Let It Snow

by Peter Miller

Here’s a tip. Never buy a monkey’s paw from a dodgy secondhand shop. Yeah, yeah, I know—everybody tells me now. But, like, I’d never heard the story. What can I say?

It wasn’t a big deal or anything. I was looking for something for William for Christmas, you know, something a bit funky, maybe a little bit kitsch. I thought I might get him a ukelele made out of a conch shell, or one of those tacky money boxes that look like a grinning guy in Black & White minstrel drag. You know the kind of thing—you put a coin in in his hand, pull a lever and he swallows your penny and rolls his eyes back in his head. It’s the kind of thing William would like for sure.

It was one of those sweltering days you can sometimes get in Sydney in mid December. I was on my way home from work when I saw this shabby little shop just off King St. I never noticed it before, and I go down that street at least once a week. Yeah, will you stop saying that—I know that’s how the story goes, but I didn’t know it then. And before you even ask, no the shop isn’t there anymore, I checked. You can take it as read that I missed all the pointers.

The guy behind the counter was a hunched spooky looking chap with longish greying hair. His skin was the brown-greenish colour of those corduroy trousers that used to be in fashion in the ’80s. Same texture too, for that matter. He could have been Middle Eastern, but I wouldn’t bet my house on that; the light was dim and no matter where he stood, his face always seemed to be in shadow. He reminded me of this woman I saw once in New Orleans. In a Voodoo shop, as I recall.

“Can I be of ssservice,” he said, with a frightening amount of sibiliance in his speech.

“Errr. I’m looking for a Christmas gift,” I said, “but I’ll be happy just having a browse.”

“Assss you wissssshh,” he aspirated, making oddly familiar little clutching motions with his hand.

I ducked my head under a garland of paper lilies and made my away among some glass display shelves. I knew straight away that this was the kind of place where I would have no trouble finding something for William. I passed over the velvet-painting of Elvis being given an exorcism, and the ostrich shell engraved with dancing clowns because they were a bit pricey and I gave the Sobbing Octopus Clock a miss, because I was fairly sure he had one of those. I was looking for something just right, and I knew it had to be here somewhere. As I meandered around the musty aisles, I noticed that the shopkeeper had an unsettling way of appearing at my elbow as I was examining something.

“That would make someone a very ssspecial gift,” he might say, and each time I put down what ever I was looking at, it seemed that he nudged me ever further into the darker recesses of the shop.

“Perhaps thisssss, might be ssssuitable,” he said, when we were somewhere between the mounted tapir head and the Chinese rosewood frog carving.

I couldn’t be really sure, but it seemed that he produced the object from inside his coat rather than from one of the display tables. But the light was poor, so maybe I am mistaken about that.

At first I thought it was one of those kangaroo-paw bottle openers.

“Oh, um, that’s er… novel,” I said, politely. “But I think my friend already has one.”

“Perhapsssss not exactly like thissss,” he said. “It’s a monkey’ssssss paw.”

My initial reaction of revulsion was instantly swamped by the absolute certainty that this was exactly the kind of thing that William would find irresistable. I was equally as certain that the creepy shopkeeper would want some exorbitant amount of money for it.

So I affected my best nonchalant “oh, maybe I’d be interested” air and peered at the thing.

It was hideous. Perfect!

“Oh, I dunno,” I said, “It looks a bit shop-worn.”

The shopkeeper’s face tilted briefly into the light and I saw for a split second that his eyes were a brilliant yellow-green. A bit like a cat’s. And then he dipped back into the shadows again.

“It’s very ancient and ssssome sssay it will grant your heart’ssss dessssire…”

Wow, I can spot a pitch when I hear one, but that sounded like something out of a crappy fairy story.

“Well, that could be useful, I guess. How much is it?”

Or something like that. I know it sounds weird, but I just can’t remember the transaction at all. The next thing I remember is being on the corner of Missenden Road clutching a monkey-paw size object wrapped in an obviously second-hand piece of Christmas paper.

I sniffed it. It smelled of something halfway between cloves and kerosene.

You know, I was tempted to unwrap it and have another look, but what with all the Christmas hurly-burly, I kinda forgot. And then before I knew it, it was Christmas drinks and I was thrusting the crumpled present into William’s hand.

“Merry Christmas old man,” I said, in an overly jolly tone, spilling some of my beer on my shoes, “and a Happy New Year”. For some reason, it felt mighty good to have passed on that strange little package.

William was never one to stand on ceremony, so at the same instant he was asking “Should I open it now?” he was actually opening it.

“Oh,” he said, slightly glumly. “I’ve already got a kangaroo-paw bottle opener old chap. Look, it’s here on the mantlepiece next to the Sobbing Octopus Clock”.

“Ah,” I said, “but it’s not a bottle opener. It’s a monkey’sssss paw…”

“Why are you talking like that?” he said.

“Oh, er, nuts,” I said, hastily thrusting some cashews into my mouth. “Dry the mouth out a bit… So, whaddya reckon?” I nodded at the little leathery fist.

William opened it and peered at the monkey’s paw he was holding.

“Oh. Yeah, monkey’s paw, right. Wow. Cool. Wow. Did you have some of this salmon dip?”

“It’s supposed to grant your heart’s desire,” I said, enthusiastically.

“Really?”, he said. “Usually I prefer the French Onion, but if the salmon’s that good.”

I spilled some beer on William’s shoes. On purpose.

“Okay, okay” he said. “Yeah, I’ve got to admit, it has a certain creepy and totally inappropriate-to-the-season appeal. Heart’s desire granting-type-powers, you say?”

“’s what the guy in the shop said.”

“So do you think I get three wishes or something?”

“I guess. That’s how it usually goes.”

William turned the shrivelled paw over in his hand.

“I bet the monkey’s last wish was ?I hope that guy with the machete falls outta my goddamn tree and breaks his neck’”

The cicadas started up outside.

“Seriously, if you could have three wishes, what would you wish for?” I asked.

“I’d wish for… a delicious plate of canapÈs!” he said, with a gesture meant to be evocative of a Sultan summoning forth a minion, but looking more like Rudolph Nureyev instructing an interior decorator to remove the pelmets.

“CanapÈ?” said Pil, appearing beside us with a plate heaped high.

“Aha! And so my very wish is granted!” said William, helping himself to a vol-au-vent.

“Be careful, they’re…”

“Aaaagh…” said William. “Bloody hell”. He took a big swig of beer which immediately went into fizz mode and spurted back up through his nose and all over his elf costume. Pil, startled by his sudden flailing, lost her balance, and the tray of h’ordeuvres flew forward distributing themselves evenly over William’s person.

The monkey paw flipped out of his hand and landed in the salmon dip, flinging fishy globs all over Pete and Michele.

“Hey!” said Michelle.

“What the hell is that?” Pete asked, peering into the salmon dip.

“I’d say it was a mummified monkey’s paw,” said Karen, with the air of authority that comes only from professional expertise.

“It’s disgusting,” said Pil.

Hugh hooked it out of the dip. He looked a little worried. Of course he knew the story.

“Who’s is it?” he asked.

“Miller gave it to me for Christmas,” William said.

“Where did you get it?”

“Er… a weird little shop…”

“With a creepy shopkeeper?”

“How did you know?”

“Haven’t you read the story?”

“What story?”

“Oh no.” Hugh looked a little pale. “William, you didn’t wish for anything did you?”

“Just some canapÈs. It didn’t turn out very well.”

We all regarded the six feet of vol-au-vent, beer and salmon decorated carpet.

“It never does turn out very well,” Hugh said. “That’s the way the Monkey’s Paw story goes. Every wish has got a down-side.”

“Oh that’s just balderdash,” said William. “It’s just a coincidence—I knew Pil was bringing out some finger food. It’s not like it’s a miracle or anything…”

Hugh didn’t look too sure. And you know what, for some reason I didn’t feel so good about it either.

“Why don’t you wish for something little,” said Michelle. “Surely then if there’s any negative consequences, they’d be little too?”

I could see Pete roll his eyes. I could see Hugh looking doubtful.

“OK, how about… a traditional Christmas wish?” William said.

“Peace on Earth?” asked Karen, hopefully.

“That’s not a very little wish,” said Pil.

“A very small mince pie?” I said, imagining that the consequences of that surely couldn’t be very dangerous.

“Nope,” said William, “My traditional Christmas wish is for my two front teeth!”

“But that’s completely ridiculous” said Gifford. “You’ve already got two front teeth.”

“Exactly,” said William. “So wish is granted and there are no consequences.”

The cicadas outside stopped abruptly. There was a small breath of warm air through the house and the candles flickered.

“Wouldn’t you think,” said Michelle, “that if you’re being granted wishes, then you should wish for something morally and ethically sound. Surely there’d be no side effect to that? Like, if it was a good wish and an unselfish wish?”

“Like Peace on Earth?” said Karen again, even more hopefully.

“No, I know,” said William with sudden certainty, “I’ll wish for an end to Global Warming!”

The candles flickered again. There was another breath of air through the house. Not warm this time. No, not warm at all. A little chilly, in fact.

Well, we didn’t think much of it at the time. It did cool down a bit that night, but what with all the Christmas cheer and the company of good friends, well, it was a nice evening.

But you know how the song goes, Dreaming of a White Christmas, and all that?

Well, by the time Christmas Day came around we got that alright. Oh yes, Frosty the Snowman, Jack Frost nipping at your nose, all of it. In the middle of Summer, in heretofore-sunny Sydney… The entire Southern Hemisphere is a genuine Winter Wonderland.

As I sit here writing, I can see the snow still coming down. And it’s cold. Really cold. We’ve got snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree. For once the full roast turkey dinner actually makes sense. Except most of the chickens and turkeys got snap-frozen when the magnetic poles flipped.

At least there’s still whisky.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Yeah I’ve read the story now. Why didn’t we use the last wish to put everything the back the way it was? Well, this wish fulfilling palaver is a very tricky business. You really have to consider the semantics of the thing. We didn’t have another wish.

You see, William actually did end up getting his second Christmas wish. So I hear. I haven’t actually seen him, and I don’t intend to. But I’m very familiar with the Murnau film.

At least there’s not shortage of crucifixes around at Christmas. I just hope frozen garlic works as well as fresh.