The Jew Who Saved Christmas - Act 1

One, two, three. Tate O'Reed, the Jew who saved Christmas! Woo! The Jew Who Saved Christmas, written by Selena Warren and Marissa Reed. Episode one, Interior, O'Hare Airport, Chicago, early evening. The airport is bustling with holiday excitement. O'Hare Hall is decked out with boughs of holly. Red velvet bows hang festively. Light-up turtle doves float below the skylight, sealing where snowflakes dance to carols playing over the loudspeakers. It's Christmas Eve. On the moving walkway, we meet our hero, Bernie Gold. The neon lights turn blue and white, creating a halo of Jewish light around our lead. Bernie is a mess. Her spirit airlines uniform is untucked and unwashed. With zero fucks to give, Bernie takes a massive hit off her vape. As she exhales, our title slaps, The Jew Who Saved Christmas. Bernie! Introducing the bane of Bernie's existence, Agent Gimble, a TSA agent who takes his job very seriously. His muscles bulge out of his uniform as he scolds Bernie. If I gave a rat ass about Christmas, I'd say you just gave me a present. Agent Gimble writes up a formal complaint. Vaping violation, code 219. No way you're getting out of this one. Enjoy getting shit kicked. Cough, cough, cough, cough, cough. Bernie blows her vape smoke directly into his chiseled trap before walking away. I will get you gone, Bernie! Interior spirit airlines counter O'Hare moments later. Bernie stands behind the check-in counter, staring blankly at an angry customer, his overweight bag on the scale between them. I'm already paying a fee for choosing my seat, a fee for my backpack, a fee to drink water. And now you want me to pay an extra $25 because my bag is one pound overweight? I don't make the rules, sir. I just barely get paid to enforce them. You can't make an exception. It's one pound. Your airline is named Spirit and it's Christmas Eve. Or the seventh night of Hanukkah. The customer wipes away the spit that landed in his eye. Bernie leans over the counter. Tell you what, I'm gonna help you out. Yes, thank you. Lose the wine and no matter the way it all waved the sea. Unbelievable. The angry customer digs through his bag and slams the bottle on the counter. As he walks away. Enjoy Baltimore! Bernie turns to Eve, her best friend, and festive co-worker. Eve's joyous direct and is a firm believer of faith. As Eve lugs heavy bags onto the conveyor belt, Bernie gooses her with the bottle of wine. Don't do that! Now I don't have to pick up a bottle for the party tonight. It's a Hanukkah miracle. I didn't know your kind had those. We invented them. Cheers, bitch! You just shoved that up my butt and now you're gonna serve it to your family? Duh. Eve reaches under the counter to grab something. If your crewed as celebrated my reason for the season, you'd get nothing but coal. Since you don't, I got you a little something for Hanukkah. Aw, Eve, you got me a present? Good, cause I also got you something. Bernie reaches under her side of the counter and pulls out more contraband, this time absent. I saw you compensate that. Yeah, for you, you're welcome. Okay, my turn. Bernie unwraps her gift in her face drops when she sees that inside lies a flight attendant application. You filled out my application? You're welcome. That's mail fraud. You've been putting it off. Look, B, I still really wanna go through training together, but I can't wait any longer. I'm manifesting getting my wings in the new year. This was hate mail, not a present. I know you don't believe in signs. Uh! But I printed out my application and two came out. See? Everything happens for a reason. Stop quoting your psychic. He's my pastor, but he is deeply intuitive. Eve. I'm just saying that clearly a higher power is guiding me to be your light. Follow me, let me help you. Jews don't get saved. And besides, I'm not taking advice from a woman who believes that my choices are dictated by the universe. Eve slapsticks a checked luggage tag to Bernie's forehead. Ow! Someone had to check your ego. You did have to be to Missouri? Everyone needs help sometimes, Bernie. When are you gonna get a grasp of that? Bernie opens her mouth to argue, but stops herself thinking. Okay. Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I am? Yes. I am ready to admit that I need help. From you. Right now, actually. Bernie, I'm not covering for you. You can cover for me! I wanna hit up the dispensary before they close. Thank you! You are such a good friend. Merry Christmas, Eve, Eve. Bernie hops over the counter grabbing her wine. You are so annoying. Save you some soup, Gagnote. I don't speak Jewish. Not a language! Yes, yes, yes, yes. Bernie exits into the snowy night. Eve looks down at the left behind application. She shakes her head in disappointment. Exterior, streets of Chicago, early evening. Bernie walks down the magnificent mile, lit up with Christmas windows displays as her AirPods blast the score to home alone, interrupting her jovial jam or multiple texts from her family. Text alert from mom. Bernie, do you have enough wine? Dad likes dry whites. Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! Bernie rolls her eyes. Text alert from bitch sister. Make sure you lock your bedroom. The garage isn't safe for baby Samuel. Five isn't a baby you psychopath. Text alert from Auntie Orna. Friendly reminder, no peanut emoji. Peanut emoji, peanut emoji. Text alert from mom. I pulled out the dining room leaf so you wouldn't scratch it like you did last time. Bernie takes out her AirPods and all is silent. She suddenly calmed, odd for a woman headed down an unlit alley. Bernie puts her keys between her fingers, strolling until she lands under a neon sign reading the Kosh Kosh. Bernie kisses her fingers before touching a Mizzuzza, which buzzes her in. Interior, the Kosh Kosh, continuous. Bernie heads to the counter and picks up a displayed shofar. Bernie's out there. It's a ram's horn used to ring in the Jewish New Year. A sign reads, blow me. Bernie follows suit. A long toot rings out. Te-ki-ya! Through a beaded curtain enters Benjamin. Benjamin's sports pay us in a man bun. Think Jewish Dave Matthews. Bernie! Ha ha ha! Benjamin and Bernie's secret handshake over the counter. He slides Bernie a new cartridge for her vape. On the house for the holiday bro-ski. I'm Benjamin, but I'll be needing more than this for tonight. Ha ha! That's right! It's your big night, seven fiesta. First night hosting since 2011. The infamous night for fire. Your local legend, ya diddy. Benjamin points to a framed Chicago Tribune clipping. The headline reads, miracle of frights. Hanukkah party gone wrong. Oil fire burns family home. I've asked you to take that down. Benjamin shakes his head. Never. Well, that's old news because after tonight, my name and Hanukkah won't be associated with fire. Actually, it will be, but the gen Z good kind. Hell yeah, friend. So how can I help you get redemptive frights? You looking for indica in the couch situation or a pre-party pump up? Benjamin, I'm not smoking before my party. My family's already taking cash bets on me beefing it. I just want something for after to help me unwind. I got just the thing, my man. Benjamin ducks below the counter and pops back up with gold wrapped gelt. Bernie inspects the tag. Miracle gelt. Just one bite and in one night, eight crazy adventures will ignite. I do love a theme. Eight miracles per serving. My soft on Israel got these eats from some ancient rabbi who's a descendant of the Maccabees. This shit's got salt from the Dead Sea. Dates from the West Bank. It's blessed by like four holy beards. Yeah, okay, easy on the hard sell. I'm down for audibles. Thanks, Ben. All right, I'm out. Wish me luck. Jews don't believe in luck. Only bucks. 50, actually. Yeah, it's still cheaper than therapy. Happy Hanukkah, Shmuck. As Bernie pays in heads out, a customer blows the shofar in Benjamin's face. I'm right here. Interior Bernie's parents' house, Night. Jewish instrumental drops as we see inserts of Bernie preparing for the party. A blue tablecloth parachutes open. A gleaming menorah is set atop. Oil bubbles as potato luck abatters flatters. Manashevitz flows down a tower of stacked coops. Draidels and gelt are spread out on the kitty table. A best of Barbara record spins. Jelly is squeezed into donuts. A star of David Necklace is secured over Bernie's throat. Interior living room, later that night. Bernie beams with pride as her family enjoys her party, looking spiffy in her blue dress. Bernie dances around gracefully, offering latkes from a tray. She lands at the family gossip. Auntie Orna, latke. Bernie, you look gorgeous. Dressing up as someone special, you're still single. Still single. Bernie laughs it off as she continues on. Daddy, Zady, latke. Bernadette, you find your own place yet? Or you're still freeloading off your parents? Still freeloading! Ha ha ha ha! Bernie continues on, the tray leading her to Uncle Gary, a man who is mostly nose hairs. There she is, my juice stewardess! Can I finally get a free ticket to Bermuda? Or is he still... There he is. What's up? What's up? There he is. Ha ha ha ha! There she is, my juice stewardess! Can I finally get a free ticket to Bermuda? Or are you still just a check-in girl? Bernie opens her mouth to reply, but her very pregnant and uptight older sister, Rami, answers for her. Still just a check-in girl. She's afraid of flying and wants to be a flight attendant. I actually think the poetic stupidity sums up Bernie to a T. Uncle Gary stares blankly at Bernie. There's an awkward beat. Gary! Did you know Rami is a lawyer? Isn't that impressive? She helped send marriages. What a hero! Rami, tell Gary about your cases in Placenta. A knock on the door saves the day. Bernie answers, revealing Carol's singers. Bernie's neighbors, dressed in yuletide, immediately burst into song. Hi Phil, we're actually in the middle of... Can you just stop singing for one? How long is the song? You know what? I don't have time for... Shut the fuck up! Bernie's scream makes the Carol singers abruptly stop. Phil, Bernie's net Flandre's neighbor, rests his hands on his Von Trapp-looking son's shoulders. I'm sorry Phil, what can I do you for? We're in the middle of a Hanukkah party. Sorry to intrude Bernie, we do know you're Jewish. My quotations. But we wanted to include you in the Christmas fun. How neighborly. But it is I that should include you. Why don't you join in on our Hanukkah fun? Phil's toe-headed child grabs his dad in fear. Dad, no! If we go in there Santa will think I'm Jewish. He'll skip our house and I won't get my Nintendo Switch. Maybe next time Bernie. It's not like Hanukkah has a shortage of knights. And yet y'all still picked Christmas Eve to celebrate. Well, okay, we're off to finish the rounds. Spread the cheer. Convert the masses. Pardon? Merry Christmas Phil, area neighbors. They start to sing, Mary did you know, as Bernie slams the door in their faces. Interior living room later. The family is gathered around as Bernie lights the menorah. Everyone sings the prayer. Baruch, Baruch, Atah, Nalun, Elame, Nuh, Mele, Halam. I share it is Shannub on its bata. Viznibonah, Luhad, Vignesh, Shalun, Nukah. Nuh, hal. Do you want to do that again? I thought it was perfect. It's perfect. It's perfect. You keep coming. Says our fake. Everyone claps and celebrates. Bernie's mother Fran pinches Bernie's arm. Hey kid, you did good. Real good. Thanks mom. I mean, I have to be honest, I was worried. I was not confident that this would be such a success. I upped our insurance policy. The addition's barely a decade old. Yeah, that's nice mom. But you're really growing up. I know a lot of millennials had to move back in with their parents. I mean, not your sister, but you did. You're always a little behind. Mom, you were complimenting me, I think. Right, sorry. What I'm trying to say is tonight, after refusing my excellent party planning advice and ignoring your sister's offer to cater, you still, what I mean is everything you did was absolutely beyond. Wow, you can't let me have one compliment without. But Rami's not the only one clearing her throat. Bernie looks around as her family erupts into hacking fits, hives, itchy palms and swollen faces. Bernie, Bernie nothing had peanuts, right? Mom, no, I know everyone's allergic, I'm not an idiot. Fran takes off into the interior kitchen, continuous. She opens cabinets, drawers and bags as Bernie shadows her. Mom, you're stressing out for no reason. Sure, our family may be a little. Congested, but it could be anything. Fran continues to search for the source. Bernie follows her, making her case. I would not have done something so careless. I overprepared for tonight, that by the way, you were just complimenting me on. So we could sit here and spend our night searching for a phantom peanut that does not exist, or you could let me finish during the best Hanukkah party this family has ever seen. Fran turns around slowly, lips now straight out of Kylie's syringe. She is holding up a huge tub of Arachias oil. What? That's not, that's not peanut oil. I splurged for the fancy stuff, it was like seven extra dollars. Arachias oil is peanut oil. Fran and Bernie re-enter the interior living room, continuous. We gotta go to the ER. David, start the car, get the EpiPen. They see everyone shuffling out. Bernie grabs her coat and is almost out the door when her sister stops her. No, you've done enough. Bernie is left behind watching her family load into their car as they try not to die. Interior Bernie's bedroom, converted garage hours later. Now in her PJs, a giant Hanukkah hoodie and tidy whiteies, Bernie lies in bed watching TV. A Christmas commercial where a gooey chocolate chip cookie is pulled apart makes Bernie perk up. Nestle. Wheew, whew. Sexiest Irish life ever. Sexual. I tried, okay, wait. Nestle, the only cookie suitable for Santa. Fuck yeah. Bernie is covered in flour dough as she mixes cookie dough and searches the cupboard. Chocolate chips, chocolate chips. Not finding the goods, Bernie thinks and then spots the kitty gelt on the table. Light bulb moment. Oh yeah, miracle gelt. Smashed to Edgar Wright style inserts, an underwear drawer, flies open, miracle gelt is snatched. A chocolate coin is smashed with a meat tenderizer. Cookie dough is spooned onto a sheet and shoved in an oven. A window flies open. Bernie fans out potent smoke. Ding, cookies are ready. Interior living room later. Bernie plops onto the couch, holding a plate of edible chocolate chip cookies. She grabs one and immediately burns her finger. Ouch. Patience, practice patience. She sets the cookies aside and clicks on the TV. Adam Sandler's eight crazy night starts. That's all we get. Bernie yawns and rubs her eyes. Seconds later, she's fully conked out, mouth open, drooling. Time lapse, breaking the sound of white noise and snores is an eerie creaking, not coming from doors. Scuffling and sleigh bells are heard from the roof. The clatter continues till we see the proof. Soot quaffs out of the fireplace and we introduce Santa in all of his grays. He is the perfect Coca-Cola claws, jolly red circular cheeks, tiny gold frames that sit on the tip of his button nose and the kindest blue eyes you've ever seen. Santa puts down his big red bag and spots the cookies. Mmm. He makes a beeline for the baked goods and takes a bite. But as he chomps, he notices that something isn't kosher, or rather it is. His eyes snap too. A menorah, a dreidel, manashevis, latkes, unwrapped socks, a black amix, and finally, Bernie, who is now wide awake. Santa stares back at her in confusion until his list magically flies up. It smacks him on the hand, unscrolls, and floats before him. As Santa inspects the list, he sees the check twice box is empty. He shakes his head and gives a belly laugh. Oh, always check twice. Bernie, frozen on the other side of the couch, tries to reason with herself. I'm dreaming. Santa inspects his list further. Oh, cringle. You're at the wrong house. I'm stoned. Better get this Nintendo next door too sweet. I didn't have a cookie. She notices the half-bitten cookie. Did I? She did not. But Santa did. It's about to go up the chimney when that shit hits. We smash Zoom into Santa's eye and go on a galactic journey through candy cane fields and snowflakes galore. The snowflakes take the form of stars of David, a menorah rushes to the forefront, and a lone hand lights the first candle. Benjamin's floating head appears. Miracle one. Go for latke and get fried. We are sucked out of Santa's eye. He's a frozen statue, unable to speak or move. Excuse me? Hello, mister? Santa's stoic. Bernie grabs a cheese knife from a nearby charcuterie and points it at Santa. Listen, man. I don't know if you're like a John Wayne Gacy, stepped instead of clowns. You do like a Santa thing. But my finger is on my Lady Walk app. And if you don't leave, I'll release it. And cops will be here. Pronto. Santa has no reaction. Bernie stares at him nervously until Santa's scroll begins to glow and vibrate. What the? The list magically presents itself to Bernie. She sees etch-a-sketched images of her neighbor Phil's Von Trapp's son unwrapping a Nintendo Switch, a flashing title reads, Undelivered. Nintendo Switch? How did you know? An error sign flashes reading, Wrong House, Jew. The list magically scrolls up and flies back to Santa, burrowing into his jacket. Holy fuck. He's real. You're real. It's true. It's all true. It's beautiful. My god. You're Santa. Bernie notices the cookie crumbs in Santa's beard and remembers he ate the edible. I drugged Santa. I drugged Santa. Oh, no. I already ruined Hanukkah. I can't ruin Christmas. I'm a Jewish Grinch. OK, OK. He's just a little stoned. What do I do when I'm too fried? Snacks. Bernie picks up some brie and runs over to him. Cheese? Mr. Claus? She tries to feed him, but it falls to the floor. She's stoned to eat? Been there? OK, no problem. Goldwater. Bernie rushes to the fridge and fills up a glass of ice water, but when she tries to make Santa drink, it slops down his mouth. Come on, Santa. Work with me here. She dips her fingers into the water and splashes them repeatedly. Nothing. A gust of wind howl. Fresh air. Yeah, always slowers me up. OK, so how do you, um? Bernie gestures to the chimney. Front door. Front door is good. Time jump. Santa's arms are now draped over Bernie's shoulders as she attempts to drag him to the door. Almost there. OK, I can do it. No, no. I need a break. OK, let's just rest for a minute. Bernie props Santa upright. He balances for a moment until he slowly falls backwards and breaks the coffee table. Glass shatters and food flies. I killed Santa. Santa's eyes squint open. He smiles, feeling fine. Oh, thank god. Good sign. Good sign. Bernie tugs on Santa's hands, trying to get him up. Come on. A little wind on your face, and you'll be right it's right to deliver happiness to the youth of the world, and I will in no way have hindered it. Bernie grabs Santa's belt to hoist him up and notices the buckiless, actually, a button reading, push. Feels unspecific. Bernie pushes the button. Suddenly, a magnetic force begins to suck Santa towards the chimney. Bernie, tangled up with Santa, becomes Christmas cocktail. Bernie. Bernie, tangled up with Santa, becomes Christmas roadkill. She flies backwards. She hits her head on the ground. She's dragged, getting third degree rug burns. Bernie claws at the rug, but it's no use. The rug goes with. In a last ditch effort to save her skin, Bernie throws her arms out, stopping herself as the base of the chimney. After a brief moment of resignation, Bernie looks straight into the barrel for our first. Oy. We can't do this. Bernie gets sucked up the chimney. Bricks and soup explode out, destroying the living room. Exterior roof, seconds later. Santa and Bernie are shot out of the chimney onto the snowy roof. Bernie lands, face down, ass up, looking like a Jewish schmuck. Santa has landed perfectly in the sleigh. Bernie gets up and takes in the sleigh's majestic glory. She runs her fingers along the cranberry paint and velvety upholstery. She travels down the reins to nine noble reindeer. Bernie's smile is ear to ear. This is real life magic. Wow. This is, I can't believe it. It's a freaking fairy tale. You truly fly around and make the world a better place by spreading pure Christmas cheer. Bernie realizes Santa has passed out asleep. Drull city. Right. I weep, roofied Santa. Bernie attempts to wake him, but he's out cold. She takes a deep breath, climbs into the sleigh, and leans her head on his shoulders. Father Christmas, your majesty, I want to be the person who makes it all about themselves, but I will not come back from this. Jews specialize in guilt. And if my drug habit single-handedly takes down Christmas, it will be bleak for me, OK? It will be rough. Bernie turns to Santa's cheek, desperately whispering so close to his face. Antisemitism? All time high right now. Jews don't have helifans in the best of times, so it cannot be my fault that Christmas doesn't happen. Santa, wake up. Come on, Santa. Handle your shit. Bernie has taken Santa's lifeless arms and is waving them in the air. From the streets below, Bernie's neighbor, Phil, and his Von Trapp son are walking home from caroling. They spot Bernie from afar with Santa and assume he's a decoration. Look at that. No more dark house on the block. So glad you're finally decorating and getting into the spirit. Back on the roof, the sleigh's radio turns on, and Elf's voice comes through. Santa, you sure are taking your tinsel time getting to those orphans in Indiana. Is everything plum pudding over there? Orphans? She grabs the radio. Hello? Hi. This is my name is Bernie Gold, and there's a slight situation here with Santa. An interruption of elves comes through the radio. A situation? She's angry. Put Santa on. Santa is asleep. I'm sorry you never sleep. He's a Christmas vampire. Santa went to the wrong house, my house, and some stuff went down. And now he's basically not good to go. You ruined Christmas. What did you do to Santa? You will be remembered for only this. No, no, no. It's not ruined. I didn't ruin a, I can help. I can fix it. He's not good to go, but I am good to go. Just tell me how to. I know. You've done enough. OK, having day job view. The head elf, Sotnik, takes over. Just turn the sleigh on to autopilot and bring Santa back to the North Pole. I can do that. Where is autopilot? Bernie looks at the dashboard, which is old school, meters and dials galore with confusing symbols. Quit scrouching around. Satanics on a spring schedule. We've already lost Indiana. And who knows how long it'll take to get Santa feeling pine once he's here. Christmas may be lost for some. But not all if you move your fit Christmas hand. OK. OK. Feels like you spent a lot of time yelling at me when you could have just told me where to look. Find it. OK, OK. I'm sorry. This is not a normal situation. Wait, wait. I think I found it. Bernie spots a hidden lever under the dash with a symbol that looks like Santa on a roller coaster. Bernie's hand hovers over the lever thinking. So should I come with to make sure that he's? No! That would make no frankincense. This is clearly your fault because before you, Bernie Gold, Santa never went silent night on the job. You clearly bring bad tidings. Bernie, a nerve struck, sits back from the lever. You better turn the fudging autopilot on right now. Bernie flips off the radio and has an epiphany. Holy shit. This is one of Eve's signs. Everything happens for a reason. I'm not buying that on the night I ruined my holiday, you show up just so I can ruin yours. That's like two on the nose. Bernie turns to an asleep Santa as she continues to hunt down her theory. I don't think you came to my house by accident. You're Santa. Your whole thing is believing in people. I think. I don't actually know. I grew up on John Lovett. It's not Rudolph. But maybe you're here because no one in my life believes in me. Bernie gets some moxie. But they're wrong. Aren't they, Santa? All right. I'm going to try. I could pull this off. I mean, I can't let a bunch of Indiana orphans wake up disappointed because of me. I'm not going down in history as a worst Jew than not in Yahoo. Bernie grabs Santa's lifeless hand. OK. I'll follow the light. Let's do this. Let's go. Save Christmas. End of episode one. Woo! Woo! That's so bad. Mary, did you know that you're a baby boy? Text alert from Mom. I pulled out the dining room leaf so you wouldn't scratch it like you did last time. That was so good. Yeah, that was incredible. I do love those jobs. That's incredible. I'm so used to it. She sounds that way all the time. 500 orders a month was manageable. 5,000 is madness. Embrace intelligent order fulfillment with ShipStation. The only platform combining order management, warehouse workflows, inventory, returns, and analytics in one place. What used to take five separate tools, ShipStation does in one. Go to shipstation.com and use code start to try ShipStation free for 60 days.