A Christmas Story

There it is.

My house at good old Cleveland Street.

How could I ever forget it?

And there I am, with that dumb, round face...

. . .and that stupid stocking cap.

But no matter. Christmas was on its way.

Lovely, glorious, beautiful Christmas, around which the entire kid year revolved.

Downtown Hohman was prepared for its yearly bacchanalia. . .

. . .of peace on Earth and goodwill to men.

Higbees' corner window was traditionally a high-water mark. . .

...of the pre-Christmas season.

First-nighters, packed earmuff to earmuff. . .

. . .jostled in wonderment before a golden, tinkling display. . .

. . .of mechanized, electronic joy.

There it is.

The holy grail of Christmas gifts.

The Red Ryder 200-shot range model air rifle.

And there he is.

Red Ryder himself.

In his hand was the knurled stock. . .

. . .of as coolly, deadly looking a piece of weaponry as ever I had laid eyes on.

For weeks, I had been scheming to get my mitts. . .

. . .on one of these fearsome blue-steel beauties.

My fevered brain seethed with the effort of trying to come up...

...with the infinitely subtle devices necessary...

...to implant the Red Ryder range model air rifle indelibly...

. . .into my parents' subconscious.

Ralphie! Randy!

Down here in two minutes.

And I mean two minutes.

Come on, Ralphie! I got here first!

Cut it out.

My mother, grabbing for her copy of Look magazine...

...would find herself cleverly trapped into reading a Red Ryder sales pitch.

They traded Bullfrog. I don't believe it.

What's that?

Well, for chrissakes, the Sox traded Bullfrog. . .

. . .the only player they've got, for Shottenhoffer.

Four Eyes Shottenhoffer, utility infielder.

Got a whole goddamned team of utility infielders.

That's nice.

Ralphie, on the double!

Did you hear about this guy who swallowed a yo-yo?

Swallowed a yo-yo?

Yeah, on a bet.

Some clodhopper down in Griffith, Indiana.

Boy, they write the silliest things in the newspapers.

What do you mean silly?

I mean, that's real news.

That's not like that politics slop.

What is the name of the Lone Ranger's nephew's horse?

Victor. His name is Victor.

How the hell did you know that?

Everybody knows that.

Is that another one of your silly puzzles?

Yeah, it's another one of my silly puzzles.

Could be worth 50,000 bucks.

What kind is it this time?

Name the great characters in American literature.

-Victor? -Yeah.

The Lone Ranger's nephew's horse?

Meanwhile, I struggled for exactly the right BB gun hint.

It had to be firm, but subtle.

Flick says he saw some grizzly bears near Pulaski's candy store.

They looked at me as if I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.

I could tell I was in imminent danger of overplaying my hand.

Casually, I switched tactics.

Hey, Dad.

I'll bet you'll never guess what I got for you for Christmas.

A new furnace.

That's a good one, Dad.

My old man was one of the most feared furnace fighters in Northern Indiana.

Hurry up, you're gonna be late for school.

Yeah, yeah. I'm running late already.

Round one was over.

Parents, one. Kids, zip.

I could feel the Christmas noose beginning to tighten.

Maybe what happened next was inevitable.

Ralphie, what would you like for Christmas?

Horrified, I heard myself blurt it out.

I want an official Red Ryder carbine action 200-range model air rifle.

No. Shoot your eye out.

Oh, no, it was the classic mother BB gun block:

"You'll shoot your eye out."

That deadly phrase uttered many times before...

...by hundreds of mothers was not surmountable. . .

...by any means known to Kid-dom.

But such was my mania, my desire for a Red Ryder carbine. . .

. . .that I immediately began to rebuild the dike.

I was just kidding.

Even though Flick is getting one.

I guess I'd just like some Tinkertoys.

I couldn't believe my own ears. Tinkertoys?

She'd never buy it.

BB guns are dangerous.

I don't want anybody shooting his eye out.

Randy, will you eat?

There are starving people in China.

Mothers know nothing about creeping marauders. . .

. . .burrowing through the snow toward the kitchen. . .

. . .where only you and you alone...

...stand between your tiny, huddled family and insensate evil.

Save us.

Save us, Ralphie.

I just knowed those bad guys would be coming for us in the end.

Don't worry, Dad. As long as I got Ol' Blue.

Well, now, what have we got here, folks?

Well, we figure it's Black Bart, Ralph.

Well, just me and my trusty old Red Ryder carbine action. . .

. . .200-shot range model air rifle.

Lucky I got a compass in the stock.

-Well, I think I better have a look here. -Don't worry, son.

-Oh, no, it's Ol' Blue. -Ol' Blue.

Oh, no.

Seize him, boys! The jig is up!

Killed another one. Oh, he's a deadeye, ain't he?

He's getting him.

Okay, Ralphie.

You win this time, but we'll be back.

Adiós, Bart.

But if you do come back, you'll be pushing up daisies.

-And don't you forget it. -Well, son, you saved us.

We were goners for sure.

And you saved us.

Hallelujah!

Go on ! Beat it!

The Olds. Nothing but Oldsmobile. That pile of junk.

That goddamned Olds has froze up again.

Some men are Baptists, others Catholics.

My father was an Oldsmobile man.

That son of a bitch would freeze up in the middle of summer on the equator.

-Little pitchers. -And hold it!

It's a clinker!

That blasted stupid furnace.

Goddamn it.

Damn skates.

Oh, for chrissake, open up the damper, will you?

Who the hell turned it all the way down again?!

Oh, blast it!

Blurred rattle crash camel flirt!

You block-head battled piece jerk off trash !

In the heat of battle, my father wove a tapestry of obscenity. . .

. . .that, as far as we know...

. . .is still hanging in space over Lake Michigan.

Gollywop-dopter-crop-dop- fratenhouse-stickelfeiffer!

Well, preparing to go to school...

. . .was like getting ready for extended deep-sea diving.

Come on, Mom, we're gonna be late.

All right, Ralph.

My kid brother looked like a tick about to pop.

What?

What is it?

-What is it? -I can't put my arms down.

Well, put your arms down when you get to school.

Goddamn it! You. . . .

Hey, Flick, wait up. Wait up.

So, what are you doing?

What does it look like I'm doing, picking goobers?

Hey, listen, smartass.

I asked my old man about sticking your tongue to metal light poles in winter.

And he says it will freeze right to the pole, just like I told you.

Baloney. What would your old man know about anything?

He knows because he once saw a guy. . .

. . .stick his tongue to a railroad track on a bet.

And the fire department had to come to get the guy's tongue off the track.

Because he couldn't get it off.

Come on, guys, wait up!

Come on, guys!

-Come on, guys, wait up. -Out of the way, kid.

Hey, kid.

I can't get up.

I can't get up!

Ralph ! Hey!

I can't get up, Ralphie!

Come on, Flick, wait up for me.

I can't get up!

Ralph ! Hey!

-Come on, get up. Sit up. Come on. -I can't get up.

You're okay. Come on, let's go. Come on, you're all right.

Miss Shields.

Miss Shields, Miss Shields.

All right, everyone, take your seats, please.

Good morning, class.

Good morning, Miss Shields.

Open your books to page 32.

And as you'll remember, Silas Marner--

You're full of beans and so is your old man.

-Oh, yeah? -Yeah !

-Says who? -Says me.

-Oh, yeah? -Yeah !

Well, I double-dare you.

The exact exchange and nuance of phrase in this ritual is very important.

Are you kidding?

Stick my tongue to that stupid pole? That's dumb.

That's because you know it will stick.

-You're full of it. -Oh, yeah?

-Yeah. -Well, I double-dog dare you !

Now it was serious. A double-dog dare.

What else was left but a triple dare you?

And finally, the coup de grâce of all dares: