middle of nowhere upstate New York, whose claim to fame was an amusement park for an imaginary character.

“Relax Rave, I have always had your back.”

“The point being, however, my back doesn’t need to be covered since I’m not the asshole who suddenly developed an opinion and started vomiting an anti-Christmas tirade at a station known for playing wall to wall Christmas music from November first until the fucking New Year.”

“Well, I see Raven has already taken the liberty to get this meeting started without me.”

Mr. Rosenstein punctuated his entrance to the office, with a firm closing of his door. Not quite a slam, mind you—but pretty close.

“Raven, this meeting really isn’t about you, per se, but it does impact you as co-host of the Bear and Raven show. But know this ire is directed to the gentleman slouched against my window and not towards you.”

In the nanosecond between him talking to Raven and directing his attention to me, it was as if every molecule in the room knew he was about to unleash a tirade into the atmosphere and wanted no part in it. You know when you know your mouth caused you to step in some shit, and you already know before the hammer comes down that the hammer is going to hurt a lot. But at the same time, you really can’t find yourself caring because even though you stepped in shit with your words, they were also probably the most authentic thing you’ve said in years? That was the precipice I now dangled on.

“Since Raven just reminded you, I won’t waste my breath discussing the importance of the holiday season around this station. I also shouldn’t have to remind you that this entire town, the entire economy of this town revolves around Santa Claus, and the holiday season.”

Drew Rosenstein wasn’t a showy man. He was finely dressed, sure. The suit he wore was more than likely of the Brooks Brothers ilk. His merlot colored Lexus sat in the executive lot with other automobiles of similar social status, but he didn’t ooze overpaid executive. Except with his jewelry. The man wore more necklaces and rings than Zaza Gabour. An idiosyncrasy I witnessed as he counted off my transgressions on each ring adorned finger.

“Of all days Bear, you choose the kickoff of our holiday season to go on a rampage about consumerism?”

Over the course of my radio career I’d been in meetings like these so many times that I’d learned to just let the man in the big chair air his grievances and then I’d call a mea culpa and be on my way. There was no reason to push back otherwise it just devolved into a dick measuring contest. Considering I was six foot two and old Drew was five foot six on a good day, standing in his fancy wingtip shoes—we both know that wouldn’t end well for Drew.

“Look Bear, we all know you’re still tucked into your feelings about WSKL cutting the two of you.”

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