“Do you have a corkscrew?”
She gives you the hairy eyeball.
“Relax. It’s Christmas. Gregory, you in?” You nod to Lauren’s husband, sitting at the kitchen island. Who knows, maybe he’ll be less insufferable after a couple of drinks.
He grins. “You know what? Why not!”
You pour him a glass, much to the annoyance of your sister.
“Just the one, okay? Dinner’s almost ready.”
You sit down—at four forty-five—to one of the most forgettable meals of your life. No sugar, no sauces, barely any salt…it’s really just sustenance.
You pour Gregory a second glass of wine.
“What about you, a little splash?” you ask Lauren.
“I don’t need alcohol to enjoy my Christmas,” she responds, drenching the word alcohol with judgment.
“Suit yourself.” You act like you don’t notice. It’s the perfect counterattack. “I was thinking that after dinner, I’d swing by this party.”
“Party?” asks Lauren.
“Yeah. I ran into Jim French at the store.” You double down on the casual tone. Bring it, Lauren.
“Jim French? That’s a name I haven’t heard in ages.” Lauren snorts. “I didn’t know you even liked him.”
* * *
Fuck her, you’re GOING to this party. Go HERE.
The party isn’t the point; it’s annoying your sister that matters. Stay at Lauren’s and attempt to grab the upper hand HERE.
You head to Santaland.
And what a charming land it is: miniature log cabins with costumed elves offering free jam cookies, stores with ridiculously adorable crafts, and a cute baby reindeer that grazes right out of your hand.
If this is what parenting is like, maybe you’re not against having kids after all.
“Who wants cocoa?” It’s Lauren who has the rule about sugar, not their cool uncle.
“ME, ME!” the boys scream.
You buy them cups, tossing in a candy cane each so they can stir the marshmallows around. You’re nailing this.
“A bouncy castle!” Harrison yells.
“Go for it, boys!”
After jumping around for fifteen minutes, they race back out.
“Let’s go on the candy cane jungle gym!” screams Harrison.
Hmmm, you thought they’d be more worn out after all that jumping.
Oh well.
As you make your way across the village, you pass an extremely attractive elf attendant standing in front of an ornament stand.
She winks at you suggestively.
“LOOK! IT’S SANTA!” screams Harrison, pointing past her.
* * *
If you want to approach the hot elf, go HERE.
If you want to get in line with the kids to see Santa, go HERE.
The boys walk up to the house, trembling.
“Why was Goofy…SNFF!…covered in chains?” Harrison asks between sobs.
“Because that’s how the story goes. It’s a classic.”
Who knew that a Disney cartoon could be so traumatizing? Or that any child, ever, could be this sheltered?
Lauren is waiting at the door. Both boys run straight to her.
“Where did you take them?” she asks, holding one against each leg.
“Just a movie. It was rated G.” The boys continue to sob uncontrollably. “I thought you read them Harry Potter?”
“Boys, go upstairs and get ready for a bath,” your sister says.
“Ooo—SNFFFF!—o-kayyyy.”
Lauren glares.
“I read Harry Potter to them.”
“Right. It’s much scarier than Mickey’s Christmas Carol.”
“Not after my edits.”
The End.
You’d take a shower, but the thought of what’s lurking in the bottom of the bathtub makes you feel nauseous. More nauseous.
Instead, you take a cologne-and-deodorant shower, check out, and hop into your car, setting the GPS for your apartment in the city.
Better to spend Christmas alone than in this shithole.
But you don’t want to be alone-alone. Who’s spending Christmas in the city?
The only person you can think of is your former colleague, Debby. You can’t imagine her having anything good to do. But then, wouldn’t that mean she’d be more likely to agree to see you?
You dial her number.
“Hey, Debby?”
“Merry—” she slurps thickly. The idea that it’s eggnog turns your stomach. “—Christmas! SNRCK!”
“So, I know this is last minute…” Now that you have her and her slurping on the line, you’re not sure hanging out is such a good idea. Do you even like Debby? But you’re out of other friend-ish options. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
“Tonight? Did the WPA get Depression-era America back on its feet? SNRCK!”
You cringe.
“Let’s,” more slurping, “par-TAY!”
• • •
How much time should you let pass before you actively clarify to people at the party that Debby’s not your girlfriend? Two minutes? Less?
Debby leads you to a walk-up third-floor apartment and knocks on the door, snorting merrily. Someone opens it and gestures you two inside.
“Where’s the bar?” Debby says, her face like rising bread dough at its coyest. “It’s time for SHOTS!” The person points, and she immediately trundles away, leaving you to fend for yourself.
You take a cursory look around the room.
You don’t recognize a single person.
You pull out your phone and start randomly opening and closing apps in an attempt to look busy. You don’t even see the sad sack in the shapeless gray dress—hair limp with grease, Coke-bottle glasses actually taped in the middle—sidle up to you.
She sighs heavily. You jump. Jesus, is she some kind of misery ninja?
“Looks like you and me are the lonely ones at the party, huh?”
* * *
If you want to talk to the first person who’s acknowledged your existence, go HERE.
If you want to escape to the bar, go HERE.
You have to make up with your sister. After all, even she’s better than another night in this miserable hole.
RING!
“Hello?”
“Hey, sis.”
“Oh…hello,” Lauren says frostily.
“I just wanted to call to patch things over from last night.”
“I’m surprised you managed to find a hotel room.” She sniffs.
“It wasn’t too much trouble.” You stare at the vibrating mattress coin box beside the bed. “Anyway, how’s the gang this morning?”
“We’re fine. Though I think you really hurt Otto and Harrison by not saying hello to them last night.” You grit your teeth. “Anyway, if you still plan on eating Christmas Eve dinner here, there are a few things you can do to help out.”
This is as close to an apology as you’ll ever get from Lauren. You might as well take it. “Okay.”
You spend the rest of the day running around trying to find the right “GMO-free, long-life healthy, ethical” groceries she needs.
By the time you’re finished, it’s late afternoon and you’re starving. You probably should’ve eaten more than that solitary dry bagel at the “continental breakfast buffet.”
You walk into your sister’s house, carrying a sack of windfall beets in one hand and three biodegradable bags of unpasteurized pasture-raised milk in the other.
“I can’t wait to eat,” you say.
“You’re late,” says your sister, obviously annoyed.
“What?” You’re truly puzzled. “It’s four o’clock?”
“Look. If you have a problem with me, that’s fine. But don’t take it out on my family this way.”
Is she for real?
You drop the bags of milk and the sack of beets to the floor and walk out. Fuck this—if this is family, you’ll spend Christmas alone.
Luckily, you
know a bar nearby with plenty of nog…
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
“Thanks for including me,” you say. You, Lindsi’s dad, ‘Dad,’ her brother Lars, and her brother-in-law Michael have been trudging through the woods for about twenty minutes, after a solid half-hour drive to the tree farm, but no one has spoken a single word yet.
“Mmm,” Lars grunts, nodding at you. He seems friendly enough. Apparently the kind of men who cut their own trees with smallish-looking hand-axes don’t need excess words.
It should be awkward, but the silence of the woods, the beauty of the snow-covered trees, and the freshness of the air is making you feel better. Even your back is starting to feel less brutalized. Maybe this is exactly what you needed to get back on track.
“Mmmm.” Lars elbows you, tilting his head to the right. You look in that direction and see a magnificent buck staring back, totally unfazed by your presence.
“Wow,” you murmur. Lars nods, smiling.
“Not too often you see a twelve-pointer as healthy as that,” he whispers back, looking at you appraisingly.
“Oh, for sure,” you agree. That makes you sound like you know what you’re talking about, right? Like you’ve seen deer outside of petting zoos before? Apparently so. Lars smiles again and thumps you on the shoulder in a chummy, manly fashion.
Could this day go any better? You’re even getting along with Lindsi’s brother. Shit, he spoke a full sentence to you; you might as well be blood brothers.
This is the kind of Christmas you’d always been missing. Maybe you actually love this holiday. Maybe you love Lindsi. You’ve never felt more at one with the world around you.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
“Wow, that sounds amazing,” you say, heaping as much sugar onto the words as you can, “and I’m honored that you’d include me, but honestly, I don’t think I’m up to it.”
“Really.” Mom stares at you. Technically you suppose she’s smiling, but she somehow manages to convey utter disgust.
“Yeah, unfortunately I have a really terrible back. I slipped a disk playing high school hockey.” That’s not true—you never made the team, and your doctor said your back pain was most likely “excessive-sitting-based”—but it sounds better.
“Mmm. All right then, if you’d rather stay home with the women.”
Apparently the VanWhittingtons don’t do progressive gender roles.
You spend the morning on the couch while Mom and a couple of Lindsi’s nieces make gingerbread in the kitchen.
“Why’s he so lazy, Grandma?” the smaller one whines loudly enough for you to hear. Screw you, kid, that snub nose isn’t gonna look cute in another year.
“Some people don’t have a work ethic, sweetie,” Mom says, her voice brutally cheery. “They don’t like helping when they visit someone’s home.”
Goddammit.
“Hey, guys,” you say, grimace-smiling as you push off the couch. You still feel like the interior of your back has been replaced with a colony of pissed-off fire ants, but that gauntlet-throwing was too much to ignore. “I’d love to help out with the cookies since I’m far too injured to chop down a tree.”
“I’m making a you-gingerbread,” Snub Nose says, holding up a cookie. It’s wearing a pink frosting skirt and…c’mon now, you don’t have man-tits, do you?
“Oh! It’s just like him!” Mom laughs, balancing a plate of cookies on one elbow while she lifts the entire upright mixer with the other hand. Jesus, is everyone in this family made of tree trunks?
“Let me help,” you say.
“No, no, I wouldn’t want to strain you.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. You think you hear her mutter, “Never survive a proving,” but that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe the pain is causing aural hallucinations?
You grit your teeth. A timer dings.
“I can at least grab those cookies,” you offer. “So they don’t burn.”
“Fine, if you insist.” She tilts her chin toward the counter, where two potholders are stacked. They’re frilly and embroidered with the words The Ladies Are Cooking. Awesome.
You lean down to grab the cookies, but the minute you reach your arm into the oven, it feels like your spine has been torn in two, like a wet toilet paper tube.
Fuck. You’ve fully thrown out your back.
* * *
If you want to jerk upright and hope you don’t pass out from the pain, go HERE.
If you want to claim you’ve burned your hand to buy time, go HERE.
ANTS! There are ants crawling all over your body, fire ants, biting you, your entire chest is a carpet of…
You blink several times, confused. Where are you? And why is your entire body in pain?
Oh, right, you put your sweater on last night without the arms. It seemed like a good idea at the time—it would guarantee you couldn’t accidentally grab Jimmy’s balls or something.
But now your entire body feels like one massive wool rash. Worse, pinning your arms in place means you must have slept in some really weird positions; you’re still lying flat and already you feel your back radiating pain into every limb.
Awesome.
You pull the sweater over your head and trudge down to the kitchen.
“Finally up?” Mom says, pinch-smiling at you.
“Mmmm.” You don’t bother telling her it’s only seven thirty, or that your chest looks like it has pinkeye. 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 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 just generous that way.”
“Mmmmmm.”
* * *
If you want to go along, if only to get away from Mom’s passive aggression for a few hours, go HERE.
If you’d rather stay home and try not to completely throw out your back, go HERE.
You lie down on the edge of the bed farthest from Jimmy’s motionless body and close your eyes, certain you’re facing a sleepless night.
• • •
You wake up with your arm around your girlfr—
Fuck, you knew you shouldn’t have trusted sleep-you.
You roll away as quickly as possible and dress over the edge of the bed. By the time Jimmy wakes up—eyes flapping open all at once, like some terrifying humanoid doll—you’ve managed to shrug into a sweater and jeans.
“Last night I dreamed I was fighting a gelatinous sea monster.” Jimmy hasn’t moved; he’s staring at the ceiling, reciting this to…well, presumably you.
“Okay.”
“It seemed about to overwhelm me, but I punched it in the side of the head with my gauntleted fist. Then it understood I was its master and lay down coyly for me.”
Oh god, is this going to be a sex dream?
“But I was still filled with blood lust and sliced it into a million tiny blobs with my scimitar.”
Phew.
“Then I had sex with the blobs. Which explains the large quantity of ejaculate now present on my boxers, pajamas, and one corner of the quilt.”
Wow. That was…specific.
“It seems as though my semen production must have increased, judging from the spread of the—”
“JIMMY.”
He stares at you, eyes dead, then nods once.
“You must help me dispose of this evidence.”
“Dispose of…what?”
“My mother sees me as a child. She is uncomfortable with the idea of my burgeoning, uncontrollable sexuality,” Jimmy says flatly. “If she knows this happened, she’ll be inconsolable.”
“No offense, Jimmy, but that’s not really my pro—”
“She’ll probably assume you were sexually inappropriate with me.”
Well, fuck.
“I mean…don’t you know how to do laundry? It’
s not hard.”
“No. I have never been required to launder my clothing or bedding.”
“But it’s simple, really. It—”
“Doing laundry now, the very day after we shared a bed, would surely draw suspicion.”
He has a point.
* * *
If you want to help him deal with the jizz shorts…and sheets, and comforter, go HERE.
If Jimmy’s mom’s gonna have to learn that he blows loads sometimes, go HERE.
“No. Well, I mean, yes, it is, but…” What can you say that will make this seem less horrifying? “I was out here for some…air, and it attacked. Out of nowhere! I had to defend myself.”
“You’re saying you killed the coyote?” It’s hard to make out her expression, since she’s backlit by the house, but it doesn’t look like the depths of horrified disgust.
“Well, in a manner of speaking…yes?”
“How?” You’re still loopy from the Ambien, but it almost sounds like there’s wonder in Mom’s voice.
“It had latched onto my arm, and the only thing I could think to do was punch it in the side of the head.”
“Yes.” Mom takes a step toward you. “It’s perfect technique.”
Was that weird? You can’t tell what’s weird anymore because of the drugs. And the murdered woodland animal at your feet.
“It released briefly, and, I dunno, I managed to grab hold of a rock. Then I just…smashed its skull in.”
You can feel the skull crushing beneath your hand again. You swallow hard against another wave of vomit.
“I’m so sorry,” you say when you’re fairly certain you’ve mastered it. “I never meant for this to happen.”
“Sorry? It’s a natural proving.” She’s close enough now for you to make out her features. She’s looking at you with something approaching awe.
“Natural…what?”
Choose Your Own Misery Page 9
