Choose Your Own Misery

by Mike MacDonald

  “I was about your age when I started spending Christmas alone.”

  “Oh?” You look around the dim, threadbare-carpeting-and-wood-panels bar, then back to the bartender’s pouchy, pockmarked face, and shudder.

  “Yup. Just couldn’t seem to get along with my family. Especially my bitchy sister. Eventually, I just stopped bothering with family at the holidays.”

  You nod awkwardly and move to the back of the room, where you proceed to down several more rummy eggnogs. No one enters the bar the entire night. Eventually you stumble upstairs and pass out.

  You wake up with a horrific, noggy hangover.

  Everything about your room seems infinitely worse by daylight. The windows are grimy. The wallpaper is water-stained and peeling. Dear god, that better be your vomit splashed all over the nightstand…

  * * *

  If the idea of staying here is too much and you want to go back to your apartment, go HERE.

  If you want to try to repair things with your sister, go HERE.

  “That’s all great,” you say, “but I’d feel more comfortable on the floor.”

  “Perhaps you have latent psychological issues that you have yet to fully deal with,” Jimmy says in his nasal monotone.

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “Even if your body were to react sexually in the night, that wouldn’t necessarily mean that you were—”

  “You know what, Jimmy?” You throw a pillow on the floor and grab a quilt folded at the bottom of the bed. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

  “I see that you prefer silence.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that—”

  “JIMMY.”

  “I will be quiet now.”

  You hear him lie down on the bed, and then you don’t hear another thing. Not a move, not a breath, nothing. At least there’s one thing about your roommate that doesn’t suck.

  • • •

  You wake up confused, your back radiating pain into every limb.

  You’ve barely slept, you’re in massive amounts of pain, and you can tell that one wrong move is going to fully throw your back out.

  You should never have come here.

  You trudge downstairs and pour yourself a cup of coffee.

  “Finally up?” Mom says, pinch-smiling at you.

  “Mmmm.” You don’t even bother telling her it’s only seven thirty, or that you were driving half the night. Actually forming words would lift the seal off your bubbling pissiness.

  “Well, luckily you haven’t missed out yet,” she says.

  “Mmmm?”

  “In our family the men all go out on Christmas Eve day to cut down the tree. Even though they don’t know you yet, they wanted to include you. They’re generous that way.”

  “Mmmmmm.”

  * * *

  If you want to go along, if only to avoid Mom for a few hours, go HERE.

  If there’s no way you’re chopping down trees when your back is an inferno of pain, go HERE.

  “Okay, Jimmy. You’ve convinced me,” you say. He hasn’t, but the alternative is the floor, and the scent seems to be stronger down there. “We can share the bed.”

  “Excellent. I was concerned momentarily. Anyone who would be unwilling to platonically sleep next to another male might have serious issues. Sexual pathologies perhaps, or an unhealthy bodily—”

  “Jimmy, can we just be quiet now?”

  “Yes.” He lies down on his back, closes his eyes, and says nothing else. You can’t even hear him breathing. Okay…

  * * *

  If you want to mummy yourself in a sweater to make sure things don’t get weird, go HERE.

  If you want to try your best to fall asleep on the farthest edge of the bed, go HERE.

  There’s no way you’ll sleep—or breathe—with this dog in the same room.

  You head to the hallway near the stairs, the dog trotting behind, wagging its fluffy yellow tail, spreading infinitely more dander in its wake. The thing would actually be cute if you could see it without screaming pain.

  The first door you open is the bathroom. You might need that later; the dog can’t go in there.

  The next is a closet filled with crossbows, camouflage bodysuits, and more Bowie knives than you’ve ever seen in one place. Jesus Christ, what kind of family does Lindsi have? You close the door.

  The third opens onto a cement-floored room with a drain in the center. A washer and dryer are along the side wall.

  Perfect! If the dog needs to pee it will even clean up after itself. You leave the dog inside, close the door, and return to your couch, hoping to sleep.

  • • •

  “YYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

  You awaken to the loudest, shrillest scream you’ve ever heard.

  It’s coming from the laundry room.

  You get up and creep cautiously down the hallway.

  “Who put him in here? Who would do such a THIIIIIIINNGG?” Lindsi is clearly upset. And in the room where you left the dog. Gulp.

  “What’s going on?” you ask as casually as possible as you walk into the laundry room.

  Oh dear god. There’s blood everywhere, all over the sides of the washer and dryer, on the detergent bottles, and of course trickling in a narrow stream from the mangled head of the dog, crumpled in a yellow heap in the corner, into the floor drain.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  “What happened?”

  “Obviously Toodles ha-ha-had an epileptic f-f-f-FIIIIIIIT,” Lindsi wails.

  “Epileptic…” you trail off, mesmerized by the dead animal. You’ve never actually seen anything dead before. At least, nothing larger than a parrot. Grandma’s funeral was closed-casket; your mom “didn’t want to see her miserable fucking face ever again.”

  “This is the only room in the house he’s not allowed to stay in unmonitored. Every surface is hard. It was a recipe for, for, for DISASTERRRRRRRR!” Her weeping rises to gale force again. And it’s drawing a crowd. You see Mom down the hallway, smiling cryptically. Between her and you are half a dozen traumatized-looking relatives you’ve never met.

  “Who put him here? Who would do that to a poor, defenseless animal?”

  Everyone is looking at you. They know you, dog murderer. And they’re all about ten feet from an arsenal of crossbows.

  You wonder: if you return the rental car early, will they give some of your money back?

  The End.

  At this point, it’s not going to make any difference what you do: this dog has blanketed every available surface in allergens.

  You dig through your bag until you find the magic combo: a quadruple dose of allergy medicine and a couple Ambien to make sure you don’t wake up once it wears off.

  After an extremely uncomfortable half hour, you feel the drugs kicking in. Thank god. You need a good night’s rest if you’re gonna face this family.

  • • •

  Where did this dragon get a monocle? He raises it to his eye with scaly fingers and peers at you, lips curling in scorn.

  “You’ve gained weight,” he hisses.

  “That’s just this suit of armor. It adds ten pounds.” You step back, embarrassed. As soon as you do, the ground lets out a high-pitched beep.

  “No, you definitely have. I’ve rigged the floor to be weight sensitive. It only beeps for fatties.” He grins sardonically, narrowing his yellow eyes. “And you know what I do to fatties.”

  Before you can back away, he’s breathing fire straight at your arm. How does he target it so well? And how does he make it look like a…like a…

  You look down. There is no armor, no dragon, only a full-grown coyote, teeth sunk into your bloody, naked arm. You look around, confused and terrified. You’re outside, barefoot in the snow, wearing just your flannel pajama pants. And you’re stepping on something soft and squishy. What is that? Ahh. A baby coyote. That makes sense.

  Fucking Ambien. Why can’t you ever get the fun side effects, like sleep-driving twenty mile
s to sleep-fuck an ex?

  The coyote growls and bites down harder. You shriek in pain. Unsure what else to do, you punch the animal in the side of the head as hard as you can. Stunned momentarily, it releases your arm and drops into the snow. But it’s clearly ready for round two. You step backward, hands up to defend your face, and trip over a rock buried under the snow. Cursing, you reach for it, swinging it through the air toward the coyote leaping for your head.

  CRUNCH.

  You actually feel the skull crack. Jesus, you’re like Conan the fucking Barbarian. But with more Ambien. And less pecs.

  The coyote shakes violently, blood spattering from its head wound onto the white snow, then collapses, tongue lolling out. You step toward it cautiously, wanting to make sure it’s really dead.

  What’s that grayish stuff leaking out the side of its…oh, definitely brains.

  You vomit profusely onto the still-twitching corpse.

  You’re wiping your mouth when you hear a door creak open behind you.

  Fuck.

  “What are you doing out here?” It’s Mom’s voice.

  You have no answer.

  “Is that…a dead coyote? What happened?”

  * * *

  If you want to tell her you were defending yourself, go HERE.

  If you want to tell her you found it this way, go HERE.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, you’re not in some B movie; you’re in a shitty roadside motel. The worst that’s going to happen to you tonight is contracting some unknown form of scabies.

  You head to the vending machine. Pickings are slim—just sugar-free gum and a few flavors of Combos, mostly the shitty flavors.

  Still, it’s better than nothing. You buy all the Combos and head back to the room for a feast.

  You put a T-shirt around the pillow, leave all your clothes on, and fall asleep on top of the crusty paisley bedspread.

  Several hours later you jolt awake. Light is pouring in your open door, silhouetting a broken chain swinging from its moorings…and a huge figure wearing a trucker hat and a bathrobe.

  He takes a step into the room.

  Just don’t piss yourself. This could be any number of things, right?

  Unless you should piss yourself. It could be the thing that saves you.

  But you only have this one pair of pants for the entire week.

  He takes another step toward you. You imagine you can smell his musky, feral scent, though that could just be the bedspread.

  “Hey, sorry to intrude this way, but I had to know…” the monster-giant-trucker begins.

  At least your weeping won’t stain your pants.

  * * *

  If you want to hit him as hard as you can over the head with the bedside lamp, go HERE.

  If you want to just curl up and pray he won’t hurt you…too badly…go HERE.

  You know what? Better safe than sorry. Besides, the whole reason you pulled over was to get some sleep; if you spend the entire night nervous about the weird trucker you saw outside, that won’t happen.

  You head back to the front desk.

  “I’m sorry, but the lock on my room is broken. Is another room available?”

  The attendant rolls his eyes dramatically and snorts. When you don’t leave, he stands, grabs another key, and walks toward the door.

  “This way.”

  A few minutes later you’re inside a room at the opposite end of the motel, one with a working lock and no lurking terrors. Perfect.

  You put a T-shirt over the pillow and are just lying down to sleep when you hear a piercing shriek.

  Then another piercing shriek. Then a couple of expletives. Clearly the people next door are fighting—dramatically—and the walls aren’t thick enough to drown out the noise.

  Soon, the shriek-fighting turns to shriek-fucking, which somehow involves much more noise, including wall thumps.

  After thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling, wondering whether that stain is black mold, you get up. You’re hungry and bored. At least if you grab a snack from the vending machine it will be something to do until this couple wears themselves out.

  The only options are four types of Combos and gum. You buy as many Combos as you have money for and head back. On your way, you notice the door to your previous room swinging open. That’s unnerving.

  The entire night, whenever you’re about to nod off, some snore, or grunt, or renewed fucking from next door wakes you. Finally, around 6 A.M., you drift into a fitful sleep.

  Hours later, a truck horn blares outside and you jerk awake. It’s after eleven—fuck, you meant to be on the road hours ago. You grab the rest of the Combos and rush out.

  You don’t have time to stop for food; Lindsi will be wondering where you are. You power through, fueled by rest stop coffee, Combos, and frayed nerves.

  * * *

  Click HERE to continue.

  You can’t change what’s already happened, but you can control how you respond to it.

  Your response is clamping your butt cheeks together as hard as you can and staying standing; sitting would spread this everywhere, and you only brought one pair of pants.

  The congregation sits after the responses.

  You don’t.

  Lindsi tugs your sleeve. You turn a brief smile on her before facing forward again. Pretend this is what you do in church. You’re just a guy who loves standing.

  “You may be seated,” the priest says pointedly from the pulpit. You nod, so he knows you got the memo. He frowns.

  “Sit. Down,” Lindsi hisses.

  You can feel beads of sweat forming on your brow from the effort of holding your cheeks together. The shart is preventing the skin from forming its own vacuum seal.

  Worse, you can smell the barest hint of processed-cheese-filling fart starting to permeate the area around you.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Lindsi starts pulling insistently on your hand.

  Why did you eat so many fucking Combos?

  One thing’s obvious. Standing is no longer a viable option for containing this shart.

  * * *

  If you want to run to the bathroom to deal with things, go HERE.

  If it’s time to go hard, harder even than a wet fart—that’s right, we’re talking full-on pants-shitting—go HERE.

  Why bother gambling at all if you’re just gonna fold the minute the stakes are raised?

  The responses end and the priest gestures the congregation to sit.

  You do.

  That was another losing bet.

  The smell explodes into the air around you, a viscous blend of spoiled potatoes, morning breath, and jungle rot. It’s so bad it’s almost palpable.

  And clearly you’re not the only one smelling it.

  You side-eye Lindsi’s family. Her mom is crinkling her nose in pure disgust. Dad is frowning, as though in physical pain. On the other side, Lars, Lindsi’s Herculean blond brother, is discreetly attempting to pull his shirt over his nose. Lindsi’s full-on gagging.

  You feel like that guy in the Kenny Rogers song…except with farts instead of poker.

  * * *

  If you want to excuse yourself to deal with this in the bathroom, go HERE.

  If you want to pretend it wasn’t you and hope it goes away soon, go HERE.

  You have to confess. The guilt is too much; if you don’t, you’ll wind up blurting it out over dinner, or during sex with Lindsi, or at some other, even worse moment.

  You run downstairs.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, I just found him,” you pant.

  “Found him?” Lindsi frowns.

  “The dog. He’s…I think he’s dead,” you say. Everyone pushes past you up the stairs. Lindsi’s mom makes it to the dog first, checking his pulse. She shakes her head. Some trick of the light almost makes it look like she’s smiling.

  You have to confess now, or you’ll never have the guts.

  “I have to tell you something else,” you start. “I feel…responsible for this.”


  “No, no,” Lindsi’s dad says, patting you on the shoulder.

  “Yes. You see…the dog got into my leftover Combos.”

  Everyone stares at you blankly.

  “They’re a snack food? They come in lots of great flavors, like Buffalo Blue Cheese, and Sweet and Salty Caramel Creme Pretzel?”

  “Of course we know what Combos are.” Lindsi’s brother Lars shakes his head, clearly lost. “But that’s not what killed Toodles.”

  “No, they have to be! When I got here, I was very ill myself, and it’s clear the Combos were at fault.”

  “Honey, Combos can’t kill a dog,” Lindsi says.

  “You didn’t smell the shit I had while you were gone!” You know you’re going too far, but you need them to understand, so they can absolve you. “It smelled like the inside of an old person’s mouth mixed with swamp gas. It was horrible. I almost passed out it was so bad. And I didn’t even touch the Cheddar Cheese Pretzel flavor the dog got into. It says right there on the packaging, it’s their wildest yet…” You keep babbling about the brutality of Combos, and the shits they bring on, but no one seems to understand.

  “Stop,” Lindsi’s mom says, holding up a hand. “Just stop.”

  “But you don’t understand. The cramping alone was—”

  “No, we all understand. Graphically. What you don’t understand is that Toodles was epileptic.”

  “Epi…what?”

  “Our dog had epilepsy. It’s clear from the bite marks on his tongue that he had a fit. You couldn’t have known, but this is absolutely not from your snack foods. So please, please stop explaining.”

  Lindsi’s family nods agreement, obviously horrified.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  You all stand in silence for a few moments. You have to break the ice somehow.

  “So…who wants nog?”