Christmas is a time of giving, a time of caring and a time of sharing. It is also a time of writhing around through sweaty shopping malls cramped tighter than a Cuban refugee boat. Christmas in D.C. is a dangerous time, because N.A.T.O. operatives do get vacation time (sometimes compulsory). When not on vacation, government employees are forced to adhere to a rigorous work schedule, encompassing such weighty responsibilities as yawning, competitive belching, scratching our private parts, ordering pizza and searching for subcontractors to pay exorbitant fees to perform the complex tasks that we are not qualified to perform for ourselves (such as working). As such, for most government employees, relief from the daily grind is essential, which is why we get leave time for every holiday marked on the Christian, Hebrew, Islamic, Buddhist, Hindu, and Branch Davidian calendar (Charred Flesh Appreciation Day). In the five years that I have been with N.A.T.O. I have actually managed to accumulate 6.2 years of paid vacation time (including sick time, flex time, stress time, overtime and Howdy Doody time.) The reason that N.A.T.O. operatives accumulate so much vacation time is that most of the countries on the N.A.T.O. roster have some form of vacation benefits for civil servants. And since we technically work for all of these countries simultaneously I can actually accumulate British vacation time while lounging about on a cruise ship off the coast of France. Of course this is highly classified. Now, you may be saying to yourself, "Self, it seems to me that Carl is a bit down on the whole concept of Holidays." This is only partially true. Holidays are not at the bottom of my "Favorite Things to Do" list. Castration-with-a-rusty-cheese-graterdipped- in-Aqua-Velva is at the bottom of my "Favorite Things to Do" list. Vacation is somewhere in between "The Annual Hee Haw Telethon" and "Proctologist's Assistant." When my director started calling people into his office, I tried to run, I tried to hide. I tried to fake an aneurysm, but it was no good. "Larson, according to your records, you have a little vacation time coming, " he said. "It's a vicious lie, sir. I've been slacking off badly." "I think you've been under a lot of pressure lately..." "No sit, I feel terrific! Never better! May I smoke?" "No." "Oh." "I'm recommending some leave time for you." "But sir, it's Christmas"' "Let me put it another way, Larson. I'm ordering you." "Can I go to Beirut?" "NO." "Lebanon?" "No." "Bosnia!?" He finally agreed to let me work through the holidays on a special case. The orders read, "Compile complete surveillance report. Subject: John Lennon." I was done. It was vacation or dead liberals. Real spies don't like vacations much for one simple reason; while you are not working, N.A.T.O. temporarily suspends your L.G.M. (License for General Mayhem). As a result, operatives who, for the last threehundred and sixty-four days, have become accustomed to "firing at will" and solving the simplest household dilemmas via the use of high explosives, are abruptly told to "act like a regular person." This is extremely difficult, not just because C-4 really lays waste to the toughest drain clogs, but also because being a spy is fun! Really, it is. Demolitions class gave me hundreds of new ideas for my model railroad, and all my bathtub toys are now armed with working depth-charges. Christmas is the worst, because you have to try to "act like a regular person" in the "Holiday Mall/Demilitarized Zone" environment. The overall effect of "the holidays in D.C. is that- on December 20th, the, State Department forces several hundred armed and edgy nicotine addicts into the (non, smoking) Retail jungle with thousands of unsuspecting civilians (who, incidentally, don't normally wear ballistic overcoats). This year's casualties include nine ninja turtles, two elves, fourteen sales clerks and six shelves of G.I. Joe action figures with authentic gunfire sound- effects packages. Competition for parking spaces has already resulted in four car- bombings - and there's still three days 'til Christmas eve. Spies do not adjust well to civilian life. Shopping at Christmas time is very competitive - sometimes comparable to Australian football. And it's hard to stick to fair play when you are driven from the serene and soothing daily routine of counter-terrorism and bomb disposal, and hurled headlong into the mad scramble to secure the very last "Barbie-incredible-uninsurable~sports-car- playset" in North America. And if your child is going to get that particular toy, he or she must also have the "Ken-goes-to- debtor's-prison-playset." A lot of black market toy deals go down and people get hurt. The only respite you get from hearing "Frosty the Snowman" performed by Julio Iglesias for the four-thousandth time is when the intercom pipes up with "Norm, wet cleanup and paramedic on aisle twelve..." Fortunately(?) this year I got off easy. JoAnne is spending Christmas with her parents in Liverpool, and her parents hate me, so I am not going to have to spend another holiday trying to navigate my motorcycle through the streets of London (where everyone drives straight toward you) in search of the very last pair of size-six, taupe pumps in Europe. ("Those are my size- six taupe pumps, lady! I have a gun!") Instead, the boys at the office have elected me to host this year's Christmas party. The announcement was made following an open, democratic vote of all the people in the office. A vote that I was conspicuously not a part of. I had been absent, conducting a top-secret sociological experiment into the effects among the top brass of coating all the toilet seats in the State Department with white shoe polish (Squirrp! Eewww!). As I walked into the office, Bob was just excusing himself, following a hearty repast of my special Christmas brownies (in comedy, timing is everything). I knew that Bob would be on the toilet 'til at least June, so I accepted with only token resistance. To me this Christmas party thing is a godsend, because it means that I can do all of my holiday shopping down at the rarelyfrequented "Soldier of Fortune Factory Outlet." For JoAnne's belated present, I can wander the nearly empty shopping malls with the scores of recently-divorced husbands trading in approximately 600,000 pairs of size six taupe pumps for size five taupe pumps. Anyway, the only problems I am running into in planning a N.A.T.O.-style Christmas party are catering and trying to find a ballistic Christmas tree. I've already experimented with cooking our Christmas feast myself, but the only flavors I have managed to coax from my home-made stuffing are "Socks Benedict" and "Spackle Florentine." Still, it's a step up from my gravy, which I would describe as "Cream of Gray." With all the holiday excitement mounting, I can't forget to up my renter's insurance policy before the party. There must be a post-it pad around here somewhere... Back to Shadis #22 Table of Contents Back to Shadis List of Issues Back to MagWeb Master List of Magazines © Copyright 1995 by Alderac Entertainment Group This article appears in MagWeb (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web. Other military history articles and gaming articles are available at http://www.magweb.com