Read Online A Christmas Story by Jean Shepherd - Free Book Online Page A

had screwed it atop the fulsome thigh, and there it stood, a full four feet from coquettishly pointed toe to sparkling crystal. His eyes boggled behind his Harold Lloyd glasses.
    “My God! Ain’t that great? Wow!!”
    He was almost overcome by Art.
    “What a great lamp!”
    “Oh … I don’t know.”
    My mother was strictly the crocheted-doily type.
    “What a great lamp! Wow! This is exactly what we need for the front window. Wow!”
    He swept up the plastic trophy, his symbol of Superiority, and rushed out through the dining room and into theliving room. Placing the lamp squarely in the middle of the library table, he aligned it exactly at the center of the front window. We trailed behind him, applauding and yipping. He was unrolling the cord, down on all fours.
    “Where’s the damn plug?”
    “Behind the sofa.”
    My mother answered quietly, in a vaguely detached tone.
    “Quick! Go out in the kitchen and get me an extension!”
    Our entire world was strung together with “extensions.” Outlets in our house were rare and coveted, each one buried under a bakelite mound of three-way, seven-way, and ten-way plugs and screw sockets, the entire mess caught in a twisted, snarling Gordian knot of frayed and cracked lamp cords, radio cords, and God knows what. Occasionally in some houses a critical point was reached and one of these electrical bombs went off, sometimes burning down whole blocks of homes, or more often blowing out the main fuse, plunging half the town into darkness.
    “Get the extension from the toaster!”
    He shouted from under the sofa where he was burrowing through the electrical rat’s nest.
    I rushed out into the kitchen, grabbed the extension, and scurried back to the scene of action.
    “Give it to me! Quick!”
    His hand reached out from the darkness. For a few moments—full silence, except for clickings and scratchings. And deep breathing from behind the sofa. The snap of a few sparks, a quick whiff of ozone, and the lamp blazed forth inunparalleled glory. From ankle to thigh the translucent flesh radiated a vibrant, sensual, luminous orange-yellow-pinkish nimbus of Pagan fire. All it needed was tom-toms and maybe a gong or two. And a tenor singing in a high, quavery, earnest voice:
    “A pretty girl/Is like a melody.…”
    It was alive!
    “Hey, look.”
    The Old Man was reading from the instruction pamphlet which had been attached to the cord.
    “It’s got a two-way switch. It says here: ‘In one position it’s a tasteful Night Light and in the other an effective, scientifically designed Reading Lamp.’ Oh boy, is this great!”
    He reached up under the shade to throw the switch.
    “Why can’t you wait until the kids are in bed?”
    My mother shoved my kid brother behind her. The shade had a narrow scallop of delicate lace circling its lower regions.
    “Watch this!”
    The switch clicked. Instantly the room was flooded with a wave of pink light that was pure perfume of illumination.
    “Now that is a real lamp!”
    The Old Man backed away in admiration.
    “Hey wait. I want to see how it looks from the outside.”
    He rushed into the outer darkness, across the front porch and out onto the street. From a half block away he shouted:
    “Move it a little to the left. Okay. That’s got it. You oughta see it from out here!”
    The entire neighborhood was turned on. It could be seen up and down Cleveland Street, the symbol of his victory.
    The rest of that evening was spent in honest, simple Peasant admiration for a thing of transcendent beauty, very much like the awe and humility that we felt before such things as Christmas trees and used cars with fresh coats of Simonize. The family went to bed in a restless mood of festive gaiety. That is, everyone except my mother, who somehow failed to vibrate on the same frequency as my father’s spectacular Additional Major Award.
    That night, for the first time, our home had a Night Light. The living room was bathed through the long, still,