Metro Pulse/Cover/The Best Metro Pulse Christmas Ever

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by Angie Vicars

Before I found Christmas in my heart, I found it in my schedule.

Yes, it's time to tell the truth. When I joined the set crew of A Christmas Carol at UT, it wasn't out of love or charity or a spirit of giving. No, it was none of the above. I joined the crew because my freshman Latin professor insisted that I find another way to earn credits that semester, besides in his class.

So as the set turned, and the ghosts flew, and the Cratchits cooked their goose, a strange and unexpected thing happened to me. I fell in love, truly, madly and deeply. I was head over heels, for that big, dumb stage show.

Never mind that the snow was only bits of plastic. I loved sweeping it up every night, along with the screws, and the nuts and the bolts. I loved loading it into the snow bale that hung from the ceiling. I loved watching the cast members get beaned on their heads. When they looked into the wings with their eyes all agleam, I felt the true spirit of giving and receiving.

Never mind that the food was meant for the guests in the party scenes. I loved sneaking cookies by the handfuls when the stage managers weren't looking. As I passed the goods out to all the rest of the crew, I realized that I was sharing my good with others of my own free will. What a wonderful feeling.

Yet I longed to be even more involved with Christmas. To prove to everyone what a strong commitment I had to faking my way through the holiday season. And making it look good while I did. So I tried out for a part the very next year.

And right away, I received a gift unlike anything I could ever have imagined. It was a tray of plastic chestnuts to wear around my neck, and not only that. It was a big, wooden, godawful, heavy, unbelievably awkward tray that never became the object of my affection in my unforgettable role as the Chestnut Vendor.

While I made my way through the fake streets of London, getting beaned on the bonnet by the screws in the snow, I tried to hawk my nuts—which, thankfully, were not roasting by an open fire, but were, instead, glued in my tray, getting heavier by the minute. I had to keep a smile plastered on my face. Because I was no Scrooge in this production, I was a happy street vendor spreading the joy of Christmas, dammit.

But I was just getting started at spreading it on. In no time, I was handed a second hat to wear, literally. A hat that was as large as the Statue of Liberty's halo. A hat that streamed ribbons, billowed lace and flowed with eyelet. A hat that I never would have chosen to wear, but this was Christmas. And like it or not, I was committed to faking my joy in my second and truly remarkable role, Giddy Daughter of a Man that Young Scrooge Worked For.

Now I have rarely had a giddy bone in my body. But as Scrooge revisited the scene of his company Christmas party, I was the giddiest guest in the place. I giggled with the girls in my best, high-pitched fashion. I launched into Christmas carols while grinning with glee. I danced jigs and reels until I got so dizzy that I twirled into the banquet table. I hopped to the floor with a ham in my hands and a wink for young Scrooge, who was more into Dick Wilkins' attention than mine. So, I went back to giggling with the girls again. And I promise you that I wasn't having any fun. It was really all an act, and rightfully so, because that's what Christmas is all about, dammit.

But by the second year I was still saddled with the nuts and the hat. The inevitable happened. I reached into my barrel of joy. And hit the bah, humbug at the very, very bottom. I knew there was no way I could pretend anymore.

Christmas had become all work and no play, making me a dull girl. I had lost the love that I first felt for the show—when it was all about taking advantage of others and enjoying myself at their expense. I knew that no matter how I looked at it, those were the things that had made me the happiest.

I knew what I had to do: rekindle the flame. So I auditioned for a new role in the show. And that year I must say that I found my true calling. I was Laundress Who Robbed Scrooge After He Died.

Every time I ran onstage with my sack of hot items lifted from the home of the dead guy I used to work for, I was truly happy down deep in my heart. Every time I met up with my crony, the Charwoman, who'd also worked for Scrooge, and ripped him off as well, I was genuinely joyful to have a kindred spirit. Every time we paid a quick visit to the Rag and Bone Shop where we sold Scrooge's things for enough to get plastered repeatedly, the look of joy on my face was real. And it was real because I had fallen in love again, with that big, dumb show.

Now you may have heard that A Christmas Carol has come to a close in Knoxville. And Tiny Tim has finally been laid to rest. All true, I'm afraid. My love is no more. But the lesson that I learned in the time that we had together still lives on in my heart.

And I share it with you now. Be yourself for Christmas. Whoever you are. You can be a mischief maker, a disgruntled salesperson, a giddy partier, or even a spreader of wealth that didn't start as your own. As long as you celebrate what's truly in your heart, I guarantee that you'll have merry Christmases for many years to come. And so, my friends, god bless us, everyone.