Forthcoming Festive Seasons

As I stepped forward, a dark fog engulfed me, an ominous siren began sounding faintly in the distance and a slight sulfuric smell hung in the air. Then I heard a voice being cleared, followed by a rather timid voice saying, “Not too far.”

I asked, “What?”

“Don’t take another step. We have regulations about where you can and cannot go. You are close to the line. Stop where you are.”

I stopped and rocked forward on my toes, “Okay. I guess you are the spirit of Christmases past.”

“No. My official title is Assistant Associate Administrator of Unconscious Mind Patterns Relating to Forthcoming Festive Seasons.”

“Hmmm, regulations, official titles, not a “Christmas” or even a “holiday season” in sight. I see that political correctness has now come to my dreams.”

“We no longer call them dreams. We refer to the sleep-like state where you sometimes envision things other than your actual life or envision your life in an exaggerated manner as ‘unconscious mind patterns’.”

“As opposed to conscious mind patterns which I suppose might include having goals or aspirations?”

“Well, there is some of that. Our leaders though are working to defeat that sort of thing.”

“Lovely. I’m not sure I want to know more. Can we just get on with this? I’ve already been to Christmases Past and—“

“We refer to that now as the Time Formerly Known as Christmases Past. In six more years, our leaders will eliminate that word from our vocabulary.”

“Yeah, words hurt. Can we just get on with this? There’s the Past, you are in the Future—“

“Forthcoming.”

“---and at some point I have to land back in the Present. Can we just get on with this, so I can get back home? I’m really not into where this is going.”

The voice then produced a stack of papers which began at my feet and reached to my belly button. An ink pen appeared on the top of the papers.

The voice spoke, “Okay. Before proceeding we need you to sign some release forms. I can get you another pen in case that one runs out of ink.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, sometimes in this process ink pens run out of ink. There are a lot of places where you have to sign. Oh, wait, you mean with this as a whole, don’t you? Trust me, we take this very seriously. You need to sign these forms. We have to protect you.”

“You have to protect me? From the future, er, forthcoming? This is a dream, unconscious mind pattern or whatever, and you still have to protect me?”

“Well, yes. And us. We do have to protect us, too. I mean if you found out something you weren’t happy with, well, we just can’t take any chances.”

“My wife and I didn’t sign this many papers when we bought our house. I am not signing anything.”

A nervous laugh emanated in the direction of the voice, “You should have seen the paperwork that had to be signed to get us to this point. It’s been years and the Office of Media, News, Infotainment and Hype is still trying to read it all.”

“I think I have seen enough.”

“No, stop. What can I do to get you to view your forthcoming festive seasons?”

“Why do you care? Really, from just our few minutes together, I know I would not enjoy living in this type of environment. I’m going home.”

“Come on, I lose too many people this way.”

“Do you work on a quota?”

On top of the papers, a small remote control-looking device appeared.

“Pick up the spectromaviewer.”

I reach down and pick up the device. As I do, the stack of papers disappear.
As I look at the device, I ask, “What do I do next?”

“I normally don’t allow this. And I shouldn’t. I could get into trouble letting one of you avoid the paperwork. And then there’s all that time I have to take looking through the archives to find the file that will forge your signature. I can’t lose any more than I do now though.”

“You are a fine one, Mr. Grinch. Look, I promise not to get you into any trouble. I would like to see what the future—“

“Forthcoming.”

“—has to offer.”

The voice paused, “Your promise is no good here. Promises are only words.”

“Yeah, words hurt. Okay. Just let me go. I don’t care about the future, the forthcoming or whatever you have decided to call it. I would like to go home.”

“Hold the spectromaviewer in front of you and press the button labeled ‘Play’.”

I laughed, “So, in the future despite the political correctness we will still have the good ol’ remote control.”

As I pressed the Play button a video screen magically appeared in the space in front of me. A series of commercials began to air. I looked at the device but could find no button which would allow me to quickly scan through the messages.

The voice spoke, “There is no fast forward button. Our leadership eliminated those when they bailed out the media, the electronics companies and France a few years ago.”

Then the commercials ended and my name appeared on the screen. Underneath it a graphic read, “Magnolia Creek Quality Life Facility” then the video changed to show the back of an old man sitting in a rocking chair. A moment later, a handful of people approached the man in the chair. Their faces were digitally altered. When they spoke their voices were also altered. Nothing they said was very emotional or personal. No one even approached the old man in the chair to hug or even touch him. Two minutes later, they all left. The screen faded to black but not before a graphic popped up that read, “The actors portraying once-traditional families and people who are considered friends appear courtesy of PBS and were compensated for their performances.”

The screen disappeared. I looked around, “That’s it?”

“We’re very proud of what we are able to show people.”

“What you show people? I didn’t recognize any of those people. None of them were family or friends that I recognized. The words they spoke were dull platitudes. No one even got near the older man in the chair. No one wished him a Merry Christmas or brought him a gift. And no one spent any real time with him. It was so generic.”

“We can’t have real once-traditional families or real people who are considered friends appear. There’s too much risk.”

“This is a joke. You show nothing.”

“We show the future.”

“Future? I thought it was forthcoming. Either way, I’m done. I want to go home.”

“I’ll need the spectromaviewer before you depart.”

I reach the device toward the voice but as I do, I press the Play button one last time. The giant screen reappears briefly and the old man in the rocking chair from Magnolia Creek turns to face the camera. Just as quickly, the screen disappears.

I ask, “Is that me?”

The voice spoke, “This session of Mind Patterns Relating to Forthcoming Festive Seasons has ended. Please step aside.”

To be continued.