You’re not sure what he’s talking about, but it sounds like you’re winning.
“Great!”
Your sister storms out of the dining room.
• • •
“I used to play in college,” you say, lacing up Gregory’s extra pair of skates. “But I haven’t since.”
“Not to worry. I only ever got as far as the intramural team.”
“Which school were you at again?”
“University of Salzburg, in Austria.”
“Right.”
You assume Gregory’s being modest, but as soon as he steps on the ice, it becomes clear that he can barely skate.
“European ice is so much smoother,” he says, tripping on nothing and nearly face-planting. “It’s the process of freezing there. It’s much more refined.”
* * *
Well, you’re here, you might as well play, go HERE.
If you want to leave while you still can, go HERE.
You stab your fork into the mountain of spelt salad Lauren’s served you.
No matter how much you eat, you don’t seem to make a dent.
“Oh, I knew Jim French,” you say. Hmm, that came off a bit sexual. “Gregory, let me refill your wine.”
Lauren shoots you a death stare. Clearly the thing that’s bothering her even more than the idea of you enjoying yourself at a party is the idea of Gregory having fun at all.
It gives you an idea.
“Gregory, any interest in coming along to Jim French’s?”
“We have to get ready for bed, Gregory,” Lauren says sharply.
“Gregory is a grown man. Let him speak for himself.”
“Well…” He seems to consider. “I suppose it would be nice to get out of the house for a bit.”
“Great!”
Lauren storms out of the dining room.
• • •
You walk through the door to Jim French’s. It’s immediately clear you know—or at least remember—no one in the room.
You fiddle with your phone, trying to look busy. Gregory, however, is surprisingly popular.
“…as it turns out, he was wearing the hat the entire time!”
Everyone laughs hysterically at Gregory’s joke.
Considering how much he’s had to drink, you’re impressed he’s able to hold the room so well.
A little while later, Jim French walks up to you.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Of course. Thanks again for the invite.”
“No worries. Hey, so, this might be weird, but do you have any rolling papers on you?”
“I dunno,” you say. “Let me check my coat.”
You know you don’t, but at least it gives you something to do.
You go to the coatroom and push open the door.
Gregory is spread-eagling the bed, naked, with your high school prom date, Sarah.
Man, she used to be so hot before never bouncing back from her first kid.
You lock eyes with Gregory.
You’re mortified.
* * *
RUN! Click HERE to continue.
You walk through the door to Jim French’s. It’s immediately clear you know—or at least remember—no one in the room.
You fiddle with your phone, trying to look busy. Gregory, however, is surprisingly popular.
“…as it turns out, he was wearing the hat the entire time!”
Everyone laughs hysterically at Gregory’s joke.
Considering the possible head injury, you’re impressed he’s able to hold the room so well.
A little while later, Jim French walks up to you.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Of course. Thanks again for the invite.”
“No worries. Hey, so, this might be weird, but do you have any rolling papers on you?”
“I dunno,” you say. “Let me check my coat.”
You know you don’t, but at least it gives you something to do.
You go to the coatroom and push open the door.
Gregory is spread-eagling the bed, naked, with your high school prom date, Sarah.
Man, she used to be so hot before never bouncing back from her first kid.
You lock eyes with Gregory.
You’re mortified.
* * *
RUN! Click HERE to continue.
You find yourself pulled toward this sexy elf, like she’s magnetic north.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, smiling.
“You have to tell me. Am I on Santa’s naughty list?”
She blushes, then giggles.
Yup, still got it.
“Well, I’m not sure about you, but your son is definitely on the nice list.”
Son? Not that they’re yours, but you did come here with two…fuck.
“Harrison, where’s Otto?”
Harrison glares at you, eyes glassy. “I want more cocoa!” he screams. “NOW!”
“Where’s security?” you ask the elf, completely flustered.
She points toward the concession stands.
You grab Harrison’s hand and start running like a madman toward the security booth.
“He was with me literally two minutes ago,” you tell the guard.
“We’ll make an announcement right away.”
Each second passes like an hour. How the hell do you lose a human being?
You start preparing your speech to Lauren. “He just vanished…Poof.” God, she’s gonna cut your face off and shit in the wreckage.
You take a deep breath. Tears start rolling down your cheeks. It would be almost impossible to fuck up harder than this.
The best option is to drop Harrison off at home, then come back and resume the search with no one else to lose.
You push through the turnstiles and jog to the car, thumb-dialing 911. Just before you hit send, you see a child climbing a Christmas tree near the entrance.
You race to the tree, nearly pulling Harrison’s arm off.
Oh thank fuck. It’s Otto.
Never mind that he’s not wearing pants or socks; you found him. In one piece. And without a second to spare.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You wait in line for a painfully long hour, the kids acting like feral, sugar-fueled beasts.
You’ve just reached the front when a douchey banker type cuts in front of you.
“Excuse me, the line’s back there,” you say politely. He sneers and stays put.
“That’s no fair!” Harrison cries. Both boys look at you as though you can somehow fix this. Sorry, kids, there’s no cure for douche.
“It’s okay, guys, some people act rude because they don’t have the Christmas spirit, but we’re better than that, right?”
The douche turns around. “You think you’re better than me?”
Before you even have a chance to respond, he slugs you square in the nose.
Blood from your nose gushes into your mouth.
You hit the ground…hard.
• • •
When you regain consciousness, that sexy elf from earlier is standing over you.
You touch your nose. It feels like a hot dog has been stapled to your face.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Where are my nephews?”
“They’re at the candy store with a security guard. We couldn’t reach their mother, so we gave them some free gumdrops and gingerbread cookies to stop them from crying.”
Oh god. Not more sugar….
“Your nose looks broken,” says the elf. “And I think you might have wet your pants when you were out.”
You don’t even have to touch your crotch to know she’s right.
But maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Just a week ago, you might have said you wanted kids of your own.
The End.
You wake up Christmas morning with a new, creamy-colored pile of vomit waterfalling over the particleboard nightstand. At least you’re pretty sure that one’s your
fault.
You think back to Christmas growing up. You and your sister and brother would jump on your parents’ bed at five in the morning, screaming about how Santa actually ate the cookies you left for him.
It would be nice to reminisce with Lauren about those years.
But she’d probably hang up the phone if you called. Fuck the bitch she’s turned into. Fuck memories. Fuck this terrible holiday.
You get out of bed and spray yourself with cologne before heading downstairs for breakfast.
It’s 10 A.M., but the restaurant is still packed with people squeezing in a free meal before the cutoff.
You grab two dry bagels and an orange.
You sit down and squirt a packet of cream cheese onto your first bagel.
Alone.
Just like everyone else in the restaurant.
Just like the guy who’s making zero effort to conceal the fact that he’s dumping vodka into his orange drink.
Just like the fat woman spilling out of a Dalmatian-themed Christmas sweater. Look at her smearing all those butter packets over her Wonder Bread. And eating all those jams with a spoon, one after another, like a GIF of herself sent to depress you on Christmas.
You’re not this pathetic, are you?
No. Fuck no!
You have a girlfriend. A reasonably hot girlfriend!
Sure, you were only 60/40 on Lindsi before you came to visit Lauren, but the idea of being lonely forever spurs you into action.
You have to lock her down.
The future’s simply too grim without her.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
After a half hour of peeking furtively out of the bathroom, then ducking back into a stall, you finally spot Lars in the hallway.
“Lars,” you hiss-whisper.
He turns. “Oh, thank goodness, we were so worried.” He jogs over. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
“No, I’ll be fine, but my pants…won’t.” Lars nods knowingly. How is it possible that Lindsi has such an understanding brother? Who’s also, apparently, had some pants-shitting experience? “Is it safe to sneak out to the car quick?”
“Yup, the congregation’s cleared out. I’ll tell Dad you’re on the way. Hold tight for a second.”
He comes back shortly to hurry you to the car. You take the window seat and everyone coos over your toilet paper bottoms.
“Poor baby,” Lindsi says. “But you seem fine now.”
“Well.” You can’t have them thinking you faked it. “I don’t want to be difficult, but I may need to pull over.”
They do, so rapidly your stomach lurches. How fortunate. You now have no trouble forcing out another slick Combos shit, wiping with the remnants of your toilet paper diaper.
Fuck, now you’re out of dick coverings.
You pull your sweater off, then your T-shirt, which you step into as a new diaper.
The rest of the ride home, you grip the neck together so your dick won’t fall out.
Not your finest moment, but at least no one doubts your story.
• • •
The next morning, you feel fine—Combos really only have one good bout of diarrhea in them—but every time you try to join the family, Mom pushes you back to bed more insistently…and weirdly, with a wider smile.
“You lie down,” she says when she sees you at the head of the stairs again. “I’ll bring you more crackers and ginger ale. What a constitution! Ready for phase two already,” she adds approvingly.
“Okay,” you say as weakly as you can, shuffling back to the bedroom they’ve put you in.
It’s not the most exciting Christmas, but you have to admit being waited on hand and foot is relaxing.
And apparently it’s bought you a permanent in with Lindsi’s family.
Not a bad haul for a deliberate pants-shitting.
The End.
You approach a clearing. Nearby, dozens of fat, perfect Christmas trees stand in well-spaced rows.
“Dad,” Lars says. Dad turns and looks at him. Lars raises a bushy blond eyebrow, tilting his head back over his shoulder. Dad squints, obviously deep in thought, and turns to Michael, the brother-in-law. Michael lowers his eyelids meaningfully. A smile spreads across Dad’s face and he nods.
Seriously, you’ve never seen a more eloquently nonverbal collection of people than the VanWhittington men.
“We think you should chop down the tree. As a sort of ‘welcome to the family’ treat.” Lars grins.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” You smile ingratiatingly. Your back tenses up in fear. You’ve never swung an axe before. Shit, you didn’t even play baseball as a kid. “I’m a city boy, after all. Leave it to the pros, right?”
“No, it’s easy. Any idiot can chop down a tree.” Lars laughs, a rich, deep baritone sound. Dad and Michael join in. “I mean, if you can’t chop down a fir tree, how will we feel comfortable leaving Lindsi with you, am I right?”
“HA!” You force out one brief spasm. Your back twinges ominously. “Totally. Yes, couldn’t leave your sister—your daughter—with a man who doesn’t know how to use an axe.” Do they know how creepy that sounds?
Apparently not, because Lars is handing one your way—Jesus, did he really have that thing strapped to his thigh this entire time? Whose thighs are big enough to hide an axe head?
There’s nothing to do but give it a go.
You throw the axe to the side, trying to twist from the hips so you won’t rupture your spine. You swing back forcefully, hoping to impress Lindsi’s family, but you’ve misjudged. The axe head is heavier than you thought, and your hands have started to sweat, probably from axe-fear.
Your grip is weakening. You feel the weight of the axe pulling it through your fingers. Please don’t amputate my foot, you think, hoping to somehow make it true.
You don’t amputate your foot.
Instead, you slam the axe head into your kidney, hard.
You crumple to the ground, screaming like a small child. It’s hard to see—your vision is literally red, you’re in so much pain—but it looks like Lindsi’s family is utterly unimpressed.
* * *
If you want to try to play it off like you’re not in crippling pain, go HERE.
If you absolutely have to go to the ER, now, go HERE.
Maybe if you jerk up fast enough, your back will fix itself. That’s what they always recommend, right? Sudden, jerky motions?
No way to know but to try: you stand as fast as you can, cookies in hand.
You hear a pop, feel something like a stab directly into your spinal column…
THUD.
You collapse to the floor, back spasming. You hear glass splintering near your head, and if you open your eyes—you can just manage to squint through the pain—you can see the tray of gingerbread upside down a few feet away.
You might actually be dying. No, scratch that: dying would be better than this.
Mom leans over you, pure hatred in her eyes. You’d say something, but you can’t form words; the pain is too intense.
“D-d-d-d…I wa—wa—wa…” You grit your teeth and scrunch up your entire face, forcing yourself to concentrate on verbalizing your need.
“D-d-doctor. Please.”
“Doctor? Doctors aren’t open today.” Mom picks up the tray, shaking her head in disgust at the broken gingerbread on the floor. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Emergency…room?”
“I don’t think anyone’s going to want to spend Christmas there.” She hasn’t made any move to help you. Apparently the gingerbread is her bigger concern.
You lie there for a few minutes, incapable of shifting from your fetal curl.
“I have a neighbor who might be able to help,” Mom says, obviously annoyed that you haven’t moved. “A chiropractor. Lives next door.”
“Yes. Thank you, yes.” You push up to your hands and knees, trying not to cry out at the new spasms in your back. You just have to make it next door.
• • •
After forty-five excruciating minutes of bent-double shuffling, you arrive.
“Come in, come in,” says a kindly voice above your head. “Marlene said you’d be coming.”
The man-voice leads you into a room with a worn leather couch, which you immediately flop onto. You appear to be in some sort of den. You see a few framed diplomas on the wall.
What’s the “Hollywood Correspondence School for Psychic Chiropracty”? Is that certified? Is the Office of Lou Diamond Phillips really qualified to give out “chyroprakter’s” licenses? Jesus, that “Masters in Dog Yoga” doesn’t even have a school name printed on it.
“Sorry, but would you mind telling me a bit about your qualifications?” Luckily, your face is too full of couch for him to embarrass you with eye contact.
“Well, I took a lot of courses from the local Y in undergrad,” he begins. “Practiced for a few years up past Fresno. Had dozens of happy clients. At least until ’92, that is.”
“What happened in ’92?”
“Oh, regulatory snafu. Paralysis is a normal, if unfortunate, side effect, but those pencil-pushers wouldn’t listen.”
You can feel your face starting to sweat, sticking clammily to the leather.
“So you haven’t practiced since the early nineties?”
“No, no, I’ve been practicing this whole time.”
“Without a license?”
“You don’t need a license for dogs.”
* * *
If there’s no way this guy is touching you, go HERE.
If you have no choice, now, but to go through with it, go HERE.
“Oh, uh, ow! Oooooh, owww.” You shake your hand in the air, still bent over the oven.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve burned my hand. It’s pretty bad.” You grip one hand in the other, wincing in very real pain.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 12
