Choose Your Own Misery
Page 8
The End.
Quickly, you stuff the Combos under the clothes in your bag, arranging a dirty T-shirt under the dog’s head so no one will see the crumbs. Satisfied the evidence is hidden, you call down.
“Hurry, I just found him. Maybe you can help!”
“Found who?” Lindsi’s voice echoes up the stairs.
“The dog! I don’t think he’s breathing!”
The entire family troops up to your room, Lindsi in the lead.
“Oh no, Toodles!” She lets out a plaintive moan as she rushes to cradle the dog’s head in her arms.
“Thinning the herd,” you think you hear her mom mutter under her breath. You stare at her and she smiles blandly. Did that really happen?
“We’ll have to give him a real sendoff,” Lindsi chokes out between sobs. “Tonight.”
“Linds, the ground is frozen solid,” her brother Lars says.
“I know. We’ll pyre him.”
Lars nods. Have you lost some fundamental element of your hearing? Nothing being said in this room makes any sense.
“I’ll get it built.” He troops past you, face grim but determined.
• • •
You stand outside, shivering next to the mountain of wood Lars has somehow stacked in the last hour.
Apparently your hearing is fine.
Lindsi’s dad climbs the side with the dog under one arm and lays it gently on top. Once he’s back with the family, they all begin to step backward. Unsure what else to do, you join them, walking backward through the snow until you’re pressed against the deck.
“You can do the honors,” Lars says, turning to you. “You found him, after all. That’s no way to start a Christmas. It’s only right that you should do this.”
“Do…what?”
“The lighting.”
Lars hands you a crossbow and a lighter. Jesus Christ, you’re going to Viking funeral the dog?
Everyone looks at you expectantly. Unsure what else to do, you flick the lighter at the end of the arrow. It flames up immediately. You take aim…it lands about twenty feet short.
You try again.
And again.
You never knew how hard it would be to hit a mountain of wood from fifty feet away. Crossbows are definitely not easier than regular bows.
Finally, coughing embarrassedly, Lars grabs the bow and shoots it, one-handed, at the pyre. It crackles to life.
Then pops. Loudly. Like, little gunshots.
“What is that?” you murmur, horrified.
“Just the organs exploding in the heat.” Lars almost sounds bored. “Nothing to worry about.”
You swallow the bile rising in your throat and stand there with the family as the mountain of wood and dog burns.
You look down.
A flaming scrap has landed at your feet. It’s charred, but you can still make out the word written there.
Combos.
The End.
Fifty thousand dollars is a shit-ton of money.
Still, would you ever be able to enjoy it knowing you’d attacked—maybe murdered—someone to get it? Someone who was willing to split that money with you, a total stranger? What if he wakes up to astronomical medical bills? Or just persistent headaches? He was the one who knew where this treasure was, not you.
But $50,000…
No, you can’t take it. You’ll never live down the guilt.
You find a scrap of paper in the car, write You were right! Consider this my thank you for the ride, and tuck it, along with the ticket, between the man’s seatbelt and his body. He’ll find it there for sure.
Unable to get reception, you walk back toward the last town you spotted. You can call Lindsi once you find a signal.
Though that makes you feel guilty, too. What if she drives by the man in the car? Will she check on him? Would she recognize your writing on the note?
You opt for a cab instead. The hour-long drive costs just over $300, but your conscience, at least, is in the clear.
• • •
When you head downstairs the next morning, the whole family is huddled around the TV.
“Local Man Wins $50K Radio Prize” streams across the bottom.
“Morning! Can you believe this? Hell of a Christmas present, eh?” a bearded man with a warm smile says. He must be Lindsi’s dad. You smile, cherishing the secret of your amazing kindness. You’ll have to find a way to let slip what you did. Maybe over dinner?
A man comes onscreen and starts talking about how he found the prize.
“I’m a pig farmer in the area and I just knew all the landmarks,” he says.
That’s not the guy who drove you.
This guy is terrifying—bald, teeth black around the edges, smile weaselly, like he’s deciding where to strike.
Something in the pit of your stomach lurches.
“Best of all, the money is very much needed. Mr. Warren was unable to purchase pig feed this winter because funds were so low, but says this injection of cash will put his farm back on track.”
The story ends. Another comes on.
“A Dodge Stratus was found abandoned near County Road Q this morning. Traces of blood were found inside the vehicle, though there was no sign of the driver. Police suspect foul play.”
You were in a Dodge Stratus. Near County Road Q.
And your water bottle definitely didn’t draw blood.
The pig farmer’s leer flashes through your mind and you shudder.
It’s not your fault, though, right? Leaving the driver incapacitated, with the golden ticket on his lap…in pig country…
The End.
Just because he was right about the ticket doesn’t mean this guy wasn’t going to murder you. Plus, you can see his fingers twitching. He’ll be awake soon. Why feel guilty? It was self-defense.
Also, that’s a lot of money.
You walk away from the car rapidly, until you reach a point where your cell gets service, then look up a cab company. The ride to Lindsi’s parents’ will be exorbitant, but who cares? Tomorrow you’ll be a fifty-thousandaire.
• • •
You wake up eager to tell everyone the good news (they were in bed long before you arrived). You rush downstairs, smile lighting up your face, to find Lindsi’s family clustered around the kitchen island, glued to the local news.
“Morning, VanWhittingtons. I have some fantastic news! But first, let me introduce myself; I’m—”
“Shh.” Lindsi snaps a hand closed in the air behind her. “Let us finish watching this story.”
The TV cuts to an image of a guy in a wheelchair, head wrapped in layers of gauze. He looks kind of famil—
Oh Jesus, it’s the guy who gave you the ride. The story lede, “Local Do-Gooder Attacked for Good Samaritan Ways,” doesn’t bode well.
“Even with the bills, and my lack of insurance, I’m not worried about myself. I know God will provide.” He smiles creepily at the sky. “I just hope the man who was with me is safe,” he says to the blonde reporter interviewing him. “We were going to split that money, and considering the kind of shape I’m in, I’m worried he might be seriously injured, even dead.”
“Do you know the man’s name?”
“No.” You exhale deeply. “Just a description. He was tall, but kind of malnourished-looking, with slightly thinning hair.” That’s a lie—your hairline is awesome. “And he really liked Combos. He must have eaten six packets while we were in the car together.” Oh c’mon. “Oh, and his teeth were pointier than a normal person’s. Which I sympathize with; dental care is expensive.” Dammit, you’ve always worried your teeth were too pointy.
The segment ends and Lindsi flips off the TV.
“How horrible. How could anyone attack such a kind, charitable man?” Lindsi’s mom shakes her gray perm no. “And on Christmas, no less. I don’t know how people like that live with themselves.”
“Agreed,” Lindsi says, then turns to you with a smile. “But let’s talk about something pleasant. Lik
e your good news. What was it, sweetie?”
You think back to the golden ticket, specifically the fine print on the bottom: Must present in person to redeem prize. Claiming prize indicates willingness to appear in publicity materials for KWAL.
You have fifty thousand reasons to tell the truth…and one possible assault charge’s worth of shutting the fuck up.
“Nothing,” you say, forcing a smile. “Just happy to be here.”
You knew nothing good would come of this fucking holiday.
The End.
After another hour winding around what feels like the entire fucking island, you finally arrive at the hotel.
Unfortunately, On the Beach isn’t as advertised…on that handwritten piece of copier paper.
It’s in the back of an inner-city alleyway. There’s a strip of filthy sand running around a tiny pool out front, but it’s got too many needles floating around in it for your liking.
You think you can hear gunshots in the distance, though it might just be a car backfiring. Either way, the single, haggard woman working the desk doesn’t seem fazed.
You clench and unclench your fists, unable to force yourself to walk through the door. A passerby on a bicycle gives you a leering wink. Maybe he meant it to be friendly, and maybe he’s only twelve, but it adds to your uneasiness.
You jog back to the cab and knock on the window.
“On second thought, could you take me back to the airport?”
“Really?”
“Yes. And please hurry.” You hope he didn’t hear your voice crack. You feel both vaguely guilty and giddy with relief.
At the airport, the cab driver claims he spent the entire afternoon looking for you, ergo the fee he’s trying to charge isn’t, in fact, “exorbitant.”
But the truth is, you don’t care. You don’t even mind paying a change fee that costs more than your rent in order to get a same-day flight home.
All that matters is that you’re inside a safe, air-conditioned airport where they serve Starbucks.
The End.
“I’m game if you are,” you say, trying to play it cool.
“Well I have no particular objection, though the tradition is a bit…”
You cut off whatever depressing thing she was going to say with a quick peck on her cheek.
Brad starts cheering. “Woot WOOT!!”
People around him join in.
“Of course, if it were me, I would have really kissed her!” Brad waggles an eyebrow suggestively.
The crowd erupts with a middle-school-worthy “OooooOOooohh!”
Brad’s looking at you expectantly. This is it. Your chance to impress Brad, and all the people who like Brad…i.e., everyone, obviously.
“Mind if I take a mulligan?” you ask Sad Sack, already leaning in.
“Again? Fine, but only if you haven’t eaten peanut products in the last twenty-four hours, because I’m deathly—”
You cut her off midsentence with a passionate, open-mouthed kiss.
The crowd is absolutely loving it.
“YEAHHHHHH!” Their roars are deafening. This is what it must feel like to be a professional athlete. Or a movie star who was formerly a professional athlete.
From the corner of your eye you see Brad pull out his phone and snap a photo.
“This will be the perfect Holidaygram!” he says, laughing.
“You’re so right, Brad! This will be the perfect Holidaygram,” someone repeats. You see phones whipping out, flashes going off.
Fuck. How did you not think about the fact that you have a girlfriend until exactly this moment? A jealous, occasionally juvenile girlfriend. One who asked you to visit her for Christmas.
If that picture starts get shared online, Lindsi will lose her shit.
* * *
If you want to ask Brad to delete the photo, go HERE.
If you want to stay quiet to look cool in Brad’s eyes, go HERE.
“Settle down, guys,” you shout over the chanting crowd. “I have a girlfriend!”
You turn back to Sad Sack. Dear god, she’s puckered her lips and is already leaning in.
“I’m taken, sorry.”
“Oh…”
Sad Sack pulls away in obvious embarrassment.
“BOOOOOO!” roars the crowd. “BOOOOOOO!”
Oh come on, are you all twelve?
“Grinch!” you hear someone yell from the back of the room.
“Well, I’m not taken!” hollers Brad.
The crowd parts in two, like some ugly-sweatered Red Sea, as Brad walks over to Sad Sack.
He saunters up, smiles, then dips her to the ground and kisses her dramatically. Everyone pulls out phones to take photos.
“Classic Brad!” someone says nearby.
“He’s just so cooooool,” someone else responds.
Brad twirls Sad Sack around as everyone enthusiastically claps.
You sneak to the snack table and start stuffing your face with spinach dip. Sad Sack has been folded into Brad’s entourage. They must find her miserable attitude hilarious or something.
You glance around the room. Everyone but you seems to be having a great time. Even those guys at the other end of the snack table, looking like the reject table in a John Hughes movie, are deep in conversation.
Wait a second. Did one of them just reference the seven charisma spells of the half-goblin sorcerer Ozshan? You may have just stumbled upon a bunch of fellow Dungeons and Elves nerds.
Up until now you’ve made a pretty concerted effort to hide your longtime love of D&E, but god, you could add so much to that conversation.
And it beats spinach dip and loneliness.
You head toward the D&E crew. Wait until they hear you once played a multiclass rogue-druid drow…and have a girlfriend.
They’re gonna be so envious.
As you near them, you spot Sad Sack out of the corner of your eye…
…and she’s standing under the mistletoe again.
* * *
If you want to redeem yourself and kiss her, go HERE.
If you want to hang with the D&E crowd, go HERE.
“I just wanted to cover all the bases,” you say. “Everyone’s so PC about hitting every holiday nowadays, you know?”
“Oh, totally,” he nods and sticks out a hand. “John, by the way.”
You grip it gratefully and introduce yourself. Phew. You take a sip of your drink.
“I’m just confused that you didn’t start with Hanukkah.”
Shit, you thought you’d gotten away with it. Of course he had to bring up Hanukkah.
“That was gonna be my next guess. Well, not guess, it’s not like it’s a game…”
“It is a much more common holiday.”
“Is it? Yeah, you’re probably right,” you say, trying to sound fair-minded and reasonable. And like you have any idea what you’re talking about. “I suppose the number of Jews…Jewish people, I mean, is more…numerous than the number of…Kwanzaa…people…”
“Do you even know what Kwanzaa is?”
* * *
No, no you don’t. Go HERE.
Yeah. Sure. You probably know enough. Go HERE.
You start wrapping the presents.
By the time you’re done, it looks like you pulled them out of a landfill. The paper is crumpled and uneven, part of every box is showing, and there’s tape everywhere.
Whatever. No kid has ever cared about a wrapping job, right?
You can hear your sister stomping around the kitchen angrily.
“No, that’s all wrong!” she screams at her husband, Gregory. “It’s like you’ve never even seen a balsamic reduction!”
You can’t help but feel a little guilty.
If you picked up some of the workload, Lauren might settle down…slightly. After all, she is hosting you for Christmas.
On the other hand, if you toss the presents under the tree and sneak out the door right this second, you might be able to grab a drink without being judged.
* * *
If you want to stick around and offer to help your sister, go HERE.
If you want to sneak out to the bar, go HERE.
“Should I use masking tape?” you ask Lauren, pointing to her “wrapping nook.” “I want to wrap these as well as you would. Like Martha Stewart would. Same difference, right?”
Lauren gives you a big dumb smile. Oh god, you can’t believe that actually worked.
“Maybe if I staple on some yarn it will have that cool, old-fashioned look?” You try not to wince at how stupid that sounded.
“Just put them on my bed,” she says. “I’ll wrap them later.”
Success!
The rest of the evening seems much easier. Somehow admitting your inferiority has thawed her icy heart.
You even share drinks over dinner. And with a couple of glasses of wine in him, Gregory is actually funny…ish.
“Whoo! It’s way past our bedtime,” Lauren says as she loads the dishwasher.
You look at the clock on the wall.
8:07 P.M.
“See you in the morning,” says Gregory. “Gute nacht.”
You’re still a bit tipsy from the drinks at dinner. You don’t want to call it a night already.
There’s gotta be something fun to do around here, right?
* * *
If you want to peek at the presents, go HERE.
If you want to take your nephews sledding, go HERE.
You walk in the door twenty minutes later. All that shopping has made you hungry. Weirdly, Lauren is already making dinner.
“Don’t eat those,” she says, batting your hand away from a bowl of nuts. “You’ll spoil your appetite.”
Seriously? It’s not even four thirty.
“Um, okay.”
You pull out a bottle of wine you picked up while you were out.