Wiretap - A WireTap Christmas Carol

Episode Date: August 24, 2020

Jonathan Scroogestein is a grouchy old radio host with a lump of coal for a heart. But with the help of Howard's overweight pug, Not-so-tiny Tim, and a few ghostly visits, will he rediscover the magic of Christmas? Find out, as the Dickensian classic is brought to life with a WireTap spin!

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You're listening to Wiretap with Jonathan Goldstein on CBC Radio 1. Today's episode, A Wiretap Christmas Carol. Monday. The holidays never fail to fill me with a deep melancholy. I always feel like an outsider looking in. Howard? Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Not a great time. I'm in the middle of recording my monologue. That's your reaction. Do you even see how I'm dressed?

Very nice. You have a new jacket. I have a new jacket. Howard, I don't have time to talk about your wardrobe. I'm dressed as Santa. Claws. Very nice. Red has a very slimming effect on you. If you don't mind, let me... I'm dressed my toe as Santa Claus. That's all you have to say. What do you want me to say, Howard? You burst in here while I'm in the middle of important work. I'm jolly St. Nick. I have a hat. I'm wearing a full bow. beard. You get all depressed during the Christmas holidays. Well, I thought you'd come. I'd cheer you up.

I rented a Santa Claus outfit just to come here. That's what you do with your money? It's Christmas, John. I rented it to cheer you up. Well, mission accomplished. Yeah, yeah. We'll go to skateboard parks and roller rinks and find some youths at risk and bring a smell to their faces. A smile to their, they're going to bring a baseball bat to your head. To our heads. See, I brought along this little elf costume for you. It's very form-fitting. Howard, first of all, this is a Tinkerbell costume. Yeah, well, she's an elf. Take her bell's an elf.

She's a fairy, Howard. It's Christmas. It's the best I can do. All the Elf costumes were taken. Uh-huh. Look, it's got little slippers. I'm not, Howard, I... Translucent wings.

Look at that. And see in the one, when you shake it, see the little powder comes out? See, little powders? It's like, magic. And you can, like, you can bless the little kids. Howard? Yeah.

Get out of my studio. Okay, I'll just let you get back. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I hear it. You're busy man. To be continued. Anyway, look, here's some. This is stupid, and I feel really stupid.

I made hot, do you want some? I made hot chocolate for you. Oh. Do you want some of this? I can take it. You don't have to have it. No, no. I love hot cocoa.

It's a special Christmas blend. Don't, please do not feel any obligation to drink it. Pour it down the drain. But it's good. If you want it, it actually is good hot chocolate. Like, not, you know. Okay. All right.

Well, thanks. I'm going to go now. I don't want to belabor the point, but I just hope one day you realize there's more to life than just work and work and work and work. Well, I, I, I, I will take that into consideration. Okay, see you later. Sweet dreams.

Why would you say, why would you say sweet dreams? Nothing, bye. Sweet dreams. That's not a normal parting. People say goodbye, they say sweet dreams. No, they don't. They say sweet dreams to someone who's going to sleep. Well, okay, sorry about that.

All right, I'll talk to you later. Okay, take it easy, sweet dreams. Okay, back. Sweet dreams. But why? Bye, sweet dreams. We'll have some of this hot cocoa. It actually is pretty good.

Kind of a weird aftertaste. What is that? A mint? Cinnamon? Hmm. Oh. I'm so sleepy, suddenly. You can hardly keep my eyes open.

Oh, maybe I'll just take a little... A little nap or something. Finish this monologue later. Just rest my head on my desk here for a little bit. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams are made of me. There was a grouchy old radio host named Jonathan Scrooge Steen, a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping,

clutching, covetous old sinner. He had a chill deep in his heart, and it didn't thaw one degree at Christmas. No wind that blew was bitterer than he. No falling snow was more intent upon its purpose. Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, my dear Scroogestein, how are you? But what did Scroogestein care?

It was the very thing he liked to edge his way along the crowded paths of life warning all human sympathy to keep its distance. One particular Christmas Eve, Scroogestein sat busy in his studio recording one of his dreary monologues when he was interrupted by his faithful employee

Mr. Howard Cratchitkowitz, Monday My spectacles have cracked in the cold winter air Hearing through them makes the whole world appear split down the middle Like a broken heart Excuse me, sir Howard?

How dare you disturb me while I'm recording? I'm sorry, sir, it's just that the fire in my office is getting low And I wondered if perchance I might have an extra call Upon which to roast some suvlaki meats You what? It's just that eat snack time And my tummy is grumbling Bah, humbug! No question of it! I can't spare a coal for you tonight?

Oh, yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir. Why do you hover in my doorway, so? Get back to work. It's just that, well, you see, tomorrow is Christmas Day, you see, and well... And you're expecting a day off, I imagine? Well, yes, sir, it's fairly customary, and Sir Stuart McLean is giving his employees the week off and taking them on a sleigh right to the petting zoo and to see the tiny little ponies and to feed corncobbs to the llamas.

Okay, enough. Very well. Take the day off. But be here all the earlier the next morning then to make up for it. Oh, thank you, sir. You're most generous this year. Okay, all right. Thank you, sir. Get out.

Thank you. Thank you. Later that evening, Scroodstein found himself locking up his offices alone and heading home through the dark. foggy streets. Upon reaching his stoop, he heard a neary voice calling his name. Oh, Jonathan Scroogestein. Who's there? Scroogestein swiveled around on the threshold, but there was no one to be seen. Odd. For he could have sworn he'd heard the voice of his old business partner, Gregor Marley. Gregor had died several years ago during a yachting

accident, aboard his ship, the SS-M-C. Hammersmith, and Scroogestein had never even bothered to visit his grave. It'd always been too busy with work. Scroostein hurried inside and fastened the door. He put on his dressing gown and nightcap and sat down before the fireplace to take his evening gruel. Suddenly, in the distant chambers of the house, Scroogestein heard a deep, clanking noise. As if someone were dragging a heavy chain along the floor. The sound grew steadily louder, nearer, banging up the stairs and towards his study door. And through that door, stepped none other than Gregor Marley's ghost. Johnny, I've got a delicious fruitcake full of terrible news.

Oh, mercy, dreadful apparition. What do you want with me? Can't you see I'm busy eating my dinner? Oh, hush, Johnny, don't be scared. It's just me, your favorite old business partner slash manager slash agent. What are you doing here? I've been cursed to roam the earth for all eternity, and I've come back to warn you

that if you don't shape up, your fate's going to be ten times worse. All I did was steal molasses candy from a baby, but a friendless, miserable, stinking, moldy, cat-haired soul like you, you've got another thing coming, my friend. Well, what are you saying? What'll become of me? Well, if we're up to me, we'd stuff you in a cannon and shoot you straight to hell.

But you have a chance yet to escape your fate. You will be visited by three spirits tonight. Pay them heed. Pay them heed, Johnny. Pay them heed. Ooh, Johnny, pay them heed. And with that, the spirit vanished in a puff of smoke. Scroodstein tried to say humbug,

but trailed off uncertainly at the first syllable. and being in much need of repose, he went straight to bed and fell asleep upon the instant. It was one in the morning when Scroodstein was awakened by a blinding light piercing through the curtains of his bed frame. Upon drawing them aside, he saw a strange, childlike figure, but with the head of an old man. Are you the spirit?

whose coming was foretold to me? I am. I am the ghost of Christmas past. What brings you here? The spirit grabbed Scroogestein by the ear and yanked him over to his bedroom window. Let's go for a ride, shall we? Out the window? But I'm mortal and liable to fall.

Stop being such a wuss. And with that, the spirit flew through the window dragging Scroogestein behind him. It flew over the rooftop tops of the sleeping city before landing in a familiar schoolyard. In the far corner were two young lads, not 12 years old. It can't be. Why, it's me and Howard. Don Tootin, it is. It's the end of your first day of high school, some 30-odd years ago.

Hey, I like your spectacles. They make you look real smart-like. My name's Howard. What's yours? Jonathan Scroogestein. over and play, Johnny? I got a set of titling winks for my birthday and I haven't swallowed them all yet. Okay. Sure. Brace you! Wait for me! Look at you. He was such a sweet kid. What happened? Suddenly, the scene flickered out of focus. And when it reappeared, Scroodstein found himself in that same schoolyard, but it was now covered in snow. He could see a slightly older version of his yon.

young self, speaking with a young lady, is snowflakes swirled around them. He remembered that day all too well. Hey, Bella, I was wondering if you wanted to go to the winter ball with me this evening. Oh, I'm sorry, Johnny. I already told Howard I'd go with him. Oh, okay. Spirit, why must you show me this day? Of course he'd pick Howard over you. You were such a little nerd.

The scene went dark once more. And when it flickered to light, Young Scroodstein was sitting alone in a dark classroom, scribbling in a notebook by candlelight. Johnny? What are you doing in here all by yourself? Leave me alone, Howard. I'm busy. Aren't you coming to the Christmas dance?

No, thanks. All right. Well, have a good night. Oh, I almost forgot. Here, I saved you half my candy cane. Get that away from me. You have cooties. Ouch!

What's gone into you? I haven't had a life's outbreak in weeks. Leave me alone, I said. I don't need you. I don't need anyone. Spirit, show me no more. I don't wish to see it. Scroogestein buried his face in his hands

and awoke to find himself back in bed, weeping into his pillow. Exhausted, he soon sank into a deep sleep. So we finally found a podcast that speaks to you, pure bliss. It's so good that when you finish the final episode, it leaves a hole in your heart and your schedule. What now? Personally, is here for you.

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about in the shadows of his bedchamber, and the smell of vodka with a hint of melanchure wafted to his nostrils. Hey, hey, party's here. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Scroodstein beheld before him a tall, ghostly figure, wearing a bright pink miniskirt. Who are you? I'm the ghost of Christmas present, dummy. Get out of bed.

We should be out partying. It's New Year's Eve. You mean it's Christmas Eve? Whatever, same diff. Here, have a shot of eggnog. Oh, what the heck, thought Scroogestein as he downed the drink. No sooner had he finished, and the spirit snapped her fingers and the bedchamber vanished.

The next instant they found themselves in the center of a bustling dance hall with people feasting and making Mary this way and that. Hey, that's more like it. Why have you brought me here? a lot of work to accomplish in the morning. I need a good night's sleep. I'm just trying to show you what you're missing, Scroogey. When was the last time you went out? Had yourself a good time. Well, I did attend an oration workshop last year, which really was most edifying. Oh, please, you're such a square. Don't you know it's like a sin to not enjoy all that life has to offer?

Each day is for celebrating and shit. Well, I mean, every other day at least. The rest is for hangovers. It's too loud in here. Can we leave? suit yourself. Ooh, I see a hot guy over there. All right, I got to go grind up on him. Later. The spirit abandoned Scroodstein by the punch table, and he shuffled out into the cold.

Ah, humbug. He muttered. On his way home, he passed a window emanating a warm glow. Peering inside, he saw that it was none other than the home of Mr. Howard. Scroogestein paused a moment to observe. the merry scene within. At the foot of a straggly Christmas tree, Mr. Howard sat buried in wrapping paper and tangled in what appeared to be miles of ribbon, merrily wrapping bones for his beloved pugs.

No, Brucey. That's for tomorrow morning. Drop it. Desmond, spit out that foe. Good boy. The commotion quieted down as into the room waddled Mr. Howard's fattest pug. The three-legged not so tiny Tim. Why, Timmy, there you are. You're just in time to help us trim the tree. Mr. Howard hoisted Not So Tiny Tim up into the air, which was no small feet, him being approximately the size of an obese Yorkshire pig,

and together they placed a golden star onto the very top of the tree. Merry Christmas, my dears. God bless us. What's that you say, Not So Tiny Tim? God blesses everyone? Well put. God bless us everyone. One in all.

Suddenly the scene faded, and Scroogestein found himself back in his bed, tangled in his sheets. Had it all been a dream, he wondered, as he drifted off to sleep once more, a faint hint of eggnog still on his breath. The clock struck three, and Scroogestein lay in bed with the sheets pulled up to his nose. Gregor Marley had predicted three ghostly visits this night, and two had already come to pass.

Would the final visitor be as harmless? Peering over his blanket, Scroogestein beheld a solemn phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the ground. towards him. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and let nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand.

Let me guess. You're the ghost of Christmas future, here to show me shadows of things to come. The spirit nodded silently. It beckoned Scroogestein with one skeletal finger and they set out into the night.

Although well used to ghostly company by now, this apparition gave Scroogestein the creeps. They scarcely seemed to enter the city. Rather, the city seemed to spring up about them and encompass them of its own act. But there they were in the heart of it. The spirit stopped beside one little knot of people milling about on the street.

I don't know much about it. I only know he's dead. When did he die? Last night, I believe, I heard he choked on a slice of Melba Toast. I heard he drowned in a tepid cup of tea. At that, the crowd erupted in laughter. In any case, it's likely to be a very dull funeral, for upon my life, I don't know of anybody who'd go to it.

Scroodstein listened on in horror. Who are they speaking of spirit? Surely no good people would take such pleasure in... Merciful heaven, what is this? Asked Scroogestein, for the scene had dissolved and changed. A churchyard shrouded in darkness. And there was Mr. Howard, a shovel in his hand and his pugs, Desmond and Bruce, at his feet.

A fresh mound of earth lay before them, with a small tombstone teetering atop it. Oh, not so tiny, Tim. We will never forget you. I'm sorry we couldn't afford your own grave nor a coffin quite big enough for your girth But the burlap sack will have to do What a coincidence that you should die

In the same day as that poor soul of a man Little does he know Sharing his final resting spot with you Will be the most generous thing he's ever done Oh, Desi! How'd you get in that coffin? Desi out! Stop chewing on that foot! Desi, get that ankle bone out of your mouth! No! Desi, no! Get it out! No! No!

The spirit lifted its long, bony finger to point at the tombstone, and Scroodstein advanced towards it, trembling. Following the finger, he read upon the stone of the grave. Here lies Jonathan Scroodstein, who lived every day like it was Monday. Okay, I get it, I get it. I need to change my ways. But why show me this if I am past all hope? Might I yet change these shadows you've shown me if I embrace the Christmas spirit all year round?

In his pleading, Scroodstein caught the spectral hand. He clung to it with all his might until the phantom's cloak fell away. And Scrooedstein was left clutching his bedpost. Yes, and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own. The room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own, to make amends in.

Scroodstein scrambled out of bed and ran to the window, throwing it open, he poked his head out into the sweet, fresh air. Boy, what's today? cried Scrooge, calling down to a young lad on the street below. Today, why tis Christmas Day, sir? Christmas Day, so I haven't missed it. Do you know whether they've sold the giant turkey that was hanging up at the butchers?

What, the one as big as me, why it's hanging there still? Go and buy it, lad, and have it sent over to Mr. Howard's house. Post-haste. Hup, hop. Scroogestein threw down a handful of coins to the lad. And keep the change. Oh, gee, thank you, Mr. Scroogestein, you tight-fistine. little crumpet. I hope you fall down a well. This stupid Scroogestein dressed and hurried over to Mr. Howard's house,

eager to spread his good cheer. Mr. Scroogestein. What a surprise I wasn't expecting you this morning. Merry Christmas, my dear friend. I've brought you some gifts. Turkey and... Scroogestein stopped dead in his tracks. Mom? What are you doing here? Oh, hi, honey. Howie and I were just about to sit down to eat our Christmas brisket, like we do every year. What do you mean you do this every year? It's our tradition. We eat, we sing carols, we swap gifts, we have a good time. Why have I never been invited?

We didn't think it was your cup of tea, sweetie. Anyway, come join us. There's plenty of room for everyone. Yes, join us. A bruise, scooch over. Let Mr. Scrooching sit at the head of the table. Not so Tiny Tim, don't pee on his boots. No. Oh, leave him be, that little rapscallion. And with that, Scroogestein reached down and heaved not so tiny Tim onto his lap,

and gave him a nice long scratch under the chin. Together, they ate their brisket off the very same plate as the fireplace roared and the snowflakes out the window danced, Danceed in the moonlight. Joy, giving. Spirit of giving, give to Howard. Mm, brisket. Huh? What?

I must have drifted off. Hi, sleepy boy. Howard? I just had the weirdest dream. What day is it? Why, it's Christmas Day. I've been here all night? God, I feel so out of it.

How did I get in this Tinkerbell costume? I don't know anything about that. It's nice, though. It looks good on you. Howard, what was in that hot chocolate you gave me? Nothing. Just a little something to help you get into the Christmas spirit is all. Did you drug me?

You're talking about it. Why would you think that I drugged you? Liquid plumber. So tell me about this dream. Did you put liquid plumber? If you did, Howard, that's poison. Tell me about this dream. Howard, that's manslaughter.

No, I think it's actually first-degree murder. So tell me about this dream. I'm not going to tell you about this dream, Howard, because I haven't even finished recording my monologue. Your monologue's ruined. Look at this. You drooled all over it. Great.

But look, I took the liberty of writing a new one for you. Oh, you did. Here, let's do this together in unison. Give me that microphone. Just do this with me. Just give what we're going to do it together. You're getting it all sticky. Fine.

Here. Okay, look. See, I wrote J.D. G and howe. See, that's you, you're your G. And I'm Howe. All right, do us together.

One, two, three. Merry Christmas, joyous Kwanza, and happy Hanukkah to one and all. May the holidays bring you peace and joy. Very nice. That was very nice, Howe.

And it was short, mercifully short. Because with you, once you get in front of the microphone, the monologues, and you just go on and on and on and on. All right. It's obnoxious. That was unnecessary.

Okay, enough work for one day. Let's go get something to eat. All right, fine. Let's go. What do you want? Something with gravy. Let me just get out of this cost. Where'd you put my clothes?

These are your clothes. No, no, they're not my clothes, Howard. Howard, I don't care. You don't dress like Tinkerbell any day the year. Yes, you do. No, you don't. There's no Tinkerbell in Christmas. And with that, Scroogestein and Mr. Howard headed off to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation's cafeteria as the snowflakes fell outside.

Wait, wait, wait, why did you just say Scroodstein? Can we get some gravy? It's the secret to my stickiness. That gives me like this weird deja vu. I call it Craving. That craving. Let's go get some crazy. That's what I.

Gravy. On Wiretap today, you heard a Christmas carol by Charles Dickens adapted for the radio by Mira Birdwin Tonic. It featured Dave Bronstetter, Howard Chakowitz, Laura Cookie Craft, Joshua Carpatti, Buzz and Dina Goldstein, Liam Dewar Smith, Caleb Fellows, Inga Ragnar's Dottier, Carrie Haber, and Joe Rogers. Wiretap is produced by Jonathan Goldstein, Mira Bertwintan, and Crystal Duhame.

For more CBC podcasts, go to CBC.com. Podcasts.