RIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGG
You roll over and grab your phone. What time is it? What day is it?
“Hello?” you mumble groggily.
“Um, hello?”
“Lindsi?”
“You sound terrible,” your girlfriend says.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking…”
“What time is it?” you ask, still half asleep.
“We need to have a serious talk.”
“Okay.” That can’t be good.
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. It’s time to end things.”
“Huh?” You’d been planning to give her a drawer when she got back. A drawer.
“Being home and talking with my family really opened my eyes. They helped me realize that if you were serious about me, about us, you would have come to Christmas at my parents’.”
“I told you.” You fumble to mute the TV, which seems to have gotten stuck showing Clue on never-ending loop. “I had to get caught up on work stuff. But I have, so we can spend all kinds of quality time together when you get back.” You hear a hint of desperation creeping into your voice, but you don’t know how to repress it.
“I just can’t waste time at this point in my life on relationships that aren’t going anywhere,” Lindsi says, sighing. “I’m sorry.”
She hangs up.
You stare at the ceiling, pressing your knuckles against your temples. Loneliness hasn’t set in yet, but it will soon.
And you already bought those nonrefundable tickets to the New Year’s Eve gala. Those were really fucking expensive.
At least all your drawers are still your own. That’s the best Christmas present you’ve gotten in years.
The End.
“I guess so.” You frown. What kind of conversation opener is that?
“I think Christmas is one of the worst times of the year,” Sad Sack says with an exaggerated sigh.
“Tell me about it,” you mutter distractedly.
“Well, there’s lots of reasons for me. Last year, of course, I had to put my beloved cat Bimbleton down on Christmas Eve. She had really bad cancer. And cat AIDS.”
Jesus. You hadn’t expected an answer. Especially not one so miserable. You just met this person.
“Um, sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. Christmas tragedies are nothing new to me. Two Decembers ago, my dad lost both his arms in a milk truck accident.”
How the hell do you even respond to that?
“He died several days later from a related infection.”
Fucking hell.
“That’s…just terrible.” You frown deeply. Suddenly the idea of having no one to talk to at the party seems distinctly appealing.
“Nice to meet you, by the way,” Sad Sack says.
“Likewise.” You dutifully stick out a hand to shake hers. It’s cold, clammy, and totally limp. “Listen, I haven’t had a chance to eat anything all day. I’m gonna scope out the spread at the snack table.” You take a step away from her. “I’ll find you in a bit.”
“That’s fine, I’ll come with,” Sad Sack says. “Even though my doctor says I’m prediabetic and shouldn’t eat after six.”
“Okay then…” You push your voice right up against the edge of impolite.
On the way over you recognize Brad from your old office. Man, he was always so cool. And so funny. If only Brad had been your work friend.
“Actually, I’m just going to say hello to a friend first, okay?”
“Okay,” Sad Sack responds. “I’ll come with.”
You force a smile. “Of course you’ll come with,” you mutter under your breath.
On the way, you get stuck in a bottleneck of people-saying-hello-to-Brad traffic, which pushes you and Sad Sack even closer together, up against the edge of the doorframe.
You catch sight of something waving just overhead. You look up. Shit. Hopefully nobody notices you’re both under the—
“Mistletoe!” someone yells, pointing at the two of you.
* * *
If you want to be a sport and kiss Sad Sack, go HERE.
If you want to laugh it off and step away, go HERE.
“Ha. I guess you’re right,” you say to Sad Sack. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna get a drink.”
Sad Sack looks even more lonely and disappointed than before. Which is actually kind of impressive. Whatever, you want some eggnog before the brief eggnog-drinking window snaps closed again.
You approach the bar. You still fail to see any faces you recognize. You really expected to see more people from your old office. Even Debby seems to know everyone here. It’s like you’re the only awkward person in the room. Besides Sad Sack, obviously, but that’s not happening.
You grab a rum and eggnog and pull out your phone again. Of course you have no texts or emails, so once again, you’re just poking around the home screen at random.
You’re so fucking lame and transparent right now. You have to start a conversation with someone. Anyone.
“Merry Christmas,” you say to the next person who walks by.
The guy stops dead in his tracks, looking confused. Oh fuck, you must have gotten it wrong. You weren’t thinking, or looking.
“Or, you know, Happy…Kwanzaa.”
“What? Kwanzaa?”
“Um, I dunno, I just thought…”
“Because I’m black.” He glares down at you from behind thick-rimmed glasses. He’s at least three inches taller than you. You swallow hard.
“No, no. I dunno, I just thought…it didn’t seem like you were responsive to ‘Merry Christmas,’ so I…”
Oh god, you sincerely hope no one is listening to you verbally drown in this sea of stupidity.
“Dude, I was just trying to figure out if we’d met before.” He shakes his head, nose wrinkling up in disgust.
* * *
RUN AWAY! ABORT! Go HERE.
He’s got you all wrong. Explain yourself HERE.
It has to be the books. Lauren would crucify you if you brought home something as sweet as Moon Boots.
“You know, those are half-price at the used bookshop,” an elderly woman says, shuffling by.
“Oh?”
“Yup. The shop used to deal only in murder mysteries. It was called Booked for Murder. If you make a left on Main, and…”
She rambles on. It’s probably been days since she’s actually spoken to anyone.
You’re definitely not going to the used bookshop. These are cheap enough as is. In fact, they’re so inexpensive you’re not even going to return the Super Soaker.
You’ll donate it to charity. At least some kid out there can have a truly awesome Christmas present.
“…then it’s a right on Front Street. Now then, would you like a Werther’s?”
You nod eagerly. You knew it was worth humoring this old.
You leave the store, sucking on your candy, feeling pretty damn good about yourself. Too bad now you have to go back to your sister’s house.
* * *
If you want to wrap the gifts yourself, go HERE.
If you want to ask Lauren to wrap the gifts, two for her sons, and one for charity, go HERE.
You’re sticking with the Moon Boots. What kid wouldn’t love them?
Besides, they only get you six inches off the ground. Honestly, how much damage can even the stupidest child do at six inches above the ground?
You approach the checkout.
“Parkdale High? Go Lions?” you hear behind you.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Jim! Jim French. Remember?”
Jesus, that can’t be the same Jim French from high school, can it? It looks like someone’s injected a factory’s worth of Silly Putty into his cheeks and neck.
“Whoa, Jim! Long time, man. You look great.”
“What are you doing back in town?”
“Uh, well, Christmas…”
“Oh yeah?
” He looks interested. Seriously? “Well, you’ll have to swing by my place tonight for our annual Christmas party. Jones will be there.”
“Our?”
“Me and Mary. Mary Weickmann—you remember her, right?”
You nod. You haven’t the faintest clue who she is.
“Rogers will be there. Tom Robinson, of course. He’s in municipal politics now.” Jim waggles an eyebrow, like you’re supposed to be impressed by this. “Alex Carter…”
You’re not in touch with any of these people. Their names aren’t even familiar.
“Well….” you say, hesitant.
You’re supposed to be in town to see Lauren’s family…but you’re fun! Why do you have to be on house arrest?
“Sure, I’ll swing by.”
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
“I bought these before I left the city,” you say. “I was going to buy the boys their presents tomorrow morning.”
Lauren folds her arms.
“Honestly. I wouldn’t buy anything without consulting you first,” you say. She absolutely loves when you suck up to her like this. “What do they need?”
“I’ll draft a list of approved toys later tonight,” she says.
• • •
The toy store is even worse the next day.
You pull out your sister’s shopping list, doing your best not to elbow the ten people standing shoulder to shoulder right beside you.
You start reading:
1. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry LEGO set from Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Model D420. Quantity: 1 Made in Denmark
Not to split hairs, Lauren, but aren’t LEGOs plastic?
2. Smart Car Robotics kit. Model 662. Quantity: 1 Made in USA
That’s it. Those are the only approved toys.
Hopefully you can get store credit on that Super Soaker. Donating it to Toys for Tots is a nice thought, but you’re not made of money.
You manage to find the car, but the Harry Potter LEGO sets are sold out—all of them.
You stroll through the aisles, mulling over other options that wouldn’t violate any of Lauren’s bans. You see a boxed set of the Harry Potter books at the end of an aisle. Harrison must like them if he wanted the LEGO version, right? That could work…
But then you see them, three rows down.
Moon Boots.
You rush over and pore over the box. They’re metal and rubber—perfect, they don’t even violate Lauren’s rules!
Though you have a gut feeling she wouldn’t approve of something so obviously awesome…
* * *
If you want to buy the book set, go HERE.
If you want to go for the Moon Boots, go HERE.
“…because I wanted the boys to experience the true meaning of Christmas,” you say.
Lauren crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. You can tell the gauge on her bullshit meter is spiking into the red zone.
“Really.”
“Yeah, I wanted to teach the boys about—”
“We’re not religious.”
“Thanks for letting me finish my sentence.” She rolls her eyes. “I wanted them to bring these to Toys for Tots. So they can understand how fortunate they are.”
“Well…” She unfolds her arms reluctantly. “I’ll wrap them tonight, then. But don’t go to Toys for Tots, okay?”
“Oh?”
“Put them under the Christmas tree in the atrium of the boys’ school.”
“Why there?”
“So the other mothers will know we donated.”
• • •
The next morning you take the boys to their school.
“Like I said, these are for kids less fortunate than you.”
Otto squints, obviously confused.
You fling the Super Soaker and the costume on top of the mountain of gifts beneath the elaborately decorated Christmas tree.
“There you have it, the true meaning of Christmas…”
The boys look at you in disbelief.
“But there’s already millions of presents under the tree!” Harrison protests. “Who are they all for?”
“I don’t know,” you sigh.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
You usher the boys out of the building.
You’ve got to make it up to them. Unless, of course, you want to be known as the uncool uncle.
* * *
If you want to take the boys to Santaland, go HERE.
If you want to take the boys to see the Mickey Christmas Carol, go HERE.
“…because I wanted the boys to experience the true meaning of Christmas,” you say.
Lauren crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. You can tell the gauge on her bullshit meter is spiking into the red zone.
“Really.”
“Yeah, I wanted to teach the boys about—”
“We’re not religious.”
“Thanks for letting me finish my sentence.” She rolls her eyes. “I wanted them to bring these to Toys for Tots. So they can understand how fortunate they are.”
“Well…” She unfolds her arms reluctantly. “I’ll wrap them. But don’t go to Toys for Tots, okay?”
“Oh?”
“Put them under the Christmas tree in the atrium of the boys’ school.”
“Why there?”
“So the other mothers will know we donated.”
• • •
You pull up in front of the boys’ school.
“Like I said, these are for kids less fortunate than you.”
Otto squints, obviously confused.
You fling the Super Soaker and the costume on top of the mountain of gifts beneath the elaborately decorated Christmas tree.
“There you have it, the true meaning of Christmas…”
The boys look at you in disbelief.
“But there’s already millions of presents under the tree!” Harrison protests. “Who are they all for?”
“I don’t know,” you sigh.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
You usher the boys out of the building.
You’ve got to make it up to them. Unless, of course, you want to be known as the uncool uncle.
* * *
If you want to take the boys to Santaland, go HERE.
If you want to take the boys to see the Mickey Christmas Carol, go HERE.
“Wow. It’s amazing. You’re exactly. Like. Mom.” You grin triumphantly.
“Take that back,” Lauren hisses.
You have her on the ropes. Time for the knockout blow.
“Actually, that’s not fair to Mom. She got drunk sometimes, and was actually fun.”
“GET OUT!” she screams.
“And her food didn’t taste like dirt,” you add, slamming the door behind you.
You stomp to the car feeling equally triumphant and disappointed in yourself.
Christmas wasn’t supposed to be like this.
You could go to a hotel and try to repair things tomorrow morning, but fuck it. It’s not like Lauren will be any less bitchy tomorrow.
• • •
After a long, slow drive home through a snowstorm, you arrive at your apartment at 3 A.M.
You have no food and no plans for the holiday, but it’s too late to worry about that now.
You open your Netflix, turn on the movie Clue, and almost instantly pass out on the couch.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
Why even engage if she’s going to be like this? You’re too old to deal with this shit.
“I’m sorry for arriving late,” you say, trying your best to sound mature and reasonable. “Christmas traffic is heavy. I think it’s best if I stay at a hotel. I’ll be out of your way, then.”
She looks guilty. That’s satisfying.
“Wait, you don’t—”
“Goodnight. Tell the boys I can’t wait to see them.”
You gra
b your coat and walk out.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You head up to your room and lie down on the dingy bedspread with your clothes on. You pull out a sacrificial T-shirt to use as a pillowcase cover. You spend a few minutes wondering if that suicide happened in this exact room before nodding off to sleep.
The next morning, you wake up feeling much more relaxed about things between you and your sister.
You decide to call and extend an olive branch.
“’Morning,” you say. “I was hoping to take the boys off your hands this afternoon.”
There’s a long pause.
“I don’t know.”
Jesus, why does she always have to be so difficult?
“I promise we’ll do something fun and educational,” you say.
“Like?”
“We…could see how they make traditional maple syrup?”
“I’ve already told you, this family doesn’t eat sugar.”
“Right.” She sounds extremely testy. “I’ll just swing by the house and we’ll make a plan when I get there,” you say.
“Fine.” She hangs up.
What can you do that even Lauren can’t have a problem with?
Wait, you have an idea. A perfect idea. You just have to swing by the toy store on your way to Lauren’s…
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You choose the only vinyl-covered stool at the bar that’s neither cracked nor streaked with mysterious, sticky substances.
“Can I get a rum and eggnog?”
The combed-over bartender flashes a gummy smile and grabs a dingy-looking glass.
“Alone on Christmas?” he asks.
“Not really.”
He splashes something from a plastic bottle into yellowy cream. He slides the drink across the bar, spilling a quarter of it.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 6
