A Christmas Story 2

There it is, our house on good old Cleveland Street.

A few winters had passed,

and yet another one had come

over Lake Michigan in the middle of the night.

It had been years since The Old Man's lamp

stood proudly in our front window.

The legendary battle of the lamp

that locked my parents in mortal combat

would forever be etched into my psyche.

This is X-5.

I've located the plans for the moon base.

For my kid brother, it was all but a distant memory.

I'm going in.

Randy was a fledgling Buck Rogers fanatic,

who had his own way of braving life's little conflicts,

in this world or any other.

Take that, you Neptunian swine. Pow!

Pow! Pow!

Randy, get inside, you lunkhead.

It's freezing out.

And there I am.

With that same dumb, round face,

and the same penetrating 20-90 vision.

I had, however, discovered the wonders

of a miracle elixir called Vitalis.

Another close call.

Space is like that, sweetheart.

Now go get dressed for school.

Careful with those, Zurg's minions are everywhere.

Oh.

You just can't trust that son of a bitch.

Excuse me.

Keep it up, young man, and you're gonna bite the bar.

Oh, yes, don't test me. I mean it.

I will not have that in my house.

Did you hear what your brother said?

Where on earth do you boys pick up language like that?

Son of a bitch!

Gotcha, you bugger! Huzzah!

Oh, I knew that cry. The most feared furnace fighter

in northern Indiana had once again

sampled the sweet nectar of triumph.

We may now begin our day.

Ralphie.

Aside from my sudden and profound interest in hair,

things hadn't changed that much.

The Old Man maintained his well-deserved status

as the White Sox's number one fan.

Morons.

Another utility infielder?

What about a pitcher

who can make it to the second inning?

I'm telling you, boys, if I own that team,

things'd be a whole lot different.

Yes sirree, Bob.

Utility infielder.

My mother still hoarded bacon fat like it was gold dust.

Oh, that's good.

And my brother still left the house

wrapped for transport like he was a Ming vase.

For Pete's sake, Ma.

I heard you sniffle. I can't breathe.

You wanna be sick when Santa comes?

Oh, how right she was.

For in two weeks, it would be Christmas.

Most guys my age wouldn't admit it,

but when it came to Christmas,

I still felt like a little kid.

Son of a bitch.

You are pulling my chain.

Rita Hayworth?

See for yourself, it's playing at the Majestic.

I sat through it three times.

How naked?

Thirty percent.

She pulls off her gloves.

No.

And then she takes off her necklace,

then she turns around and she says, uh,

"I'm not very good with zippers,

but maybe if I had some help."

Holy moly.

She's beautiful.

Eh.

Is that a 6?

Fireball Straight 8.

Overhead valves. Two-speed Hydra-Matic.

Yeah, so what?

There are a ton of Buicks around.

Show some respect. It's a Roadmaster.

Flick, Schwartz, and I were months away from turning 16.

The sacred moment in each boy's life

when he crosses the Rubicon into manhood

and receives that most cherished of documents

known as a driver's license.

Now you're just gonna give it a little gas, then pop that--

Few rites of passage were marked

with such fevered anticipation.

Preparations had been ongoing for months.

Hey, ease up.

You wanna drive the 500, Indy's right down Route 6.

Don't take the corner in third.

Who's gonna pay for a new transmission?

Ugh!

You're letting this joker cut in?

It's dog-eat-dog out here. Stake your claim.

Son of a bitch!

But through it all, The Old Man remained positive

and steadfast in his encouragement.

Stop sign!

Stop sign.

Formal education had to wait.

Being not quite 16 meant that every discussion

revolved around only one of two topics.

There were cars, of course.

And then, oh, yes, and then there were them.

Drucilla Gootrad.

My sweet Drucilla.

Beauty incarnate.

The hands-down heartthrob of Hohman High.

I didn't stand a chance with her.

No one did.

Unless you were a quarterback by the name of Todd Chapin,

a feat which would require

developing strikingly chiseled features

and then beating Elkhart Lutheran

on the final play with a 60-yard bomb.

The rest of us, those wretched souls

who couldn't throw or catch or leap or shoot,

would have to settle for being with her

in our dreams.

Now then you will share with us

the location of the resistance fighters?

Perhaps I could help to refresh your memory.

Go ahead, Fräulein. Kick and scream.

But your American boyfriends

aren't going to rescue you today.

I ain't her boyfriend.

Not yet, anyway.

Don't try anything fancy, soldier boy.

Oh, yeah?

How's this?

Ah!

Oh, mon cheri.

You saved me from a fate worse than death.

Just doing my job, ma'am.

Oh, Private Ralphie Parker.

You will forever have my undying love and affection.

Ditto.

Schweinhund.

Ugh.

My father picked me up from school that afternoon.

The tired pistons on his beloved Olds

were slowly sputtering into that good night,

and the time had come for a change.

Any pea-brain can go out and buy a new car.

But landing a good used one?

You gotta be on your toes.

That's it. Yeah.

Okay?

Just remember, treat the gas like your wife

and treat the clutch like your mother-in-law.

Huh? Boom!

The Old Man lived for the thrill of the hunt.

And there was no one he loved having in his sights

more than Hank Catenhauser.

I had been going to him to Hank's World of Wheels

for as long as I could remember.

Hank drove an ambulance in World War I.

Legend had it he backed over a land mine

and still had a piece of shrapnel

the size of a walnut lodged in his brain.

Good to see you!

Hank liked to tell his customers

it was the part of the brain that made deals.

I like you, Parker. You're an Oldsmobile man.

Guilty as charged.

Well, it's a fine automobile.

But you can't drive a great car till you drive

a great bargain. That's true.

I got two words for you. Just two: Olds 88.

Actually, that's a word and a number.

You slay me.

He's a card.

Let's take a sneak peek. All right.

Unbeknownst to Hank, my father and I had perfected a routine,

carefully orchestrated,

to augment our bargaining power.

Push button radio, white wall tires.

Automatic choke.

Well, why don't you hop in the back there, sonny?

Just wanna see if that seat's roomy enough

for you and your brother.

Sure thing, Dad.

Hmm.

So how is it back there?

Uh, it's okay.

I mean...

A little tight.

Ah. Tight.