Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Best Behaviour - Christmas at Tommy’s & Polly Anderson’s Christmas Party

Episode Date: December 12, 2025

“First fires…. and then floods”On this week’s episode, two hilarious Stuart McLean stories about being out and about, Christmas visiting. Our first story is one that many of you may not have heard before, about Dave and Morley’s visit to the home of Stephanie’s boyfriend,Tommy. Tommy's parents are facing their own challenges with cooking the turkey. Jess shares a backstory about some of the characters in that story. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

from the apostrophe podcast network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton, and this is backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. We've got two more festival. of Dave and Morley stories for you today, stories about being out and about Christmas visiting, trying to be on your best behavior, but, well, failing miserably. In our first story, Dave and Morley have been invited somewhere new to Christmas dinner at the home of Tommy's parents. And in our second, they're at the annual neighborhood Christmas party at Polly Anderson's. But let's start with Stephanie's boyfriend Tommy. I'm so excited to play this story because Tommy is one

of my favorite characters. He's loosely based off my very first boyfriend, Brent. So just have a soft spot for him. This is Stuart McLean with Christmas at Tommy's. And so it's Christmas Eve. Dave and Morley's house is glowing. There are candles on the dining room table. There's the light from the Christmas tree. And there is Sam lying under the tree, picking up boxes and shaking them.

There is Sam glowing with anticipation. His grandmother, Morley's mother, Helen, oblivious to Sam's incandescence, is on the couch. Helen's doing what all good grandmothers do on Christmas Eve. Helen's watching Jeopardy. Or she's trying to. Helen's lost her glasses. She can't see much.

Morley's in the kitchen. And there's a lot going on in there. There's torch air on the counter, short bread in the oven, Brussels sprouts in the microwave, and a Christmas pudding on the table. the stove top. But Morley isn't at the stove. Morley's sitting at the kitchen table, and Dave is sitting beside her. The two of them sitting like two school kids in the principal's office. Except that's not the principal on the other side of the table. That's their daughter, Stephanie.

They're not the same as us, Stephanie say. They're different than we are. He speaks four languages. she's a scientist. Stephanie is explaining her boyfriend's parents. Tommy's parents, or she's trying to. And she's doing that because they've been invited to Tommy's house for Christmas dinner. All of them. Dave, Morley, Sam, and Helen, the whole kitten cabood. Sweetie, said Morley,

rather than worry, why don't you just tell us what you want us to do? Stephanie says, for starters, don't say anything dumb. Morally says, okay, that's helpful. What else? Stephanie says, don't embarrass me. Stephanie, who was excited about this at first, who thought this was sweet, her world becoming everyone's world, had begun to feel anxious. And she was growing more anxious. by the hour. During supper, she started in on Sam. You cannot have ketchup tomorrow night.

You cannot ask for ketchup. You have to eat everything that they offer you. Everything on your plate and don't touch your food with your fingers like that. That's what cutleries for. The next morning, which is, of course, Christmas morning. The living room, which Last night was glowing with Christmas card perfection, has taken on a shaglier, but no less perfect momentum. The coffee table is overflowing with mugs and croissant, and everyone's on the floor, knee-deep in paper. Everyone except Stephanie, that is. Stephanie is on the couch. Stephanie and Tommy are texting.

This is such a bad idea. That one's staffenies. Tommy replies, Had to happen? Why not now? Tommy's on his bed, lying on his back, staring up at his phone. His mother and father are downstairs in the kitchen.

kitchen. They're staring at the oven. They look perplexed. On the counter beside them, there is a half-frozen turkey. It's in a plastic bag. The bag is leaking. Tommy's mother is a theoretical physicist. His father, a philosopher. obsessively dedicated to the work of the French mathematician and inventor, Blaise Pascal. Which is to say Tommy's mother and father are sophisticated people. Tommy's father, for instance, can indeed speak four languages, English, French, Italian, and Russian. He learned French so he could read Pascal manuscripts. Learned Italian so he could watch the original 1971 Rossellini biopic.

He learned Russian by mistake. Someone told him Rossellini was a Russian filmmaker. It was a miscalculation. The point is, both of them are brilliant. The rest of the point is neither of them knows how to cook. Tommy's mother and father aren't interested in food. But there they were on Christmas morning in their kitchen, the plastic bagged turkey beside them.

Tommy's mother, reading the directions on a box of instant stuffing. Tommy's father, wearing sandals and a down vest, he favors, down on his knees, Tommy's father was peering into the oven. He said, it can't be too complicated, sweet pee. Lots of people do this at this time of year. Give me the numbers again. Tommy's mother, whose hair was held in place by a twist tie, put the box of stuffing down and picked up a calculator. Tommy's mother said, Muffin, if you run the numbers, there just isn't enough time.

Tommy's father said, sweet pee, at three feet. 350 degrees there might not be enough time. But what happens if you double a temperature? If we double a temperature, we can cut the time in half. Tommy's mother squinted at the oven controls. Tommy's mother said, Muffin, it only goes to 500. Tommy's father stood up and smiled.

Tommy's father said, sweet pee, the self-cleaning cycle goes way higher than that. The idea of an oven's self-cleaning cycle is to get the oven so hot that it incinerates everything that's in it. To do that, the self-cleaning cycle, is to get the ovens so hot that it incinerates everything that's in it. To do that, the self-cleaning cycle on most ovens moves into the range of one thousand degrees. Tommy's father lifted one end of the turkey and began working it out of the plastic bag. Sweet pee, he said, do we have a roasting pan? Five minutes later, Tommy's mother appeared with an old cookie sheet. While she was looking for that, Tommy's father had run downstairs to his workshop. They would need to know how

how hot it was in the oven so they could calculate how long the turkey should stay in. He came back with a bright yellow thermometer. He nestled it between the drumstick and the breast, facing forward so the display would show through the oven window. Halfway to the oven, the bird slid off the cookie sheet and landed on the floor with a splat. Five-second rule, said Tommy's father.

He picked the bird up and got it in the oven and shut the oven door. He set the oven to self-clean. He pressed the start button. There was an ominous click. Sweet pee, he said, I think the oven door just locked. 45 minutes later Tommy's father who was using a flashlight to peer into the oven

reported an alarming development sweet pee said Tommy's father I think the thermometer is destabilizing Tommy's mother kneeled beside her husband Oh muffin said Tommy's mother It's beautiful It looks like that painting by Dolly Where the clocks are all melting

The problem of course Is that once a self-cleaning cycle begins you can't shut it down. Another 45 minutes went by. During those 45 minutes, the turkey moved like a developing picture through golden brown to black, and then from black to ash gray. It rather looks like great-uncle Ted, said Tommy's mother. Tommy's father was tugging on the oven door.

We have to get that bird out of there. sweet pig, said Tommy's father. Tommy's father ran downstairs and came back with a screwdriver. He put on a pair of plaid oven mitts and he unscrewed the door and wrestled it off the oven.

The minute the rush of fresh oxygen collided with a splatter of grease, the turkey burst into flames. The turkey was glowing, the oven was pumping, the kitchen was filling with smoke, and before long, the smoke detector was ringing too. And that's when Stephanie and her family arrived.

The front door was open, and they stood there looking at each other uncertainly. until Tommy's father ran by in his sandals and a bathing suit. Come in, come in, he said. It's a trifle hot. You might want to take off your tops. He was carrying a fire extinguisher. Eventually, Tommy's parents shooed everyone into the dining room, and they carved what was left of the turkey. The outside got a little crispy, said Tommy's father, as he carried the platter in, but there's some nice pink meat in the center.

Across the table, Stephanie was whispering to Sam. probably telling him he had to eat everything. Dave didn't notice. Dave was listening to the alarm that had begun ringing in his head, and it was getting louder and louder and louder. Salmonella, salmonella, salmonella, salmonella. His stomach had begun to flutter. Could it be airborne, airborne, airborne, airborne?

Tommy's father had set the platter on the far side of the table. Dave was watching it like a hawk. The kids were gingerly picking through the charred and raw bits, extracting the few good pieces of meat. When the platter finally made it to him, all that was left was a heap of pink slices. Dave looked around the table in panic. he was about to declare himself a vegetarian

but there was Stephanie glaring at him and so he served himself what else could he do he ate some vegetables and he pushed some meat around and he looked around across the table the myopic Helen was attacking her plate with wolfish delight

It's delicious, said Helen, who couldn't see a thing. Sam seemed to be making progress, too. Sam's meat was half gone. So Dave loaded his fork, and he held his breath so he wouldn't taste anything. And he puffed his cheeks out so they wouldn't touch anything. And he placed a fork full of meat carefully in his mouth. He pretended to chew. He coughed into his napkin.

Excuse me, he muttered. And then he took a gulp of wine and swished it around his mouth, praying there would be an antiseptic effect. Under cover of the table, he carefully transferred the contents of his napkin into his hand. Above the table, he remained the picture of calm. his right hand calmly refilling his water glass under the table

his left hand was flapping around wildly there was a dog but where was it come on come on there it was he bumped up against it he held out the meat the dog wouldn't take it

the dog wouldn't even open its mouth what kind of dog didn't like meat in desperation he reached out and grabbed it and that's when he spotted the dog he thought he was holding on to coming down the stairs and he jerked his hand back

and he looked furtively around the table And there was Tommy's mother, staring down at her lap in horror. called for desperate measures. Tommy's father said something. In the brief moment when everyone turned towards Tommy's father, Dave scraped everything on his plate into the napkin on his lap. A minute later, he excused himself. Alone in the bathroom, Dave unwrapped his napkin

and stared down at the pile of undercooked turkey. The waste paper basket was tempting But so was the window He pushed the window up and stuck his head out He was looking down at the front door If he flung his meat out the window It would land on the stoop The window wasn't an option

He emptied his napkin Into the toilet And flushed He watched his supper disappearing, his shoulders relaxing, but not for long, because instead of emptying, the toilet bowl began to fill. Soon enough, everything he had deposited was floating on the surface like a little collection of lifeboats, and the surface was dangerously close to the top of the bowl. and that's when he heard someone coming up the stairs and he panicked and flushed again. Five minutes later, he was standing in the dining room doorway.

There was a large wet stain spreading from his bulging pocket. Perhaps it was an act of mercy, perhaps obliviousness. But a moment later, or maybe two, Tommy's father stood up and began removing plates. Pretty soon, they were all sitting in the living room. And the dog, who was nowhere to be seen when he needed him, was wedged beside Dave's chair

licking at his pocket. Eventually, they were saying their goodbyes. Tommy came home with them. And halfway home, Tommy said what they were all thinking. Tommy said, I'm starving. Well, that's all it took. The emperor's clothes were strewn about. They did what they should have done hours ago.

They went to pizza by Alex. The only joint they were certain would be open. They ordered the Christmas special. A crab pizza with green and red peppers. The Santa Claus. They were the only ones in the restaurant for ten minutes. Ten minutes later, the front door swung open, and Dave heard someone say, after you, sweet pee.

You would have thought Tommy's mother and father would have been mortified. Tommy's mother and father weren't mortified. They were starving. Tommy's father pulled up a couple of times. chairs and they sat at the table. That was quite a night, said Tommy's father. First fires, he said, and then he turned and winked to Dave and added, and then floods. You have to give Dave credit. He could have let it slide by, but he didn't let it slide. He went for it.

He stood up and he said, I have a confession. Soon everyone was laughing. Tommy's parents, Tommy, Morley, Sam, even Stephanie. Sam went next. When his father finished, Sam looked at Morley and Morley nodded, and Sam stood up and reached into the pouch of his hoodie and pulled out a plastic bag full of turkey.

My friend Murphy taught me you never go anywhere unfamiliar for dinner without a plastic bag. Tommy's father turned to Tommy and raised his eyebrows. Tommy looked chagrined. Tommy said, the potted tree by the kitchen door, buried. It was utter foolishness. We're all foolish in our own little ways, and never luckier when we can admit it to ourselves and to the others around us.

Never more loved nor more loving than when we come together in foolishness and say to one another, I love you all the same. There are many good times, but those are the best, and there isn't a better time for foolish love than during these dark days of winter.

And that's what Dave and Morley and Sam, and Stephanie did this Christmas, they had crab pizza, a pizza by Alex, and they stayed there until closing, and when it was time to go, everyone stood up and hugged. Out in the street as they walked to their parked cars, Tommy's mother caught Stephanie by the elbow and said quietly, your family is delightful. Up ahead at exactly the same moment, Dave turned to Morley and said pretty much the same thing. He said, there's something about those people that I like. He said the same thing to Tommy when they were all in the car. I like your parents, he said.

Well, no kidding, said Sam. They're exactly like us. Mount Theater in Seattle, Washington in 2012. I love that story, especially the part about the myopic grandmother. That was Meg's idea. So perfect. Surely I'm not the only one who also had a grandmother like that. My dad's mom, Granny. Granny was amazing at a whole bunch of things. She was smart and funny and she had this lust for life that just seeped out of her pores until the very end. But she was not a great cook. Maybe that's not quite right. It's not that she was bad at it. I think it just wasn't a priority for her. Kind of like Tommy's parents.

She just didn't really care. And she would serve things that were, uh, I don't know, questionable. Granny was British. She'd live through the war, and she did not like things to go to waste. Instead, she'd take those things and serve them to her grandchildren and just hope for the best. It would drive my dad crazy. Whenever my dad said something about it, she'd just roll her eyes and say something like, oh, come on now. It got worse as she got older, because like Helen in that story, Granny would have no idea if food.

had gone bad or not because she couldn't really see it. At Christmas, she'd let me go into the freezer and pull out the tins of cookies. God knows how long they had been in there for. She'd plate them up. They'd be freezer burned or worse. And my dad would look at us as soon as she left the room and say, do not eat any of that food. So I love that part of the story. But what I really love are Tommy's parents. Stuart so perfectly captured them, or the them that I imagine them to be, that kind of eccentric, smart, but like totally blitzed out couple. I'm sure you know people like that. I know I do. The kind of people who look at a frozen turkey and think, hey, what would happen if we tried to cook that in the self-clean function? I like people like

that. I'm not like that, but I like people who are. They inspire me to look at the world differently. My dad's a bit like that. And Stuart was totally like that. And I think that's how he so accurately captured Tommy's parents and their creative outside the box thinking. That story was written in 2013, a couple of years before the show ended. And that's too bad. because that story made me really interested in Tommy's parents. I really was looking forward to getting a chance to know them. I'd love to know more about them. I'd love to pop in and see what they're up to these days.

I think Stuart would have had fun with them over the years. If only, he'd been given the chance. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with another story. So stick around. Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is Paulie Anderson's Christmas party. Dave received his new driver's license in the mail at the beginning of October. It was accompanied by a letter which began. Dear Sir, we were pleased to note that you're no longer required to wear corrective lenses.

Dave's never worn glasses in his life. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he felt a queasy twinkle, like the birth of a star in a galaxy. He felt he should be able to name. Before we can change the category code on your driver's license, the note continued, we must receive confirmation from an ophthalmologist of this change in your vision. Dave's vision hasn't changed in 20 years. The star in his stomach was burning brightly now. Ah, I thought Dave, I know the name of this galaxy.

It's the galaxy of bureaucratic horror. With a sinking heart, he finished the note. We have reissued your permit subject to the following conditions. At the bottom of the letter, it said, driver must wear corrective lenses. Somehow Dave knew this wasn't going to be. easy. That was two months ago. And Dave still hasn't even made a half-hearted attempt to make a doctor's appointment. Truth be known, he's been too busy these last few weeks to think about

his license. This is the busiest time of the year if you work in retail. And although things never get out of hand at Dave's record store, it has been busy enough. Busy enough that last Saturday morning, when Morley reminded Dave that they were going to Ted and Polly Anderson's annual Christmas at home. Dave gave her a look which said, please say I can stay home and watch the hockey game. And Morley said, don't look at me like that. We have to go. And Dave said, okay, but let's go early and get out early. And that's how Dave came to be standing impatiently in his driveway, yelling at his nine-year-old son, Sam, on Friday evening at 5.30, just come without your jacket, he said. You don't need your jacket. The car's warmed up. Just

Just come, just hurry. They were, as it turns out, the first to arrive. They actually rang the Anderson's bell ten minutes before they were invited to, which was early enough that Polly Anderson hadn't finished setting things out. I told you so, said Dave's daughter, Stephanie, who's 17. It's okay, said Dave. We'll help out. And that's how Dave came to be standing over two.

identical bowls of eggnog holding an open bottle of rum, helping out. The Lalique crystal is for the adults, called Polly Anderson from the kitchen, the glass bowls for the kids. Dave took a step back and peered at the two bowls. Crystal glass or glass crystal. Which is the Lalik, he called. And then the doorbell rang. And Polly said, the Lilik's on the left. Can you get the door? And Dave said, just a second.

And then the doorbell rang again, and Dave frowned and said to himself, Glass left and Crystal Right or Crystal Left and Glass Right. And from the dining room Morley said, Dave, get the door. And he ran for the door. And Polly said, Dick, will you take the eggnog downstairs for the kids? Morley has always left Polly Anderson's Christmas at home feeling defeated and inadequate defeated by Polly Anderson's spiral staircase

by her Lalik crystal and her bonsai collection in the hall which this year she decorated with miniature lights she had pried out of her son's electric train set defeated by the moment at the end of each year's party, a moment that was not unpleasant, but just so perfect, when everyone gathered around the Anderson's Christmas tree, which was always taller and straighter than any tree Dave and Morley had ever found,

and Dick lit the real candles, and they turned off the lights and they sang carols, defeated by these things that the Andersons seemed to do so effortlessly. Their kids were so polite, and well-dressed, and most galling so clean. It all made Morley feel inadequate, all of it, but the thing that really ground her down was the mountain of food that Polly produced every year.

This year it was Christmas sushi. Pieces of salmon twisted into the shape of fir trees. Little tuna wreaths. Monk fish angels with oyster shell wings. And in the middle of the table, a seaweed manger with a baby geez is made from salmon row. And three wise men with pickled ginger robes and wasabi faces. And crackers. Crackers with exotic spreads.

Polly Anderson's crackers were better dressed than half the people at the party. It was as if Polly Anderson had Martha Stewart working for her in the kitchen. Like Martha Stewart had gone berserk back. there in any moment now is going to march out carrying something on a silver platter, like a stenciled roast beef, or maybe something endangered, like flaming, brandied seal flippers with minced whooping crane and penguin sauce. The last time that she had entertained the Andersons, Morley was so determined to measure up that she'd gone to the library and checked out a pile of Martha Stewart's magazines, and then she'd come home and rolled cylinder.

of salami in a soft cream cheese dip and stuck toothpicks at each end of the rolls and it didn't occur to her until Sam pointed it out that the trays she had just carried into the living room looked like a plate of miniature toilet paper rolls. She went right back out to retrieve it and saw Polly Anderson looking at the plate quizzically. and then watched Polly Anderson pick up

one of her miniature toilet roll hors d'oeuvres and watched her bring it toward her mouth and then watch it slide off the toothpicks halfway there. It landed at her drink. Morley went right back into the kitchen and stayed there until Dave forced her to join them in the living room. As Morley stood in the Anderson's hall last Friday night, staring at Polly Anderson's crackers,

she was thinking of the days following her party. For days, she kept coming across little piles of her toilet paper hors d'oeuvres all over her house, under the couch, in the drawer where she kept her checkbook, in the bathroom garbage can, on a window cell. All of them had one bite missing. Morley was standing in the hall watching Dave who seemed to be following a plate of shrimp around when Dick Anderson came up behind her and made her jump

he said, are you all right? And Morley thought, was I talking out loud? And Dick said, can I get you a drink gliding through his house in a gray suit jacket and one of those collarless shirts buttoned to the neck? Morley looked across the room at Dave he was wearing the blue sweater his mother had knitted him for Christmas last year

it had a map of Cape Britain on the front with a large red dot marking his hometown one side of his shirt was hanging out from under the sweater Morley had already had three cups of eggnog but she just couldn't seem to relax sure she said holding out her cup

the party seemed stiffer than usual though the kids seem to be having a whale at a time Sam had wound by her a few moments ago with a plate piled with bread and salmon moose. You'd never eat that at home, thought Morley, not saying it out loud. This is the moose, said Sam, exuberantly, pointing to the orange spread. And this, he said, pointing to the gelatin, is the moose fat. and he snorted and wheeled back toward the basement where the kids were,

and when he opened the basement door, the sounds of children singing Christmas carols came wafting boisterously up the stairs. Dave caught Morley's eye across the crowded living room, he smiled and shrugged, and then he turned and followed Polly Anderson, who was carrying the plate of shrimp into the library. Jim Schofield, who was coming out of the library, as Dave was going in, punched him in the shoulder, and whispered into his ear,

you cooking the turkey again this year, Dave? The ghost of Christmas past. Dave abandoned the shrimp and headed back to the punch bowl and poured himself another glass of eggnog. His fifth. He couldn't seem to loosen up. Forty-five minutes later, Bernie Shellerman lurched by Dave on his way upstairs.

Bernie looked like he was. he was being chased by wolves. He was holding his five-month-old daughter in his arms. The baby was howling. Every night, said Bernie. When you try to put her down, said Dave. She screams for two hours, said Bernie. And Dave, who was looking for any excuse to lead the Anderson, said,

get your coat. Now, Sam, Dave's son, Sam, came out of the womb screaming. And every night at bedtime, for the first two years of his life, he had lie in his crib and he had scream. And Morley and Dave would sit in the kitchen as rigid as a pile of lumber and listen to him and say things to each other like, we're not going in there. We're not going in there tonight. Sit down. He has to learn, come back. Other parents from the neighborhood would find excuses to drop in on Dave and Morley around bedtime

because listening to Sam always made them feel better about their own kids. If mothers were becoming short-tempered with their children, fathers would say, could you nip over to Morley's and see how they're coming with Ida? He'd just make something up. And the whys would go because they know it would do them good. People who didn't have children were horrified the way Dave and Morley could offer them coffee and carry on a conversation as if nothing were happening.

They'd keep glancing toward the stairs and look at each other, and then when they left, they'd say things like, that was unbelievable. Our children will never do that. And on the rare nights, when Sam stopped crying and, say, under an hour, Dave and Morley would look at each other nervously, and someone would say, maybe I should go and check him.

And, of course, Sam was usually faking. And as soon as they opened the bedroom door, he'd start crying again. Once Dave crawled into Sam's room on his belly and pulled himself up the side of the crib like a snake, only to come face to face with his kid. And then Dave slid back down the bed. again. And Sam smiled and waved. And waited until Dave had made it halfway across the room before he started to cry. They lived like this for a long time before Dave discovered the car.

He took Sam with him to the grocery store one night. And Sam drifted off to sleep in his car, just like that. Dave came back and said, I'm going to try that again. And he did the next night. And it worked again. So every night, Dave loaded Sam into the car and he drove him around the neighborhood until he fell asleep. He had to drive less and less each night. Soon Sam was falling asleep within a block of the house, and then one night he nodded off before Dave got out of the driveway.

It actually got to the point where Dave could put Sam in the back seat, start the car, and just idle it in the driveway for a while. And good night Sam would be gone in five minutes. sometimes it helped if he revbed the engine it was something about the sound of the motor and then one night instead of putting him in the car Dave put Sam in his crib and he said to Morley

watch this and he got the vacuum cleaner out and he carried it into the Sam's bedroom and he turned it on and he left the room and shut Sam's door behind him and five minutes later when they opened his door Sam was out cold By the time he was 14 months, they could put him to sleep by waving the hair dryer over him a couple of times.

Bernie Schellerman was standing on the stairs at the Anderson's party, listening intently, nodding. Get your coat, said Dave again, you'll see. And then he said, I'm going to bring Sam. He was thinking after all of those years. He's thinking his son should see what he put him through. Dave went down to the basement. All the kids, there were about 20 of them, all the kids were at the other end of the rec room

pressed around the Anderson's upright piano, all of them, including Sam, who to Dave's astonishment had his arms draped, frat house-like, around the shoulders of a girl. Dave had never seen before. Dave couldn't see who was at the keyboard, but he recognized the tune. was the North Atlantic Squadron.

Away, away with fife and rum, here we come, full of rum, looking for women dead. Suddenly someone noticed Dave, and the piano stopped, and Sam said, hi, pops! And he jumped towards his father and caught his foot on the edge of the piano stool and came down hard on Middle Sea with his face leading. And all the kids applauded, and Sam bowed, blood dripping from his nose,

and said, our family motto is there are sewers of plenty yet to dig and then he wiped his nose smearing blood across his face and shirt and Dave said you're coming with me and then Dave said where is your other shoe and Sam said beats me

and Dave said forget it and he picked his son up and carried him out to the car and it only took 20 minutes before the Shelderman baby was snoozing comfortably. Bernie said, geez, I'm going to have to buy a car. And then from the back of the car, Sam said, it's the physics of baseball. It's always fascinated me. Dave looked at his boy in the rearview mirror.

Sam waved absently at his father. and then he pressed his face to the window and started to sing something that sounded like opera. Carmen, thought Dave. Two crazy kids at odds with a world they never made, said Sam. Dave slammed on the brakes, and the car squealed to a stop by the side of the road, and Dave twisted around in his seat and stared at his son

and said, what have you been drinking? And Sam said, eggnog. And Dave said, from which bowl? And Sam said from the Leak Bowl in the basement, of course. And Dave thought, uh-oh. And Bernie Schellerman said, Dave. And Dave looked at Bernie, and then he looked at Sam, and then he looked at Bernie again, and Bernie pointed out the front window, and Dave squinted into the darkness,

and spotted the three police officers standing on the edge of the road a half a block away. They were manning one of those roadside checks for drunk drivers. and Dave had just fish-tailed to a stop in front of them. The cops all had their hands on their hips. The street light shining from behind them made them look like stormtroopers from a Star Wars movie. The only thing Dave could do was put his car into gear and creep towards them.

Sam pulled himself forward so his head was beside his fathers. This, he said, is an area of jurisprudence that has always interested me. Dave pulled up beside the police and rolled down his window and smiled, soberly. The cop didn't try to engage in small talk. He said, let me see your license. Then he said, where are your glasses?

Then he handed Dave a little machine and said, blow. It's hard to see. say who was more surprised to find there was no alcohol whatsoever in Dave's bloodstream. After all, he'd had six cups of eggnog. The horrible truth was slowly dawning on him when Sam joined the conversation from the back. Can I blow two, he said. And Dave said, maybe that's not a good idea.

and the cop who was being a lot friendlier now said it's okay i don't mind and sam blew into the little machine and the cop pointed at it and said see son if you'd been drinking the lights and then his voice trailed off and he squinted at his machine and he took a step backwards and he looked at Dave who shrugged and smiled

and the cop said son i want you to get out of the car and Sam slid over to the far side of the back seat and said, Come and get me, copper. By the time Dave got back to the party, the Anderson's house was dark and locked up. He slowed down,

and then he drove by it twice, but he didn't stop. stop, just kept going. Sam was asleep in the back seat, just like the old days, thought Dave. He didn't stir when Dave got him home and carried him upstairs. Morley was waiting in the living room. At first he didn't see her. The whole house was dark except for the colored lights glowing on the Christmas tree. I love it like this, she said. Dave poured two drinks. It took them a while to piece their stories together. It took me five minutes to get Sam out of the car, said Dave.

And when I did, I put him down beside the cop, and he had blood all over him. And he didn't have a winter coat, and he was missing a shoe, and he was drunk. Sam and Stephanie were upstairs, safe in bed. Everything was going to be okay. Morley and Dave felt like they could laugh about the night now, had to laugh about the night.

Morley told him everything that he had missed. It was like a frat house on a homecoming weekend, said Morley. Told him about Pia, Cherubanovsky, four years old, who got herself into and halfway up the Anderson's Christmas tree. No one had noticed Pia until Dick Anderson had begun to light the candles for the carolson. Pia had blown them out as fast as Dick could laugh. At one point, said Morley, there were ten adults around the tree trying to coax her down with candy. Then she told him about the McCormick baby. He was missing for half an hour. He finally turned up asleep in a laundry hamper with the youngest Anderson boy squatting beside him.

Bobby Anderson had wrapped himself in a large green Terry cloth towel. I'm the three wisemen, said Bobby. And that's the baby Jesus. Sam was never able to tell Dave the name of the girl. He had his arms around in the basement. No one seemed to know who she was. She was in a red dress, said Dave. When I left, said Morley, there was a girl in a red dress standing at the top of the Anderson spiral staircase singing,

don't cry for me, Argentina. At the top of her lungs. The only child who wasn't sick, singing, or passed out was their daughter, Stephanie. I told her I was proud of her, said Morley. It wasn't until much later that the truth of that dawned on Dave. Stephanie was the only kid drinking from the adult bowl. Dear God, Merry Christmas, said Dave.

Peace on Earth. God bless us, everyone. That was Polly Anderson's Christmas party. All right, that's it for today. But we'll be back here next week with two more festive David Morley stories. Like this one. In an effort to show Mary that he appreciated her hospitality, Dave sunk his hand into a bowl of gourmet snack mix that was on the hall table.

As soon as he popped the stuff into his mouth, he knew he had a problem. He glanced down at the bowl. There were dried cranberries in there and what looked like bits of cinnamon stick. But what he thought were tiny potato chips were now looking suspiciously like the stuff you might use at the bottom of a hamster gauge.

Dave's teeth grinded away. that what he now realized were cedar shavings. And it dawned on him that he was eating Mary's Christmas popery. When he looked up to see if anyone had noticed, he saw Mary staring at him from the other side of the living room. So instead of spitting into his hand, which is what he wanted to do, Dave smiled gamely and swallowed. That's next week on the podcast.

And next week will be our final episode of the season. So I hope you can join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe podcast network. The recording engineer is Sweet P. Greg DeClute. And for those of you who make it through to the end of this podcast every week, you know that I use this space every week to give a little private shout out to Greg, an inside joke. Well, a few months ago, I made a joke about Greg retiring. It wasn't really a joke. Greg has retired. He used to work at CBC as a recording engineer. And these days, he spends his days playing music, dedicating his time to this podcast and hanging out with his lovely wife, Sandra.

So for those of you who asked, especially you, Daryl, at the Tim Hortons in Baker Lake and Nunavut, don't worry, Greg's not going anywhere. And neither are we. All right, where was I? Right, sweet P. Greg DeClute. Theme music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeClute, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.