"No room at the inn"

“No room at the inn”
by David Benjamin

It was a bitterly cold winter afternoon, in a month that would someday be known as December, in the town of Bethlehem, when the weary newlyweds — a dewy maiden big with child and her grizzled sexagenarian spouse — limped into the little hamlet. The girl was bundled against the chill and perched on the bony back of a tired and balky ass.

“Ouch,” said the husband, Joseph, looking up at the entrance to Bethlehem’s only inn, “my dogs are barkin’.”

“Dogs?” said the wide-eyed bride, who seemed to radiate from within a wondrous motherly light. “We don’t have any dogs.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Mary dear,” said the husband. “My feet — ”

“Hi there, folks!” The innkeeper burst into the midst of the conversation, bustling through the sturdy oaken door. “Welcome to the Bethlehem Arms!”

Joseph was surprised at the warmth of the hotelier’s greeting. Since Caesar had ordered his cruel census, forcing everyone in Israel to trek mile upon mile in the dead of winter to the villages of their birth, Joseph had noticed that every local inn was spilling over with bedraggled travelers. Many of them could find no lodging indoors and had to sleep — men, women, children, donkeys, dogs and oxen — on the frozen, stony earth. “No room at the inn” had become the byword of this harsh season.

“My name,” said the innkeeper, “is Xofar. I run this little hostel — and a fine little inn she is, if I do say so myself.”

Joseph sighed. “I assume,” he said, “that there is no room for us at your fine little inn.”

“Funny you should ask,” chirped Xofar. “We didn’t have room, actually. Until a minute ago, when this angry woman came by — all decked out in her wedding finery and raving about some “two-timing tinhorn” — and cancelled her reservation for the Bridal Suite, our finest rooms.”

Joseph looked puzzled. Xofar rambled merrily on. “Tell you the truth — er, what is your name, old-timer?”

“Joseph.”

“Well, Joe, I was going to hold the Bridal Suite for these three so-called ‘Wise Men.’ There’s a rumor they’re traversing this way. But then, I saw you with the little lady here. She’s expecting, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I saw that poor little sweetheart, looking all tuckered out on top of that ugly old ass, and I couldn’t help it. I was just overcome by the Christmas spirit.”

“What spirit?” asked Joseph.

“Christmas. A local harvest festival,” said Xofar. “You know, peace on earth, goodwill toward men, deck the halls. That sort of thing.”

“Christmas?” said Joseph to himself, with a mercantile glint in his eye.

“Hmm. Sounds catchy.”

“Well, anyhoo, pal,” said Xofar. “I just decided, at that very moment, I’m gonna make room at my inn for you and the little lady, in my Bridal Suite. At the regular room rate.”

Joseph and Mary realized their good fortune and beamed gratefully at the kindly innkeeper.

Their relief lasted but a moment. Suddenly, in a flash of celestial light, a figure appeared, winged, white-robed and stern.

“Just a second here,” said the weird apparition, thrusting a wing between Xofar and his guests.

“Who you?” said Joseph. The intruder’s hair was thin and disheveled, his beard unkempt, his eyes aglow with righteousness. He was wearing a long-billed cap that bore the strange device “NY”.

“You can call me Cyril,” said the interloper. “I’m guardian angel for the Virgin here.”

“Virgin?” said Xofar, smirking. “Maybe you haven’t noticed…”

“That’s right, ace. Virgin!” said Cyril, freezing Xofar with a withering glare. “You keep out of this, landlord.”

Joseph leaned toward Xofar. “It’s a long story.”

Mary looked the angel up and down. She said, “You’re not the same one who descended onto me nine months ago.”

“No, that was Gabriel, my boss. He couldn’t come back down on short notice. God sent him off to wreak death and vengeance on the Midianites.”

“God?” said Xofar, whose curiosity was running rampant. “Who is he and what’s he got against the Midianites?”

“Have I not told you to butt out, fella?” snapped Cyril. “Why don’t you just go back inside your little fleabag, where you belong?”

“Nothin’ doin’,” said Xofar, somewhat heatedly. “Not without these nice folks. I just offered them the Bridal Suite. Two beds, feather mattresses, indoor plumbing, fresh linen every morning, all the pitted dates you can eat. And no fleas!”

“Bridal Suite?” said Cyril flatly. “Out of the question.”

“Why not?” said Joseph.”Who says?”

“God says!” replied Cyril.”Haven’t I made myself abundantly clear?”

“Who is this God?” blurted Xofar. “And what sort of god would kick a pregnant girl out of a nice warm — ”

Ignoring Xofar, Cyril said to Joseph, “Remember, Joe. You’re the lucky stiff who was plucked by God from wretched obscurity to be husband to the Virgin Mary, mother of the Son of God — ”

“Whoa, you really think she is a virgin, don’tcha?” said Xofar. “Maybe if I explain it slowly — ”

“Why are you still here?” asked Cyril, poking Xofar in the chest.

Joseph intervened. “Hey, angel. If we’re seriously talking Son of God here, shouldn’t his mom have a decent bed for the birthing of the babe?”

“Joe, pay attention,” said Cyril, ruffling his pinfeathers. “Your stepson is destined by the Word of God on High to be a man of people even simpler than you are. He will pose as a carpenter, bosom friend to ignorant fishermen and peasants. He will transcend his humble beginnings, preach God’s Word from mountaintops, lead great throngs of rapturous believers, turn water to wine, cure lepers, raise the dead and, finally, offer himself up to God the Father in the greatest sacrifice ever known. He will rise from the dead as the Savior of all humankind. Joe, you see what I’m getting at?”

Xofar said, “Well, Jesus! I sure don’t.”

“Jesus?” said Mary. “Hmm.”

Cyril glowered at the frustrated innkeeper. He turned to Joseph. “We’re being watched right now, from up there.”

“Up where?” said Xofar.

Cyril nodded profoundly.

“Okay, I think I understand,” said Joseph. “This is all gonna get written up, isn’t it?”

“There you go,” said Cyril. “Now, how’s it gonna look if the Savior should be born in the fanciest hotel room in all of Judea?”

“Wouldn’t bother me at all,” said Mary. “My back is killing me. I’ve been constipated for a month. And I need to pee so bad my teeth are swimming.”

“Well, Mary,” said Cyril, “you’re gonna have to pee in the stable. You can crouch behind the cow.”
“The stable?” said Mary.

“Darn tootin’, sweetheart. Did you think being anointed as the Mother of God was gonna be a day at the beach?”

“And this guy calls himself an angel?” muttered Mary.

“I won’t stand for this,” said Xofar. “This woman needs clean sheets, hot water and privacy — not to mention a little help from my cousin Sadie, the midwife. I wouldn’t tie up a dog in that stable overnight. It’s dark, dirty, it stinks and the animals could trample the poor girl to death — or worse yet, the little Christchild.”

“Christchild,” said Joseph. “After the local festival?”

“Has a nice ring to it,” said Mary.

“Please, not the stable,” protested Xofar. “The shepherds keep sneaking in there to use it for a toilet!”

“Sorry, I have my orders,” said Cyril resolutely. “I’m on a mission from God.”

“Aren’t we all?” said Joseph under his breath.

Cyril turned to Mary. He said, “The good news is that your long wait is over tonight. I’ve been sent down to induce labor.”

Mary looked mildly anxious.

“Don’t worry,” said Cyril. “God’s going to send a bright star, a few more angels, lots of shepherds.”

“Shepherds?” said Mary. “Who asked for shepherds?”

Cyril rattled on. “It’ll be very picturesque. You can wrap the holy infant in swaddling clothes and lay him in the manger.”

“Swaddling clothes? What are swaddling clothes?”

“Everyone asks me that,” said Cyril.

Joseph and Mary gave in, resigning themselves to a cold night in the stable. After all, they’d been operating under heavenly orders for almost a year. Xofar, who was new to this regime, was still miffed.

“Hey, you with the wings,” he said.

“Cyril,” said the angel, yanking the reins on the reluctant ass.

“Yeah, Cyril,” said Xofar. “I wonder if you could put in a good word with this God guy, tell him I did my Christian duty. Offered the girl the best room in the joint.”

Cyril was leading the couple toward the back of the inn, where the stable occupied a marshy depression.

“No can do, pal,” Cyril said to Xofar. “When people read the new Testament, 2,000 years from now, you’re gonna be the stingy son of a bitch who turned away Mary and Joseph and sent them to birth the — what was that term you used?”

“Christchild.”

“Right, you’ll be the bastard who forced the holy Virgin to birth the Christchild on a bed of filthy straw.”

Seeing that the die was cast, Xofar said, “Okay then, but please, one little, tiny favor, please.”

“What now?” asked Cyril.

“Could you just leave my name out of the story?”

Cyril turned slightly, catching Xofar’s eye in the corner of his own eye. “Name?” he said. “What name?”

At that, Mary, still astride the ass, felt her first contraction. “Ow!” she exclaimed, slapping the beast. The ass promptly threw her to the ground. She walked the rest of the way.
Joseph spied a mob of shepherds clearing a nearby hill, making a bee line for the stable, which already overflowed with steaming livestock. A blinding light from On High dazzled him as he stumbled into a fresh cowflop.

Meanwhile, Cyril had already ditched Mary and Joseph to join a band of angels who were bending toward the earth to touch their harps of gold.

“Harps of gold. Just what we need,” muttered Joseph, looking around the stable. A donkey brayed, an ox farted, a sheep stepped on Mary’s foot as she was feeling another contraction. She kicked aside a lamb and took over its bed of straw.

Xofar shrugged, deciding that the whole family, especially the shmuck with the wings, was meshuggah. He headed back to his inn, to spruce up the Bridal Suite for the Three Magi, figuring he could probably triple the usual rate.

For him, it was the best Christmas ever.