DASHER'S VERSION by Naomi Johnson

Okay, I admit it. None of us were very nice to the new guy. What the heck, there were eight of us and we'd been working as a team for a very long time. All of a sudden the Big Guy decides we need a new teammate and we don't even get asked to submit names or nothing. Don't get asked to evaluate the new guy's record, you know, his experience and training and suchlike. Oh, no, the Big Guy just drops by one day, introduces Rudy and leaves.

Turns out the kid don't know a sleigh from a sledgehammer. I mean, he don't know nothing, and this is a plum job. Some great fliers never even get a hoof in the door, but here's this doofus who knows nothing from nothing, and suddenly Christmas Eve is going to be Amateur Night?

And his looks didn't help any either. First thing you notice on this guy is the schnoz. I mean, come on, he's got a beak would have made Jimmy Durante weep. Yeah, plus we were all pretty sure the kid was hittin' the bottle, and hard. When you got so many broken veins in your nose that it looks more like a glowing tail light on a Caddy than it does a nose, what's everyone supposed to think? So all in all, is it any surprise that we ribbed the kid a lot, did a bit of name-calling maybe? And no, he didn't get any invitations to the stag parties either. But it's not true that we ever hurt him physically. Well, none of us except Donner and Blitzen, who got him down once and kicked the antlers off him, but those two are friggin' neo-Nazis, they are, and the rest of us have all warned the Big Guy about them at one time or another.

So this kid, Rudy, he was taking his lumps, paying his dues, you know, just like any rookie would. Then suddenly everything changed. I mean, everything.

Picture it: Christmas Eve. Sky is midnight blue, the air so cold you could bite chunks out of it and get brain-freeze. The sleigh is packed, and I mean lo-ho-hoaded for the occasion; the manifest inspected and okay-ed; the Big Guy is checking his list for the third time, and we're just waiting for the tower to clear us for takeoff. We're all of us in our best bib and tucker -- new leather bridles and our bells polished to a chrome-like finish. Comet's hooves are striking sparks off the runway. Cupid's planting a wet sloppy one on the Big Guy. Well, she's a tart, she is. Dancer and Prancer -- they finally came out of the stall this year. Huh, like everybody didn't already know that -- anyway, they're showing off new coifs and manicures. Donner and Blitzen are goose-stepping like they're heading down the yellow brick road to see der Fuhrer. And that Vixen? She is suh-mokin' hot! I give her a wink, tell her I have a bag of carrots stashed in my stall in case she'd care to drop by after work and see my horseshoe collection. She rolls her eyes, jingles her bells, and in general plays coy, but I know she'll be there.

So you got the picture, right? Everybody's a little antsy, wanting to get going. Then: Nothing. Just nothing. Lights out.

Can't even see the tower and I know it's lit up like a – yeah, yeah, like a Christmas tree. But suddenly I can't see a thing, and let me tell you, that Vixen is hot enough to make a blind caribou see. But I'm getting nothing, absolutely zero transmissions to the visual cortex. Do you get what I'm saying?

Only it's not just me. And it's chaos, I'm telling ya. Cupid is whinnying like she's about to give birth, which by now should be something she could do without even being awake. Yeah, fifteen calves she's dropped. Enough already.

Anyway. Comet is screaming 'help, I'm blind, somebody help me!' Dancer and Prancer are yammering hysterically about peroxide poisoning and suing their hairdresser. Donner and Blitzen, those two tough guys are weeping and wailing and repenting their sins -- it was a long and disgusting list, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Vixen nervously sidled closer to me -- I'm Dasher, in case you ain't figured it out yet, and I know it was Vixen because it was my eyes what failed me, not my nose. She's the only one of us who wears Chanel.

And speaking of noses, what do I hear above all the clamor and commotion? The Big Guy bellowing, "Rudy, take the lead, or this fog will keep us grounded until next Christmas!" And then, there it was: A glowing red orb, so steady and bright it cut through that blanket of fog like a flamethrower. Yeah, Rudy. And his incredible schnoz.

And now I could see clear to the end of the runway. And the youngster took his place at the front as if he'd been born to it. Next thing you know, tower gives us clearance, the Big Guy pops that whip, and we were off. From that point on, everybody lets go of his or her personal foibles and gets down to getting the job done. I'll be honest: Rudy did a great job all night, only one little mishap, just one, and that was right at takeoff when he angled upwards a little too sharp and chose that very moment to empty his bowels. I'd put it down to nerves and inexperience except that it was Donner and Blitzen who took it all right in the kissers. The best part was, D&B couldn't even stop to clean up, they had to wear it all night long. Best. Christmas Eve. Ever.

So the upshot of it all is we all learned a lesson on not judging by appearances. And a lesson about how everybody's got value. And a lesson in trusting the Big Guy's judgment. Yeah, yeah, it was a regular college diploma for each of us, and everybody loves Rudy now; he's everybody's best friend. I'm not even sore that Vixen stood me up that night. So she chose to share a nosebag with the hero of the night instead of spending the holiday with me and my carrots. I could see that coming before we'd even finished the Denmark deliveries. I will say that, contrary to rumor, while I was not exactly shouting out with glee, I understood Vixen's ambition. She knows which side of the stable door has the oats, and she'll do whatever it takes to get a promotion. If my name was Dashette instead of Dasher, I'd have done the same.

But Rudy's an okay guy, really. He didn't get the big head or rub it in or nothing. He's even a little embarrassed by all the fuss; you know: songs, tv shows, pageants, etc. Great guy, that Rudy, none finer. Trust him with my life even. But I'll tell anybody who'll listen: I don't care what the flight assignments are next year or the year after, I am never gonna be the unfortunate reindeer right behind Rudy. Never.

 

Oh, yeah, I almost forgot: Merry Christmas to all and to all a good light.

                                                                                                   - D.