Christmas Movie Town

Living in a Christmas Movie Town

"Why do we want them to make a movie here?" I asked. I thought it was a pertinent question.

The mayor of our little town, Salma Hayek, glared at me. (That's not her real name, but she looks a lot like Ms. Hayek so that's what we city empoyees call her. Behind her back.) "If you have to ask..."

"I don't have to ask. I can already guess. But I'd like to know which of the costly, inconvenient reasons you have in mind."

"It's a Christmas movie," she said. "All the Christmas movies set in small towns make the town one of the stars of the show. We could use a little boost to our tourism."

"We're a wide spot in the road, well away from the Erie Canal route, two counties from Lake Ontario, where parking lots never need more than ten spaces, and we don't bother with parking meters because our downtown doesn't even attract local customers."

"If you hate this town so much, Lionel, why do you live here? Why do you work for me?"

"I love this town," I said. "I have boyhood memories here. I made out with every girl in high school who would let me, in every spot in town that offered momentary privacy. I just don't think we should wreck everything by having a movie here."

"Taking your reservations into account, Lionel, it's your job, the one you're actually

paid

to do, to go out and find us a movie to be set in Bog Hollow, New York."

"Would you consider changing the name of the town first?" I asked. "Bog Hollow is a tough sell."

"There are movies where they would change the name, and movies where they would

love

'Bog Hollow.'"

By now it was clear that Salma was dead set on getting a movie here. So I would have to earn my salary and prove that Hollywood's interest in Bog Hollow, New York, was nil.

"Lionel, I can see that you are determined to prove that nobody wants our town, so I need you to play a little game of Let's Pretend."

"I'm game," I said.

"Number One," she said. "Pretend that I'm not a complete idiot."

I nodded. I could give that a try, if she'd cooperate.

"Number Two," she said. "Pretend that you want to keep your job."

Since I was an ABD grad student at a semi-prestigious (i.e., second-rate football team) university in Pennsylvania, where my parents lived and maintained the fiction that I was a Pennsylvania resident, I had no other prospects. I only got

this

job because I really had grown up in Bog Hollow and I was more educated than they could afford to pay for. I lived, quite literally, in a tent trailer in a mobile home park. Cold as hell in winter, hot as hell in summer -- you know, hell. Where else could I get a job that would support such an elaborate lifestyle?

"Number Three," she said, "Think of Bog Hollow in snow."

"Thinking of it," I said.

"And?" she said.

"We get a lot of snow. Lake effect from Erie and Ontario, so it piles up and has to be removed constantly all winter. Almost half of our municipal budget goes to snow clearance. Next biggest item is leaf removal. Third biggest is police, fire, and ambulance."

"And fourth highest is your salary," she said. "Since I'm not paid and neither are the aldermen."

"I'm the highest paid city employee?" I said, scoffingly.

"The highest paid who isn't under one of the other categories. Think of this town in snow. What does it make you think of?"

"Being cold and wet for six months of every year," I said.

"Snow," she said. "Bing Crosby. 'Dashing through the Snow.' 'White Christmas.'

It's a Wonderful Life.

Hallmark movies. Lifetime movies. Netflix Christmas movies. UP TV Christmas movies."

"So you aren't hoping for something with Oscar-level actors in it. You just want a Christmas TV movie."

"They have to be running out of snow-covered small towns," Salma said. "We have one."

"We don't put up a single municipal Christmas decoration. Not ever."

"We used to," she said.

"You didn't even move here until ten years ago, Madam Mayor. I

grew up

here."

"There are pictures, Lionel. You're in probably half of them."

"Yes, they had some tacky holly-like things that hung from the old-style streetlamps. Those are gone. Streetlamps

and

holly."

"Lionel, this is important to me. It's important to this town."

"The snow is mostly melted. It's June. We can't show them any snow."

"If you raise one more objection, I will take that as your resignation from your job."

"What

is

my job?" I said. "Remind me."

"Number One," she said. "Keeping me happy."

"Oh, yes, that one. Keep the grumpiest mayor in the Empire State happy."

"The grumpiest mayor with the nicest tits whose cleavage is going to keep me in office for the rest of my life, if I want," she said.

"I think my official title is 'Bog Hollow Promotions and Civic Events Coordinator."

"And what was your last civic event?"

"The Adult Spelling Bee, held in conjunction with the Middle School Spelling Bee," I said.

"And the children

creamed

the adults," she said.

"Which I predicted. I thought it would be a

plus

for Bog Hollow, to be able to show how excellent our schools are."

"It showed how ignorant out adult citizens are," she said.

"Was a single human on Earth surprised by that?" I asked.

"I was," she said. "After all, Bog Hollow produced a genius like you."

"I knew how to spell every word on the adult

and

the children's lists."

Salma undid the buttons on her blouse until it was obvious she could not be wearing underwear of any kind on the top half of her body.

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"I'm just reminding you why you always say yes to me," she said.

"Do you fuck the fire chief and the chief of police and the EMS medics, too?" I asked.

"I do not fuck anybody," she said. "I make sweet, sweet love with them. I remind them of what life is all about. Or, in your case, I inform them of it for the first time."

"I was not a virgin."

"I was being charitable, to count your clumsiness as the result of your virginity."

"You came," I said. "Twice every time, if I recall."

"You were charmingly enthusiastic," she said. "But I can see that the sight of my tits no longer causes your trousers to bulge."

I shrugged. "My love, my pet, Madam Mayor," I said. "I will do everything that you asked me to do. I will bring a movie to be filmed in Bog Hollow, if such a thing is possible."

"There is no budget to send you to Hollywood or anywhere else. But you may call anyone you need to -- within the U.S. and anglophone Canada -- and talk as long as you want. Plus you may use Skype and Zoom to your heart's content."

I came and stood closer to her, then put my hands under the collar of her shirt and stroked downward, covering her breasts, caressing her nipples. "Am I still clumsy?" I asked her.

"Of course not," she said. "I taught you well."

I planted a kiss on her Salma Hayek lips and said, "If I learn Spanish, do I get a raise?"

"I don't speak Spanish," she said. "My grandparents left Cuba, my parents don't have an accent."

"Entonces," I said, "tu no quieres que yo te fuedo mas?"

"That's not even a word," she said.

"It should be. My Brazilian roommate said Spanish and Portuguese are very close."

"It should have been in subjunctive," she said. "Y es cierto que yo quiero que tu me folles."

"I'm so relieved that you don't speak Spanish."

"The word you were looking for is not 'foder,' it's 'follar.' Subjunctive 'que yo folle,' 'que tu me folles.'"

"Que yo te folle ahora."

She shook her head. "I want you to bring a Christmas movie to Bog Hollow. Then we can talk about a nice little celebratory fuck."

She pulled my hands out of her shirt.

I whispered. "Please tell me you were reluctant to remove my hands."

"Lionel, you're not as cute as you used to be."

Because I'm not a complete moron, I did

not

reply, "Neither are you."

Instead I went back to my desk -- in a room I shared with two secretaries and the building and grounds supervisor -- and put various papers and file folders into my briefcase, then deliberately set the briefcase on my desk and left it there when I put on my sweater and walked out of the municipal offices, which were part of the Bog Hollow Library building -- half the third floor, with a separate elevator entrance from the library's main floor. I did not even have to conceal an erection, because it had been a couple of years since the mere sight and/or touch of Salma's breasts could wake up the soldier and stand him at attention.

And yes, I

had been

in the military. My service was entirely stateside because I could type and spell and make word processors do what they are told, even Microsoft Word, which is designed to stymie any effort to get control of one's own documents. So colonels and generals liked to have me on their staff, because I made their emails and reports and documents look like a smart person sent them. I knew six military towns, plus the Pentagon, like I knew the layout of my parents' house.

I got back to my tent-sweet-tent as fast as my bicycle could carry me, and plugged my phone into the power strip and turned on my laptop computer. My own,

not

purchased by the city,

not

subject to examination by the IT guy that the county loans to us. But just in case of a subpoena or an illegal search, I never, never, never put any pornographic images on my computer. That's what a smartphone is for.

Just kidding. Since my boss could be a porn star if she chose, I really didn't need anything pornographic in my life. My memory worked just fine for any such purpose, or, in a pinch, my imagination could fill in.

Salma is outrageously possessive and jealous, for a lover who puts out only a couple of times a year. So I don't actually have a dating life. Besides, would I really want to bring a girl I actually

desired

, to make love to me in my non-climate-controlled tent trailer without a private toilet or shower? I am attracted only to females native to planet Earth, so, no, I would not invite a lady up to see my etchings.

Instead I used my laptop that night to look up the producers and network executives involved with all the usual outlets for Christmas movies. I had no idea at the time who decided

where

to film the movies. So I sent discreet emails to find out how the venues were chosen. I learned that there was no set way, but that producers who made Christmas movies on spec were not only idiots but also poor, so if Bog Hollow could offer an authentic winter for cheap, maybe we'd have a chance.

I had no idea how much "cheap" would be, of course, and that's not something you find out in an internet search. I was so naive I didn't even know that many of the movies were made in fall and spring, when the trees were still bare but the ground wasn't slick with ice or snow. A lot of that snow was artificial. Which is why the actors, even women in heels, felt safe to run across snowy pavement. It wasn't slippery.

Pavement in Bog Hollow was very slick in winter, and even toddlers knew better than to run on packed snow.

We were heading into summer, so I assembled an array of photographs of Bog Hollow in one, two, three, and four feet of snow. Why not let them pick which look they wanted? I also provided wintry shots of downtown, where all the big stores had already been turned into nail salons, beauty parlors, pawn shops, mobile phone outlets, shoe repair shops, legal offices, and a few stubborn retailers who weren't quite ready to declare downtown dead.

I assumed that the movie companies would put up signs indicating real, prospering stores, restaurants, and offices. We did have one surviving diner in town, and it was pretty good, but Bog Hollow Tripe and Slop was not likely to be acceptable. (The real name is Bog Hollow Tap and Sandwich, but the locals call it what I said.)

Then I started sending out my exhaustively created portfolio, "Views of Bog Hollow." I did not add a P.S. to my list of advantages of filming in Bog Hollow, a line saying "Mayor is luscious and likely to fuck movie people indiscriminately," because it was unfair to encourage some gaffer or Teamster or writer to dream of her. Salma had standards, even though they still sometimes included making sweet fuckery with me.

I sent a copy of the portfolio to Salma and all the aldermen, so they could see how skillfully I made Bog Hollow look exotic, charming, and romantic, all at once, concealing the fact that in so many ways the town was a depressing hellhole of decay.

By then it was bedtime. I had stripped naked the moment I got inside my tent trailer, because it was better than turning off the electric space heater and then having to turn it back on in the middle of the night when it hit forty degrees. So going to bed consisted of closing my laptop, which was always plugged in, turning off my bluetooth mouse so I didn't have to recharge it so often, peeling my butt and thighs off of my faux-leather office chair, and crawling under a single sheet on my high-quality camp cot. Even though I had fondled Salma's breasts that day, I didn't even bother to rub one out. Because though her beauty had not waned and her breasts did not yet sag, I am a normal human male and I get less and less interested in a repetitive sexual experience.

How could I know how much my life would change because of sending out that portfolio?

The first change was that at work the next day,

everybody

greeted me and gushed over this or that photograph and their memories that took place on that spot or during that winter. Enough women mentioned romantic interludes that did not include me that I finally had to reach the conclusion that other people besides me had actually spent their teen years exploring the interplay of XX and XY. A lot of people apparently discovered what a snug fit they could be, and held on to those memories. And, triggered by my expertly curated portfoloio, they thought I cared to hear about their personal history.

In the portfolio, I should have put, "A town easily converted into a hot-blooded love fest during cold weather."

That

would be a plus for a Christmas movie. They never

showed

anything that would get them an R rating, but every moment of every movie was about people yearning to have sex underneath their superficial annoyance with and suspicion of each other. All the women in those movies were torn between fearing that the guy would try to sleep with her and regretting that so far he had not.

The closest to actually making a pass at each other was to be sitting close to each other, then leaning their heads together and

just

before their lips made contact, somebody or something would interrupt them. The actual kiss generally happened only after they openly declared their love, and the kiss was obviously meant to imply a lot of ass-and-elbows sex as soon as the cameras went away.

The first call I got came at two a.m., waking me out of a sound sleep. I fumbled for my phone, which was resting on its charger. It was a woman with a 310 area code, and she didn't even apologize for the hour of the call. So I immediately began discoursing about middle-of-the-night calls.

"It's not the middle of the night," she said disgustedly. "It's only eleven o'clock."

"If you're calling about Bog Hollow as a movie location," I said, "I sent you a map that showed where western New York was located. Eastern time zone."

"You mean you actually

live

there?" she asked.

"I'm alive, and I'm in Bog Hollow, so..."

"It must be one a.m. there!"

"Three hours time difference between coasts, so: two a.m.," I said. "Let me guess. You're at a bar and you're a few drinks in."

She sighed and at the end of the sigh, was that a sob? "You brought the Bog Hollow portfolio so you and your date could make fun of our little town. Only he didn't show up."

"My stars, but you're good. Do you write screenplays?"

"I'm not writing screenplays yet. I still have hope in my future."

"My supposed date was to be with a coworker. After tonight, he'd better have a brilliant story. It'll be a lie no matter what, but in forgiving a guy for standing me up, I give points for creativity."

"You woke me out of a sound sleep, and you haven't told me your name yet," I said. "Or your sexual orientation."

"Oh, that was both clumsy and suave. I don't know what to make of you."

"I'm stark naked on a hot night in a tent trailer in the snowiest part of New York, but there's no snow in summer. I'm dripping with sweat. I need my sleep."

"Oh, you're not getting any more sleep tonight." And she launched into a description of her own late-night bar-date dress and the underwear she wasn't wearing, then started describing what she'd do to my sweaty body if she could.

I had to interrupt her. "I appreciate your imagination and narrative skills, but I'm so tired I could cry. Please call me during business hours."

"I don't have your contact information."

"And yet somehow you called me."

"Your number was in your portfolio," she said.

"Use that number tomorrow afternoon -- afternoon

eastern

time -- and let's see what we can talk about."

"Send me a selfie, right now, and we can talk about

that."

"My sweaty body isn't part of the scenery in Bog Hollow."

"It is tonight. How sweaty are you?" she asked.

"Covered in a sheen of sweat. My bedsheet is clinging to me."

"Is that sheet

under

you or

over

you?"

"Under me," I said. "There's nothing between me and the ninety percent humidity of Bog Hollow's atmosphere."

"Is there liquid coming out of every aperture in your body?" she asked.

"I haven't taken inventory of that particular issue," I said.

"The issue of what is issuing," she said. "Are you drooling? Just a little?"

"My mouth is bone dry right now," I said.

"Because you're panting," she said.

"Pants are nowhere near me," I said, playing along because, even though neither of us was remotely sincere, this was kind of fun.

"Your nose?" she said. "That's an aperture."

"Not a drop of snot," I said. "In case you find snot arousing."

"That was a bit more clumsy than suave," she said.

"I'm not keeping score," I said.

"What about your penis," she said "Is there a drop of precum at the tip?"

I didn't intend to look. This was all fake. But I

did

look. "Yes," I said. "That

is

a kind of drooling, I guess."

"What about anything issuing from your anus?" she asked.

What was

that

supposed to mean? "All the shit in this conversation is coming from our mouths," I said.

"A lot of people at the bar are looking at me now," she said. "I don't think they're used to this level of candor."

"Neither am I," I said.

"Your first phone sex?" she asked.

"I didn't

feel

like a virgin," I said, "but, yes."

"Honey," she said, "that was just foreplay. Nothing

real

yet."

I couldn't help myself. I said, "The precum on my prick is real."

"No, if you were really aroused, you would have said 'cock,' and you didn't."

"I never say 'cock,'" I said, truthfully.

"Then you really are a phone-sex virgin."

"Let's talk tomorrow, after I wake up."

"Oh, baby, get real. You aren't going to sleep tonight until you come. Twice."

"That's just messy," I said. "I'm a practical guy and it's a pain in the ass to haul my semen-covered sheets all the way to my mom's house in Pennsylvania. Plus when she washes them, she makes remarks about why it isn't good for a young man to masturbate instead of fucking when there are so many willing girls around."

"Your mother has a point, though I don't think she actually said 'fucking.'"

"You don't know my mother," I said. "And I get a good amount of lovemaking. It's just infrequent because my standards are so high."