by Dorsey, Tim
Slower and slower until they both came to a complete halt on the sidewalk, twenty yards apart.
They squinted hard. Then their eyes flew open at the same time.
“You!” yelled the fired mall cop.
“You!” yelled the fired assistant mall manager.
They charged and tackled each other on the Davenports’ lawn, rolling and clawing and pulling hair. Both reaching in vain for guns in ankle and belt holsters. A finger got bent back—“Ahhhh!”—an eye gouged—“Ahhhh! . . .”
Inside the house: “What’s all that noise?” said Edith. “Sounds like someone’s fighting.”
“Seems to be coming from the yard,” said Edna.
Jim walked toward the front. “I’ll go check it out.”
He opened the door. Shouting became louder. “I’ll kill you, motherfucker!”
Martha headed for the door because she was concerned, and the G-Unit followed because they were nosy.
Two men scratched and punched, covered with grass and dirt. “You’re a dead man . . .”
“I’ll report you to the police!” yelled Martha.
They were too busy to listen. Then they rolled under better lighting.
“Jim,” said Martha. “That looks like the mall cop I got fired. And the other one’s the assistant mall manager I reported him to. I thought he had hair.”
“He was bald when I fired him,” said Jim.
“You fired the mall manager?”
Just then, the two men stopped rolling to catch their breath. They happened to look up at the couple standing on the front of the porch.
“You!” the ex-mall cop yelled at Martha and Jim.
“You!” the ex-manager yelled at Jim and Martha.
A spontaneous truce to unite against common foes. The men jumped up and charged the house, drawing their guns. Everyone scrambled inside and tried to close the door, but the security guard crashed through.
Soon everyone was crammed together on the largest sofa, silent, eyes following the two men pacing back and forth through the living room, cursing under their breaths and waving guns.
They crisscrossed again in front of the couch, each chugging from bottles of eggnog.
“I’m sure we can work this out,” said Jim.
“Shut up!” The ex-manager spun with his pistol. “You fired me for nothing. And your stupid wife and her stupid anonymous report got me beat up!”
The guard stepped forward with his own gun. “You got me fired, and you hired professional elves to beat me up!”
“Maybe you should slow down on the drinking,” said Jim. “In a situation like this—”
The guard and manager together: “Shut up! . . .”
Down the hall, Serge and Coleman crawled across ceramic tiles with big wads of toilet paper. “Make sure you wipe everything down and get every last speck. When it comes to bathrooms, wives are like those French boars that sniff out truffles.”
Coleman pulled his head out from behind the toilet. “I think that’s the last of it.”
Serge fished through the cabinet under the sink. “Here’s some air freshener.”
He tossed it to Coleman, who sprayed liberally and set the can on the counter. “What do you think?”
“Smells like you threw up a bowl of potpourri.”
“Did you hear something?” asked Coleman.
“Like what?”
“Yelling.”
“Must be the TV.” They left the bathroom and headed down the hall.
“There’s the yelling again,” said Coleman.
“Now that you mention it,” said Serge. “I don’t remember yelling in the Grinch special.”
They came around the corner. The jingle bells gave them away. Curled felt feet slid to a stop on the hardwood floor. Two men aiming guns at them.
The security guard went ballistic with recognition. “You! You’re the elves who attacked me in the restroom!”
“Wasn’t us,” said Serge. “Must have been those bad elves from the cheatin’ side of town.”
“Shut up!” Then a malicious smile. “The gang’s all here. I get to take everyone out!”
“Hey,” said the ex-manager. “I get some, too.”
“Okay, we’ll split,” said the guard. “Plenty to go around.” Then turning with rage again: “But the elves are mine! . . . Any last words before I blow your brains out?”
“Yes,” said Serge. “I’d like to filibuster . . . The letter A is a vowel and the first in our alphabet derived from alpha in the Greek—”
“No filibuster!”
“The cloture rule isn’t in effect,” said Serge.
“Yes, it is!”
“I never heard a motion from the floor,” said Serge. “Plus, you need a super-majority, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got the votes—”
“Shut up!”
“Parliamentary pussy.”
“That’s it! You die!” The guard stretched out his shooting arm.
From somewhere else: “Now!”
“What the—”
The ex-guard went down first. Then the former mall manager.
Horrible screaming. The two assailants desperately clawed the floor in an attempt to drag themselves to safety.
Four tiny elves swarmed like piranhas. Edith bit an ear, Edna an ankle. Ethel clubbed with the Yule log. Eunice pulled an ornament off the tree and stabbed.
The guard pulled a candy-cane shiv out of his neck. “We give up! Just get ’em off us! . . .”
Serge collected the dropped guns. “Okay, girls, you can get up now . . . Girls? . . . Girls!” He looked at Jim and Coleman. “I need a hand. They’re in a frenzy. And keep your limbs away from their mouths.”
The G-Unit was pulled off the home invaders, kicking and frothing.
“Nice work, gals,” said Serge. “Now dial it down.”
The quartet headed for the eggnog. “That’s what I call fun!” said Edith.
Serge returned his attention to the two bleeding men. “What do you know? The home team rallies again.” He handed Jim one of the guns, and motioned with the other toward the front door. “Might want to start drafting your own last words.”
“Serge! No!” said Jim. “Don’t do it!”
“Do what?” asked Serge. “We’re just going to go out for some laughs . . .” He poked the gun barrel in their ribs. “. . . Right, fellas?”
“I can’t let you do this!” said Jim.
“I’m impressed,” said Serge. “You’re actually confronting me. But they were after your family, and in your house.”
“That’s right,” said Jim. “My family, my house, my rules . . . Besides, it’s Christmas Eve. Look in your heart.”
“I am,” said Serge. “And I see your family’s well-being. If I don’t take care of this and let you turn them over to the police, they’ll eventually forget we showed them mercy. Then they get out of prison, where they’ve had time to do nothing but build a grudge. Some people tend to fixate.”
“I have another idea,” said Jim. “And you always claimed you wanted to be like me.”
TV: “ . . . Just then the Grinch’s heart grew three times its normal size . . .”
“True, true,” said Serge. “Keep talking.”
“They’re angry at me because I fired them,” said Jim. “But there’s another part of my job because of the whole crazy, up-down stock market that dictates bad business decisions.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let me get my briefcase.” Jim ran out of the room.
Serge smiled and shrugged at his prisoners.
Jim returned and opened the attaché case on a coffee table. “They gave me some work I’m supposed to hit after the holidays, but now’s as good a time . . .” He pulled out a file folder. “. . . This is from my firm’s contract with the mall. Seems they’re a little short in the assistant manager position. And because of recent assaults in the restroom and manager’s office, they’re seeking someone with experience in the security industr
y.” He looked up at the former guard. “What do you say?”
“Me? Assistant mall manager?” He lunged and hugged Jim. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! . . .”
“Put me down now.”
“Okay,” said the guard. “You won’t regret this.”
“But what about me?” said the ex-manager.
“I’m getting to that,” said Jim. He pulled out another file. “Because of those same assaults I just mentioned, the mall wants to beef up security. However, because of the anger management problems of recent hires, which resulted in unprofessional behavior toward customers, they’re interested in at least some managerial experience . . . Want it?”
“Me? Mall cop?”
Jim nodded and braced himself for a hug that never came.
“Why not?” said the ex-manager. “I need the work, so sure, I’ll take it.”
The new assistant mall manager looked down and laughed at the new mall cop. “Imagine that! The guy who fired me, and now I’m his supervisor. Well, guess what? You’re fired!”
“Hey!” the bald man said to Jim. “He can’t do that, can he?”
“Yes, he can,” said Jim, picking up a folder again. “But then that leaves me with a new opening. So you’re hired.”
“You’re fired,” said the new assistant manager.
“You’re hired,” said Jim.
“You’re fire—”
Serge jumped in the middle. “Guys, guys! We can do this all night long . . . Now, are you two going to play nice together at the mall? Or do we have to go for a little ride?” Another gesture with the gun. “I’ve got plenty of room in the trunk.”
The two new mall hires glanced at each other, then at Serge. “We’ll get along.”
“Great to hear it! . . . And, Jim, I’m even more in awe. You’ve taught me so much.”
“I need to thank you, too,” said Jim.
“Me, too,” said Martha. She gave him a hug and peck on the cheek good-bye.
“G-Unit? City and Country?” said Serge. “Let’s not wear out our welcome.”
The women stood and tossed back the remains of their eggnog, then filed out the door.
“And, Jim,” said Serge. “Better give me that other gun. You’re not a firearms expert like me and don’t know the rules of gun safety. A lot of people pick them up like this and—”
Bang.
Martha gasped. “My china cabinet! And favorite plates!”
“Guess that’s my cue to leave . . . You need anything at all, we’re just across the street.”
“Serge,” said Jim. “That gunshot. The police will be coming. I think you need to clear completely off the street.”
“Don’t be ridiculous . . .”
Sirens in the distance.
“. . . On second thought.” He stuck his head out the door. “Hey, gals, looks like a road trip’s in the cards.” Then he slapped Jim on the shoulder. “Merry Christmas, dude! . . . Merry Christmas, Nicole! . . . And, Martha . . . Martha? . . . Looks like she’s overcome with emotion over my departure . . . Give her my best.” Serge trotted out the door. “And try not to use that bathroom for a couple days . . .”
CHRISTMAS DAY
A ’72 Chevelle was backed into its parking slot to hide the license plate.
Another anonymous run-down motel along the Gulf of Mexico in St. Pete Beach. But run-down in a positive way in Serge’s book: un-updated, the original furniture and fixtures and god-awful period paneling, freezing the room in time, but clean. Relatively. And it really was anonymous, no sign, address number gone. Looked like it might be closed down, which was almost accurate. A few naked lightbulbs, the old-style orange ones, ran along the walkway by a single row of rooms. But to Serge, the biggest draw was the wild foliage, the canopy of sea grapes, birds of paradise, beach sunflowers, and anything else that not only required no maintenance, but would take over without it.
Serge had hit the brakes just after midnight. “This is it! I love Christmas in a depressing setting like a dumpy motel. Makes you appreciate it more.”
Hours later.
Coleman snored with an alternating high-low-pitched whistle through a big booger.
“Wake up! Wake up!” said Serge. “It’s Christmas!”
“Huh, wha . . . ? What time is it?”
“Five A.M.! It’s been Christmas for hours! I wanted to wake you earlier, but I thought it might be too early, so I hung out with the night manager. You know what’s funky? Little space heaters! I just love hanging out by one early Christmas morning with someone working alone on the overnight shift. Especially if they have whiskers and wine breath and seem like they want you not to bother them, which means they’re lonely, so I offered to buy him Ripple from the convenience store across the street, but not before talking to the convenience store guy, because he also had a space heater, and almost forgot about the first guy until the cops came in for coffee and Slim Jims, so I ran back across the street with the Night Train, and the manager had fallen asleep, and I said, ‘Wake up! Wake up! . . . It’s been Christmas for hours!’ and then he said ‘fuck’ a lot until I got the wine in him and he kicked his feet up and said his bones told him it was going to be a cold morning. And then I noticed the clock and remembered you, so here I am. Merry Christmas! And the old man was right: It’s only forty-two degrees outside, overcast, and I’m flipping out!”
Coleman sat up on the side of the bed and smacked his cottonmouth lips together. “Why are you flipping out?”
“Since a white Christmas is out of the question, the best you can hope for in Florida is a non-sweaty Christmas. Let’s open presents! Santa came! Santa came!”
Serge ran across the room and Coleman followed at a less enthusiastic pace. They took seats across from each other at a small table next to the window overlooking Gulf Boulevard. Clusters of predawn traffic raced by at intervals dictated by the traffic light up the street. In the middle of the table stood a pitiful little Christmas tree that Serge had bought overnight at a twenty-four-hour drugstore. Some of the lights blinked.
“What did I get! What did I get!” said Serge. He reached in a shopping bag, finding two cheerfully wrapped packages. “This one’s for you, and this one’s for me. Who goes first? Can I go first? Please?”
Coleman rubbed crust from his eyes. “Sure . . .”
Serge savagely ripped through the paper. “Oh my God, a vintage View-Master with a reel inside.” He held it to his eyes and clicked through the 3-D photos. “It’s the Overseas Highway from the forties! Here’s how Sloppy Joe’s looked almost seventy years ago!” He lowered the viewer. “Where’d you find it?”
“Antique store. You’re always going on about those things.”
Serge clapped his hands like a trained seal. “Open yours! Open yours!”
Coleman’s present was round. He tore off the paper, then rotated the gift in his hand. “A coconut carved like a monkey’s head. Cool.” He began setting it down.
“But that’s not all,” said Serge.
Coleman looked at it some more. “I see now; it’s a tropical drink cup. There’s a hole on top for a straw.”
“Getting warmer . . .” Serge said coyly.
Coleman scrunched his eyebrows and turned the coconut over again. “Wait, there’s another hole in the back of the monkey’s head, and a third in its mouth with a little bowl. It’s not a cocktail cup at all; it’s a bong! . . . But where’d you learn how to make one?”
“You helped me assemble it last night and then we wrapped it.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Surprise!”
“I’ll try it out right now.” He packed the bowl.
“And I’ll play with my View-Master. And then we’ll watch the Charlie Brown special in the portable DVD player that I wired to the TV. Charlie Brown has a crappy Christmas tree just like ours. But if we stand around it and wave our arms, it becomes a great tree! . . . Coleman, stand up, join me! Let’s wave our arms! . . . Why isn’t it working?”
; Several hours later.
A knock at the door.
Actually a foot kicking. Coleman answered. Serge rushed in with arms loaded down, followed by gusts of frigid air. Coleman closed the door quickly.
Serge set the bags on the table. “Christmas dinner’s ready!” He shivered and rubbed his shoulders. “Man, the temperature’s still dropping. The old dial thermometer they got nailed up outside the office says it’s thirty-nine.”
Serge and Coleman had rented room number three, which connected on either side to two other rooms, respectively occupied by the G-Unit and City and Country. They had all gathered in Serge’s room, sitting on beds and awaiting his return with a promise of an ultra-traditional holiday meal.
“Here are the sides,” Serge said as he emptied the bags. “And I got two buckets each of regular and extra crispy.”
They dug in.
Coleman munched on a drumstick. “So what presents did you girls get?”
Edith bit into a crispy wing. “We all bought each other Yule logs.”
Country licked her fingers and held up an envelope. “Serge got us gift cards for Hooters.”
“That’s a historic present,” said Serge. “The very first one is just off the Courtney Campbell in Clearwater.”
The afternoon wore on. Listless, overstuffed dinner casualties lay about the room digesting way too much food. Rum began to flow. Laughter filled the musty air as the eclectic group shared jokes and bonded. Serge continually darted in and out.
“Serge!” yelled City. “You’re letting all the cold air in. Why do you keep running in and out?”
“Because the temperature’s still dropping! The dial on the thermometer is down to thirty-three and still going south.”
“What’s that thing?”
Serge plugged an electric cord into the wall. A warm glow near the floor. “I bought a tiny space heater at the drugstore.”
They all gathered round, holding out their palms.
Serge stood back in utter contentment. “This is the best Christmas ever! There’s no possible way it can get any better!”
Country grinned mischievously. “Yes, it can get better.”
“What are you talking about?”
She walked over. “You haven’t seen your best gift yet.” Then she planted a big wet one on him.
Serge glanced around with mild embarrassment. “You want to . . . now?”
