Choose Your Own Misery

by Mike MacDonald

  You grab a rental car at the airport and head back to your place to throw a few things inside. Luckily, your hometown isn’t far.

  A few hours later, you pull into a parking spot in the town center to check your sister’s address. Man, was this place always so quaint?

  It’s getting late. If all of the stores haven’t closed yet, they will soon. You should probably bring something to your sister’s, even though—or rather, because—she was bitchy on the phone.

  * * *

  If you want to grab toys for your nephews, go HERE.

  If you want to go to the specialty foods store and pick something out for your sister, go HERE.

  “Oh, yeah, I’d, uh, love to help, but I actually have to make some stops along the way…”

  “That’s all right with me!” His smile is so wide now you’re seeing parts of the human mouth you’ve never actually seen. “I love learning about the things other people find interesting or necessary to complete.”

  What? Are there any mental institutions around these parts? With lax security?

  “I also think I’m coming down with something.” You cough feebly.

  “Mother always told me my constitution was so strong I made the pigs healthier!” He laughs cheerily, his mouth opening like a terrifyingly bland theater mask.

  “And I have personal space issues.” Thank god, the tank is finally full. You put the nozzle back. “I’m sorry, I just can’t help you tonight.”

  “Oh. Well…okay,” he says, his smile dimming slightly. “I’m sure another kind individual on his or her way to Little Hampshireton will pull off at this specific gas station soon.”

  “Definitely.” You avoid eye contact as you walk around the vehicle, but you can feel him staring, grin still firmly in place, eyes lifeless and glassy. That stare follows you for miles down the highway. Should you have taken him? No, nobody picks up hitchhikers anymore. Especially when they look and act like youth pastors. Those are always the ones that carry shivs.

  As you pull off at the Little Hampshireton exit, you realize you don’t have anything to bring the family, not even a bottle of wine. You hadn’t planned on celebrating Christmas, after all, especially not with strangers.

  Your phone died a few miles back. You frantically memorized the turns (exit 247, left, fourteen winding miles on Old Road, right on Big Elm Parkway/New Tree Road) just before it shut off, but you have no idea what’s nearby. Plus, even if you could find something, you might never manage to get from there to Lindsi’s parents’.

  Still, they’ve invited you into their home with almost no warning. Surely you should bring something?

  At the bottom of the exit you see a McDonald’s, a fertilizer store that’s closed, and a Git ’er Gassed station with an attached gift shop.

  * * *

  If you want to just show up empty-handed, go HERE.

  If you want to try to cobble together a gas station gift platter, go HERE.

  You don’t want to—he’ll probably try to convert you to some religion that involves spaceships—but it is Christmas, and you could use the karma.

  “Sure.” You force a smile. It can’t be half as wide as his. “Hop in.”

  He grabs a huge, lumpy duffel, face-stretching grin never faltering, and gets into the front seat, stuffing the bag at his feet.

  Huh. What’s that shiny, metallic-looking object poking out at the corner?

  It’s almost certainly not a knife. Stop worrying about the hitchhiker’s knife. This isn’t a horror movie, right?

  Though they always say that kind of thing in horror movies…

  You clear your throat.

  “So what’s taking you to Little Hampshireton?”

  “Oh, all kinds of things. Some people I need to see.” He giggles, the sound girlishly high.

  You stare at the bag. It’s not even a duffel, just a huge drawstring sack. Who carries one of those? Is he a serial murderer with a Christmas fetish?

  “What happened to your car? Are you just leaving it there?”

  “I trust the kindness of strangers.”

  “Has that ever come around to bite you in the…” It seems weird to say “ass” to this man, like saying it to a psychotic child, or a senile grandmother. “Behind?”

  “Sometimes, I suppose. But I don’t let it bother me. What goes around comes around.” He turns to you, head tilted slightly to one side, smile eerie in the semidarkness of the car.

  Is this a veiled reference to murdering anyone who wrongs him?

  “So what’s in the bag?” You force a laugh. It comes out croaky.

  “Maybe something for you…if you’re nice.”

  The sound of his laugh echoes around the tiny vehicle. You feel your heart beating in your throat. You’ve always assumed you’d die violently…is this it?

  * * *

  If you want to try to force him out of the car somehow, go HERE.

  If you need to settle the fuck down; it’s all in your head, go HERE.

  “Thanks,” you say, backing a few steps closer to the vending machines, “but I already have a ticket.”

  “All right, then! You have a beautiful day!” The man drives off into the night, grinning maniacally.

  Oh yeah, you definitely made the smart call.

  You head back to the depot, buy a ticket, and wait until the bus finally shows up.

  The moment you board, your ears are assaulted by the piercing shrieks of an infant. You take a seat as far away from the noise as possible, but unfortunately it’s in front of a six-year-old with a snub nose and grubby hands, who’s clearly under the impression that your seat is a piñata. Kids are such assholes.

  A homeless-smelling man is sprawled across an entire row toward the center, so you move to a sagging row up front. A spring—or something else you don’t want to consider—pokes your back. You’re just about to move again when an old lady with ear hair takes the last safe row. Fucking olds.

  A sallow, overweight man in a strained uniform waddles on and turns to face the passengers. In a supremely bored voice he starts droning at you.

  “This Dinkeltown-bound bus, with continuing service on the Farminghamlet express line, will be departing in five minutes. Please note that the restroom on this bus is out of order. Should you anticipate needing a restroom, large coffee cans can be purchased inside the bus depot for $12.99 each.”

  You laugh—good one, bus guy. He stares at you, obviously confused. Fuck, is he serious?

  “Also, route delays are expected due to traffic. Please enjoy the ride.”

  He wheeze-sighs, sags into his seat, and starts doing a word search.

  Can you really do this?

  Can you afford not to?

  * * *

  If you want to go back to the rental car counter, go HERE.

  If you want to tough it out on the bus, go HERE.

  He’s definitely too happy, like someone who’s just converted to Mormonism, but still, he will get you to Little Hampshireton fast and free.

  “Sure! So nice of you to offer.” You open the back door to stick your duffel inside. A huge, almost man-sized bag is taking up the entire seat. The end is open; a thick rope dribbles out. You also see something shiny, like black patent leather.

  Are Mormons really into S&M?

  Whatever, none of your business. You hop up front, wedge your duffel at your feet, and you head off.

  After a few minutes, the man turns the radio to a station playing “all Celine Dion’s greatest Christmas hits!” Of course.

  An announcer with a voice like a dental hygienist on Valium comes on. “Remember, folks, we’re nearing the end of our Twelve Days of Christmas Clues Scavenger Hunt! Whoever follows the clues to our secret location will find $50,000! Every day we make it easier to unravel this Christmas cash mystery!”

  She then starts listing the clues they’ve revealed so far, vague stuff like “Christmas is all about bridging differences and covering over problems.”

  “I know where it is.”


  “Excuse me?” You turn to the man, who’s smiling as hard as ever at the windshield. Doesn’t that hurt his face?

  “The Christmas cash. I know this area like the back of my hand—grew up hunting around here with my Pip-Pop. If we turn off at the county road five miles up, then down a few gravel back roads, then take a little walk through the woods, I’m sure we’ll find it.”

  “Oh. Sounds…isolated.”

  “It is. No one around for miles!” He laughs manically. “That’s why no one’s found it yet. But if we do, we can split it down the middle. Whaddya say?”

  His smile is terrifying in the shadows of the car, garish and toothy and wet. What was that rope in the back really for? What kind of man wants to take a stranger deep into the woods?

  “What would you even do with that money?” you say, trying not to let your fear into your voice.

  “Give it to the cancer kids at the hospital, of course.”

  No one’s that altruistic. It’s certain now: this guy is definitely planning to rape and/or murder you.

  “I can tell you’re up for an adventure,” he says, pulling over to the side of the road. “Let me just get my GPS out so we don’t miss a turn in the dark.”

  He leans into the backseat. You see a flash of metal. Could it be a knife?

  * * *

  If you want to get out and run, go HERE.

  If you want to hit him over the head first, so he can’t follow you, go HERE.

  You land in Kingston.

  The airport seems…dingy.

  There’s a fleet of hotel representatives handing out cocktails in coconuts with comically long straws to the booked vacationers. You seem to be the only one who doesn’t get to partake.

  Oh well. You head to the tourism counter. A solitary employee is leaning on his elbow, staring at the coconuts longingly.

  “Hey…mon?” Whoa, nope. Definitely no. You’re not even close to pulling that off. “I’d like to book a hotel.”

  “Sandals Royal Plantation?”

  You can’t understand his accent, but you think you heard the word plantation? Is that right? It feels too racist to ask.

  He hands you a thick brochure. Oh, it was plantation. Look at you, already understanding the locals.

  Whoa, though, that “listed prices” section. That must be more than your entire net worth, even if you factor in your rare Pokémon card collection.

  “What else do you have?”

  “Not much.”

  “Really? Everything else is booked?”

  He strokes his chin thoughtfully.

  “Well there’s always ‘On the Beach.’ It’s for…locals.”

  He rummages around for several minutes before producing another brochure. Actually, it’s more like a piece of cheap copier paper with what looks like…is that a drop of human blood in the corner? That can’t be right. It must be barbeque sauce. Jamaica must be known for barbeque.

  “Ten dollars a night?” You have to have read that wrong.

  “Yeah.”

  That’s worryingly cheap.

  * * *

  If you want the cheap “local” place, go HERE.

  If you want to book the extremely expensive resort, go HERE.

  Kingston, Jamaica.

  It sounds wonderful…

  But not very practical. You don’t even know whether you can drink the water in Kingston. Getting a flight voucher makes much more sense.

  The bus home is almost entirely empty. A man wearing a Santa suit is passed out nearby, smelling like booze and sweat. Even though his sprawling, squelching body is taking up three seats, nobody is hassling him. For the first time since you’ve moved here, no one seems to be around to care.

  You stare out the window: the streets are empty, the snow is gray and slushy, and by now most of the stores are closed.

  You arrive home to what seems like a completely empty apartment building. You can’t be the only one still here, can you?

  “Hello?”

  Your voice echoes off the walls: “Helloooooooooo.”

  You ate all of your perishables before leaving for the airport, so it’s either the family-sized pack of Combos in the pantry or take-out. Then again, isn’t Debby, your friend from a couple jobs ago, also home alone?

  Sure, she can be pretty annoying even at the best of times: she has a terrible snort when she laughs, she wears velour skirts a size too small, and she constantly drones on about presidential history.

  But she could save you from a whole lot of loneliness.

  * * *

  If you want to order Chinese food and endlessly stream videos on your laptop, go HERE.

  If you want to give Debby a ring, go HERE.

  You’ve entered the fourth circle of hell: the toy store, two days before Christmas.

  There are so many people you’re unable to see your own feet.

  You start scanning the aisles, hoping something good will jump out at you.

  You spot an Avengers costume for a five-to-seven-year-old. That’ll fit Harrison, your older nephew, perfectly!

  What about for little Otto? You need something easy for a kid that young to manage, but not one of those boring reclaimed-wood puzzles.

  At the end of an aisle, you see an unattended shopping cart with two Super Soakers in it.

  It’s probably the cart the stock boys use to restock the shelves, right?

  Sure, that’s plausible. You grab one and head to the checkout.

  • • •

  DING-DONG.

  “Merry Christmas!” you say, stepping inside your sister Lauren’s house, unwrapped presents in hand.

  “You made it.” She checks her watch, sighing. “Come in. Be sure to take your boots off on the mat.”

  You do as you’re told.

  “Where can I put these bad boys?” you ask, proudly displaying the toys.

  “That costume is too small for Harrison—you know he’s nine, right? And it’s too big for Otto. And you’ll have to destroy the gun…”

  “Destroy?”

  “We have a strict no-guns policy in this house.”

  “This isn’t a gun, it’s a toy. A water toy…”

  “Either way, it’s plastic. We also have a very strict no-plastics policy in this house.”

  “No plastics?”

  “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

  * * *

  If you want to go back and exchange the gifts, go HERE.

  If you want to tell your sister these gifts were for the boys to give to Toys for Tots, so they can learn the true meaning of Christmas, go HERE.

  You weave between the idling SUVs in the specialty foods store parking lot until you find a space. You walk in, trying to imagine what your sister and her husband, Gregory, would like. He’s a Europhile, right?

  You grab some truffle oil, a wheel of brie, foie gras, and some crackers.

  How much will this cost? Actually, forget that, they’ll love it.

  You head over to the drinks.

  You pick out a bottle of expensive bourbon and some tequila, for an inside joke. Your sister will remember when you guys infused that watermelon on spring break, right?

  Yeah. It will be hilarious.

  “That will be $250,” says the cashier.

  Oof. But it’s family. You pull out your card.

  • • •

  DING-DONG.

  “Merry Christmas!” you say, stepping into your sister Lauren’s house, tequila in hand.

  “What time is it?” She checks her watch, yawning.

  “Tequila-infused watermelon, round two?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” She looks annoyed. “Just…take your boots off on the mat.”

  You do as you’re told, then proudly display your groceries.

  “Where can I put all this?”

  She examines the food closely.

  “Well, we don’t eat dairy. Or drink liquor.”

  “Oh…”

  “And we cut out carbs
five years ago. You knew that, right? As for the liver, maybe the freezer?” She scrunches up her nose.

  “The freezer?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  Jesus, when did Lauren become such a bitch?

  * * *

  If you want to tell your sister she’s being rude, go HERE.

  Oh man, already this isn’t worth it. If you want to tell her you’re going to a hotel, go HERE.

  You know what? They’ll understand. They were so welcoming, and they know your holiday plans fell through mere hours ago. Better to show up with a big smile on your face than some half-assed assortment of every flavor of Combos.

  A half hour later, you pull up to the house. It’s just like Lindsi described: the one with Christmas sweaters on all the bushes. How they persuaded bushes to grow into human shapes is beyond you.

  You tap on the door softly, assuming only Lindsi will be up, but the woman who opens it is unfamiliar. No, that’s not true; you can see Lindsi looking like this in another thirty years. This woman has the same wide brown eyes, and the same rosebud mouth, but it’s much more pinched. She’s also at least fifty pounds heavier, with short, carefully permed hair, a Christmas sweater on which a cat is wearing its own Christmas sweater, and librarian glasses that were never, under any circumstances, “sexy.”

  “You can call me Mom,” she says.

  It makes that one late-night booty call—when you and Lindsi had just started dating and she hadn’t told you her mom was visiting for the weekend—even more awkward to recall.

  “I made it!” you say, smiling broadly. Maybe if you’re cheery enough, her memory of that conversation will just disappear.

  “So glad to see that; there are so many drunks on the road this time of year.” Mom stares at you, eyes narrowed. Fuck, she totally remembers the call. Well, don’t pick up your daughter’s cell if you don’t want to hear about ass-play.