By Jane McCarthy
Ebenezer Scrooge hated many things, including Christmas, carolers, cheer, children, and the words “limited-time offer.”
Oh, and one more thing—chaos. As in what happened when his router suddenly gifted him a high-pitched whine and then died. An overheating his cold existence was not familiar with. His orderly life was abruptly unplugged. Worse, his lifeline to the stock market was dead.
Fear gripped his shriveled heart. For The Weasel of Wall Street, the stock market was more than numbers—and, oh boy, did he love numbers—it was a security blanket, the best defense from poverty, which he feared more than death.
Scrooge panic dialed the internet provider’s hotline.
“We’re grateful you called JollyNet,” said an overly cheerful robotic voice.
After screaming at the automated menu, Scrooge received the reply, “Did you say festive upgrade package?” When he refused to respond, the automated asker moved on to “Your wait time is fifty minutes.”
“Unacceptable!” hissed Scrooge.
The tech didn’t care. Hold music began: Jingle Bell Rock, sung in a way that made Scrooge want to bury those bells in his backyard.
Miserly minutes stretched into eternity. Every passing second was a dagger to his pride, each note of that infernal tune a countdown to financial doom. He imagined the market tanking, numbers plummeting like a snowstorm, taking with them everything he’d ever hoarded and claimed as “necessary.” Scrooge, ever calculating, wrote down how much money he was losing by the minute, preparing for the soul-destroying email he was intending to send afterward to complain. Actually, to get people fired. Right before Christmas.
As Scrooge waited with the utmost impatience, he sharpened pencils to stab the air while he imagined some poor call-center soul sitting in front of him.
Forty-eight minutes later, “Ebenezer Scrooge?” said a meek voice.
“Yes!” Scrooge squealed. “Finally, a human!”
“Oh, I’m not human,” the voice said. “You’ve been escalated. Welcome to The Otherworldly Holiday Hotline. For… the special ones.”
There was a pop. Suddenly, Scrooge wasn’t in his penthouse anymore. He was pent-up, standing in an office lit entirely by strings of flashing Christmas lights. Filing cabinets stretched to the horizon. A tiny elf, wearing a headset with reindeer antlers, slurped eggnog and squinted at a screen.
“Queue numbers are just getting longer,” the elf chimed. “We’ve got puppies, endless snow days, reconciliations with estranged mothers-in-law—it’s chaos, but it’s Christmas chaos.” He grinned. “And you. We’ve got you now. Ebenezer Scrooge. One of our most… complicated clients.”
“I demand broadband,” Scrooge snarled. “Now.”
The elf spun his monitor around. The screen read SUBJECT: SCROOGE, EBENEZER. KNOWN HOLIDAY HAZARD. KEEP UNDER OBSERVATION.
“Outrageous!” Scrooge snapped. “I’m a paying customer!”
“Sir, a reliable source, verified by our good selves, reported that last year you filed paperwork suggesting Christmas should be reclassified as a taxable event.”
Scrooge scoffed proudly. “A sound proposal. Backed by reliable numbers.”
The elf chuckled. “Rules are rules. You’ve triggered escalation.” He snapped his fingers.
Now Scrooge sat at a table opposite three figures. They looked like overworked mall Santas. Each wore a badge: Spirit of Holidays Past (Retired), Spirit of Holidays Present (Part-Time), Spirit of Holidays Yet-to-Come (Intern).
Scrooge put his head in his hands. “Bah! You’ve got to be kidding!”
Holiday Past cleared his throat. “Standard protocol. To restore your internet, you must pass three festive challenges.”
“Humiliating! I don’t do challenges,” Scrooge growled. “I do profit margins.”
“First,” Past continued, “wrap a present with gratitude.”
A box appeared. Then wrapping paper with a design of Christmas bells. Then gift-wrap tape.
Scrooge scowled. He slammed the paper onto the box, taped it aggressively—like he was taping Past’s mouth shut, pulled a pen from his pocket, and scrawled TO: NOT MY PROBLEM. FROM: SOMEONE GRATEFUL THAT THEY’VE GOT MORE THAN YOU.
The Spirits exchanged weary glances.
“Technically counts,” muttered Present. “Second! Give holiday cheer to a stranger.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Scrooge spotted headset antlers peaking above a filing cabinet and said, “Congratulations on not being fired yet.”
The elf showed his tiny face and smiled. “…Thanks?”
“Counts.” Past sighed.
The intern bounced in his chair. “Final challenge! Dance to Jingle Bell Rock.”
“Never,” Scrooge snapped, crossing his arms.
“No dance, no Wi-Fi,” said Present.
There are moments in every miser’s life when survival outweighs dignity. As the bells began to jingle, slowly, painfully, Scrooge stood up and began to shimmy. His bones creaked. His knees popped like bubble wrap. His hips rotated with the grace of a malfunctioning Christmas carousel.
The intern clapped in delight. “He’s doing it! He’s… Oh dear, he’s really doing it.”
When the ordeal ended, Scrooge collapsed, gasping.
The spirits huddled.
Past: “Technically he passed.”
Present: “Barely.”
Intern: “Can we keep the video for training purposes?”
Past nodded solemnly. “Your internet will be restored… at the stroke of Christmas morning.”
“Christmas morning?” Scrooge howled. “That’s hours of market fluctuations lost, and it’s an official market holiday!”
“Rules are rules,” Present said, shrugging. “Happy holiday.”
Pop!
Scrooge was back in his penthouse. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone, but his router was blinking merrily. His phone buzzed. Notification: Jingle Bell Rock Dance Disaster. 1.5 million views.
Scrooge stared at the number. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled.
“Perhaps… there’s profit in this.”
Before New Years, Scrooge was the world’s most reluctant holiday influencer, #GhostedThenPosted. He was straight-up living his best Christmas life online, uploading miserly dance routines, #BahHumbugBoogie, that were lowkey fire, reviewing discount fruitcakes with venomous wit, and monetizing every click to the max. Every new post had followers buzzing: #ScroogeSleighsChristmas #MainCharacterMoves #GhostlyGrooves. He turned from grinch-level salty to full festive boss.
@HumbugHustler spent his holiday time more wisely than miserly, and the revenue was compounding, which, at last, gave him his own inner Christmas cheer. He even upgraded to the festive package.
And it was always said of him in the social media comments that he knew how to keep Christmas well.
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