“I’ve tried smiling more, varying the speed of my bell-ringing, provoking eye contact, avoiding eye contact, humming carols. Nothing seems to make a difference.”  Mary sipped her cocoa, the fireplace’s brilliant flames reflecting on her eyes. “Maybe if I play Christmas songs, it will soften people up.”

“It’s impossible to get folks to part with their money, nowadays,” replied Mary’s husband, turning the page of his magazine, “even if it’s for a good cause.”

“Never say never,” Mary said, licking cocoa from her upper lip. “I’ll figure it out. Won’t I, Gardner?” She patted their golden retriever on the head.

“My boombox from college and a bunch of old cassette tapes are in the attic,” Mary’s husband said. “A few of them are my great aunt’s Christmas albums.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” said Mary, setting her mug on the end table. “I’ll run and grab those, right now, so I don’t forget.”

When Mary passed by her husband in her pajamas, he slapped her ass. Thwack. It felt and sounded the same as it had for fifteen years.

“I swear,” said Mary. “You’re incorrigible!”

The shape of her husband’s handprint throbbed on Mary’s ass as she climbed the ladder to the attic.

* * * * * * * *

In the morning, Mary got out of bed, went into the bathroom, spat her husband’s semen into the sink, and smeared Crest on her toothbrush.

“Hey, babe,” Mary’s husband shouted. “I have to run by the printers and then go grab that bandsaw from Charlie. He’ll probably yak my ear off and force me to have a beer, but afterward I’ll swing by and see how your bell-ringing is going.”

“OK, hon. See you later.”

After her shower, Mary picked out clothes for the unseasonably mild weather they were having. She slipped into her panties and they felt sore against the handprint from last night, so Mary decided to go commando.

The grocery store Mary posted herself in front of was relatively small, but very busy. As Silent Night played on the boombox, Mary gently jingled her bell and smiled warmly. People nodded their heads and grinned back, but weren’t digging change from their pockets. The problem might’ve been that cards and phones were becoming the way to pay for groceries. To pay for most things. No more spare change.

Laughing to herself, Mary imagined dancing to Let It Snow, unzipping her coat, unbuttoning her shirt, big fat snowflakes melting on her warm breasts.

That might make a few bucks, she thought. She softly shook the bell, shifting her weight to each leg, being more or less ignored.

This dang bell wasn’t cutting it. Mary desperately examined the boombox, which sat on a milkcrate. She touched all the switches and knobs and finally found the volume. Jingle Bell Rock poured from the small speakers. When she turned around, she saw a man plunking a five-dollar bill into the bucket.

“Thanks so much!” Mary shouted. “Happy holidays!”

The store’s owner came out, placed his hands on his hips, and told Mary to turn down the music. It was bothering some of the customers.

The tape needed to be flipped.

“Sorry, Mr. Lampert,” Mary said. She flipped the tape, pressed play, and adjusted the volume. When she turned around, two men were folding bills and sliding them into the bucket.

“You know what, Mary? Can you play Holly Jolly Christmas for me?” shouted Mr. Lampert, a ten-dollar bill sprouting from his fist.

“I think I can find that,” said Mary, popping the cassette out to read the track list. She heard coins and bills funneling into the bucket. It took a while for her to cue the tape up, but no one in the crowd seemed to mind.

A minivan pulled up.

“Gordon, get in,” a woman said, honking the minivan’s horn.

Gordon stuffed a bill into the bucket and blew a kiss to Mary who caught it and planted it on her cheek, winking.

Before Mary knew it, she was playing DJ to a huge gathering of men, cranking out the holiday hits and modifying the bass and treble to each man’s very specific preference.

Because most holiday songs are short, Mary didn’t have much time to do anything but find the songs, adjust the levels, and keep all the requests straight. 

Blue Christmas.

Christmas Time Is Here.

Hanukkah In Santa Monica.  

It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year.

Mary’s husband arrived and saw a sexy woman bent over his college boombox. The smooth skin of his wife’s heart-shaped ass was visible through her yoga pants, her flesh the perfect canvas for the faint outline of his foolish affection for her.

“Honey!” shouted Mary, running up to kiss her husband. “I told you I’d figure it out. It’s the music. People love it.” She ran to the stereo and hit the eject button, searching the tracks on the tape for the next song.

The assembled men grumbled season’s greetings to one another, loaded their grasped bills into the bucket, and hauled their groceries to their cars.

As Let It Snow played on the boombox, Mary danced provocatively toward her husband. She hip-checked the donation bucket.

“Do you hear,” she said, “what I hear?”