by Simon Rich
“My guy’s fantastic,” Fish said. “He made New York’s Hundred Best this year. What insurance do you have?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
Rip felt his cheeks flush beneath his beard. He opened the menu and anxiously scanned the prices.
“Do you think they’ll let me have just the extra chicken, but not the salad?”
“What?” Fish said.
“It says, Chinese cabbage salad, fourteen dollars, but then there’s six dollars if you want to add chicken. Do you think they’ll let me just have the chicken? For six dollars?”
“You want a plate of loose chicken?”
“I mean… I don’t know.”
Stinky and Fish started talking about the new Malcolm Gladwell book.
“His thesis is pretty counterintuitive,” Stanley said.
“That’s why it works,” Fish said.
“Guys, I slept for a long time,” Rip said. “I’m scared.”
The waiter returned to the table.
“Have you gentlemen decided?”
Rip cleared his throat.
“Can I just have the chicken that you can add to the cabbage salad but not the salad?”
“Excuse me?”
Rip stared down at his lap. He could feel his friends’ eyes on him.
“Never mind,” he mumbled. “I’m not hungry.”
The waiter turned to Stinky.
“And for you, sir?”
“Sashimi,” Stinky said.
Fish held up two fingers.
“Two sashimi,” the waiter confirmed. “Good choice.”
“I hate it when they comment,” Fish said when the waiter was out of earshot.
Stinky nodded in agreement. “It’s unprofessional.”
Rip looked on dumbly as his friends resumed their conversation. Their words were strange to him: Roth IRA, Shelter Island, Roberto Cavalli. He couldn’t follow any of it.
His stomach rumbled as his best friends ate their sashimi. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, or any other meals, for several years, but he was too embarrassed to ask them for a bite. Within a few minutes, every sliver of fish was gone.
“So what are you guys doing tonight?” Rip asked during a lull in a discussion of gyms.
“What do you mean?” Fish asked.
“After this,” Rip said.
Stinky and Fish squinted at him.
“It’s almost ten,” Stinky said. “I’m going to bed.”
Fish nodded. “I’ve got two breakfast meetings tomorrow.”
“Come on,” Rip said, grinning desperately. “Let’s go back to my place and jam.”
Fish chuckled. “I don’t think my fiancée would approve of that.”
“You have a fiancée?”
“Her name is Lisa.”
“How is Lisa?” Stinky asked. “Is everything… resolved?”
“The doctors say her thyroid is fine,” Fish said. “But it was quite an ordeal they put her through. She had to have a biopsy.”
“That’s so traumatic,” Stinky said. “Please tell her I’m thinking of her.”
“Thank you,” Fish said. “That’ll mean a lot to her.”
Rip cleared his throat.
“So… are you guys… like… not into jazz anymore?”
“I love jazz,” Stinky said. “I gave to Lincoln Center this year.”
“So did I,” Fish said. “I’m in the Patron’s Circle.”
“I’m in the Angel’s Circle,” Stinky said. “You should do it. Once a year there’s a luncheon with Wynton Marsalis.”
“What’s he like?”
“Lovely.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Rip said. “Why are you guys talking like this? What the fuck is happening?”
“Whenever you’re ready,” said the rosy-cheeked waiter as he subtly slid the bill onto the table. Fish and Stinky flicked down a pair of MasterCards and glanced at Rip expectantly.
“I didn’t eat anything,” Rip said.
“I thought you had sashimi,” Stanley said.
“I didn’t!” Rip said. “I didn’t have a single piece!”
His voice came out a lot louder than he’d meant it to. Fish and Stinky glanced at each other.
“Don’t worry,” Stanley said. “It’s on us.”
Rip followed his friends as they headed for the exit, buttoning their blazers as they walked.
“We should do this more often,” Stinky said as he climbed into a cab. “It would be nice to make it a monthly thing.”
“Or at least bimonthly,” Fish said.
He shook Rip’s hand and hailed a cab of his own.
“Bye, Fish,” Rip said.
“It’s Fred,” Fish said.
It took Rip three hours to get back to his apartment. The G train had deteriorated since the early 2010s. It had always been slow, but now it was downright decrepit, like a sick old man lumbering around in the dark.
Rip trudged up the stairs to his apartment, pausing to catch his breath at every landing. Eventually, he made it up to the sixth floor. He stepped over his pile of bills, snorted his last two Adderalls, and flipped open his laptop. It was getting late and he had a lot of work to do on his jazz blog.
ELF ON THE SHELF
There aren’t a lot of jobs out there for elves. You can work in the toy shop, a nonunion hellhole, and handcraft Hess trucks until you get arthritis. Or you can become an Elf on the Shelf. For me, growing up, the choice was easy. I know it will be challenging to monitor a child’s behavior 24/7 and report every detail to Santa. But I want the opportunity to leave the North Pole. I want adventure and excitement. So the first chance I get, I hop in a box and let them ship me to a Walmart.
I wake up on a boy’s shelf in Tampa. His face is smeared with Hot Pocket meat and his hair is cut into a rattail. As soon as I see him, I start to wonder if I’ve made the right decision.
“Look, Tanner!” says the boy’s mom. “It’s your new elf!”
And she starts to read him the book I came with, which explains my background. Before she can finish the intro, though, Tanner says, “Fuck you.” Just curses his mother out, right to her face. So I watch the mom to see how she’ll discipline her son. But she just smiles and says, “You better behave, or the elf will tell Santa!” And I realize, oh my God, there’s no parental discipline in this house. And this woman has brought me here to try to instill some order, but it’s obviously too little too late. And as I’m thinking this, Tanner picks up the book and throws it against the wall. And his mom, in a singsong voice, is, like, “Pick it up, or Santa will find out you’re naughty.” And Tanner says, “Fuck Santa.” And the mom goes off to make him more Hot Pockets. And that’s when I know I’m in for a long December.
So this kid’s only ten, but he’s already masturbating. And when I say masturbating, I don’t mean “exploring his body.” I mean full-fledged, to-completion masturbation. His walls are plastered with Playboy centerfolds. He also has unrestricted Internet access and the sites he visits are truly twisted. Like, “time to destroy your hard drive” twisted. At one point, while masturbating, he looks right at me. I try my best to ignore him, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m physically incapable of turning my head or closing my eyes. It’s the most disturbing experience of my life.
That night, I fly to the North Pole to report Tanner’s behavior to you-know-who. And I’m, like, “Listen, this kid is naughty. There’s no need for further research.”
And Santa’s, like, “Just stay on his shelf through Christmas, maybe he’ll turn a corner, ho ho ho.” And I’m, like, “This kid is a psychopath.” And Santa laughs and says, “Nice try, Buttercup. But you’re not getting the holidays off.” And then he leaves for his next meeting. And I’m, like, oh my God, I’ve gotta go back there.
The next day, Tanner’s friends come over. And when they see me on the shelf, they start making fun of him and calling him a baby. So Tanner, to prove he’s tough or whatever, decides that the thi
ng to do is to shove my head up his ass. Literally, just pulls down his pants and sticks my head inside his ass. It happens so fast, it takes me a moment to realize what’s going on. By the time he extracts me, his friends are all laughing hysterically, like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. Then they all take out iPads and play single-shooter video games in silence.
After three hours of this madness, one of the kids says he’s bored. So Tanner grabs me and I think, Oh fuck, something really bad’s about to happen. Sure enough, the next thing I know I’m being tossed into the microwave. The stench of Hot Pockets is thick in the air. Tanner hits a button and I start to cook from the inside out. My face turns to goo. My feet catch on fire. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but part of me feels relieved. My scars are no longer invisible; maybe now there will finally be some discipline, some modicum of justice? Wishful thinking. When Tanner’s mom finds me, she just plops me right back on Tanner’s shelf without comment. How’s that for parenting?
That night, I go up Tanner’s ass again, even though it’s just the two of us. What started as a joke has become part of his masturbation ritual. I realize that this is how it’s going to be from now on. Every time he masturbates, I’m going to be involved. And there are still twelve days until Christmas.
Up at the North Pole, I try to get another meeting with Santa. But his schedule is completely booked. As I’m flying back to Tanner’s house, I pass Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And he’s, like, “I hear you’re going through a hard time. Listen, we’ve all been there.” And I’m, like, are you fucking kidding me? You’re going to equate what I’m going through with being “excluded from games”? Fuck you. I’m inside an ass three times a day, and if it’s washed, it’s a Christmas miracle.
I get through December by mentally leaving my body. I just learn to disassociate. When Tanner is doing his thing, I’m not there. I’m in a different place. I’m at the beach.
Finally, on Christmas Eve, Santa calls in all the elves, from all the shelves, for the annual naughty-or-nice meeting. Some of my colleagues have mixed reports about their kids (they’ve witnessed bad manners and unmade beds), but everyone recommends that their boys and girls receive presents. Then it’s my turn. I filibuster for over an hour. I describe every crime in disgusting, horrible detail. By the time I’m finished, half the elves are in tears. Sugarplum is in the bathroom puking. Santa’s white as a sheet. He hasn’t given a child coal in over a thousand years, but now he’s got no choice.
“So,” I say triumphantly, “how many lumps does Tanner get?”
Santa averts his eyes.
“The thing is,” he says, “I kind of already got him a Play-Station 4.”
And I’m, like, “What do you mean? It’s not even Christmas yet.”
And Santa explains that he delivers most presents in advance and hides them inside parents’ closets to save himself travel time on the big day.
And I’m, like, “Are you telling me that the most hellish period of my life was completely in vain?”
But Santa’s already off to his next meeting.
Since then, I’ve been going around to high schools like this one, sharing my story. I hope you learned something today about perseverance. At the very least, I hope I’ve dissuaded you from becoming an Elf on the Shelf, if that was a career path you were considering. Thank you to Mrs. Gonzales for organizing this assembly. You’ve all been wonderful. Merry Christmas.
UPPER EAST SIDE GHOSTS
Mr. and Mrs. Carr had been dead for several months, but like most ghosts, they thought they were still living. Their apartment hadn’t been sold yet. And so they retained dominion over their darkened, dusty duplex on Seventy-Eighth and Park.
Their days were somewhat frustrating. The heat no longer worked. And Beto, their favorite doorman, had grown unaccountably rude, ignoring their holas and refusing to open the door for them. In many ways, though, life continued as it had before their deaths. The New York Times still arrived, occasionally, due to a computer error. And while the Carrs were unable to flip through the pages, due to the incorporeity of their fingers, they could scan the headlines, which was all they’d really done while still alive.
The Carrs rarely left the Upper East Side, finding the rest of the city disorienting. But, luckily, their neighborhood was packed with ghosts like them. On Sundays, they liked to host the Benders, a witty couple they had known since law school. The Benders had died in a helicopter explosion but were otherwise in perfect health.
“I’m sorry it’s so chilly,” Mrs. Carr said as she air-kissed Mrs. Bender.
“It’s the same at our place,” she said between shivers. “It’s Con Ed, they’re the worst.”
Mr. Bender gestured at his wife’s trembling rump.
“Look!” he said. “She’s twerking!”
All the ghosts laughed.
“You know, that’s a word now,” said Mrs. Bender. “In The Oxford English Dictionary. A verb—‘to twerk’!”
“I read about that,” said Mr. Carr. “In the New York Times.”
Mr. Bender sardonically raised his eyebrows.
“Beethoven gave us ‘Ode to Joy,’ Wagner gave us The Ring Cycle, and now Miley Cyrus has given us… ‘le twerk.’ ”
The ghosts all laughed some more.
“There probably won’t even be music soon,” said Mrs. Carr. “If it’s not an ‘app,’ what’s the point, right?”
“All this new technology drives me crazy,” said Mrs. Bender. “Why can’t a phone just be a phone? And these new walls they have now. How you can just walk right through them. I’m sorry, I’m showing my age here, but I liked it better when you couldn’t walk through walls.”
The other ghosts nodded. They’d noticed the strange new walls, too.
“These Millennials use so much technology that their brains are wired differently. They’ve done studies!”
“I read about that,” said Mr. Carr. “In the New York Times.”
“Our kids are prime examples,” Mrs. Carr admitted. “They’re obsessed with their phones. Last week, we visited Lily’s new place. In, where else, Brooklyn.”
The other ghosts chuckled with recognition.
“She was so busy texting, she didn’t even say hello to us. It was like we weren’t even there. I got so angry, I grabbed her phone and threw it across the room.”
“What happened?”
“She started screaming and a lock of her hair turned white.”
The Benders nodded. They’d had similar experiences while visiting their own children.
“Speaking of Millennials,” Mrs. Bender said. “We have to tell you about this party we attended.” She nudged her husband. “You tell it, honey. I’ll never do it justice.”
Mr. Bender licked his lips, relishing the anecdote.
“So we show up, and it’s Alice, her fiancé, and a gypsy.”
Mrs. Bender squealed. “Ted, you can’t say ‘gypsy’! It isn’t politically correct!”
“So this gypsy…”
“Ted!”
“She’s decked out in scarves, and rings, and holding a crystal ball.”
“I assume this was in Brooklyn?” said Mrs. Carr.
“How did you know?” Mr. Bender asked sarcastically.
“It was in a neighborhood called Ditmas Park.”
“My God,” Mrs. Carr said. “How did you even get there?”
Mr. Bender’s smile faded. “You know, I don’t remember.” He turned to his wife with confusion. “Do you remember how we got there?”
“No,” said Mrs. Bender after a lengthy pause. “It’s almost like we just appeared in the space, as if out of a void.”
“Anyway,” Mr. Bender said. “This gypsy—”
“Ted!”
“She says, ‘There is a spirit in our midst. Do you know anyone whose name begins with T?’ And our daughter says, ‘My father.’ And I’m thinking, What is this? What’s going on? So I try to talk to Alice, but she’s giving us the silent treatment, as usu
al. So I say to the gypsy, ‘Will you please tell Alice to retake the GREs and I’ll pay for it? Because that’s been a source of contention between us for some time.’ And the gypsy repeats what I’ve said, and Alice starts to cry. And she says, ‘Dad, please, we might never get another chance to communicate. I want you to know that I love you.’ ” He shook his head in bafflement. “It’s these new drugs kids are taking. They’re much stronger than the ones we dabbled in. ‘Molly.’ That’s one of them.”
Mr. Carr nodded. “I read about that in the New York Times.”
The door creaked open.
“Speak of the devil!” Mrs. Carr said as her two adult children, Lily and Brent, entered the apartment. She tried to hug them, but they slipped right through her arms.
“I’ll do this closet,” Lily told her brother. “You do that one.”
Mrs. Carr watched in confusion as her children rifled through her old belongings.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the Benders. “They’re not usually this rude.”
Mrs. Bender shrugged. “Our kids are the same way.”
The ghosts tried to move their conversation forward to other interesting topics, like Obama and the new Woody Allen movie. But it was difficult to ignore the two rummaging Millennials.
“Remember this thing?” Lily asked, handing her brother a dusty Etch A Sketch.
“Sort of,” he said. There were traces of an image on the screen: a few faint clouds and a wispy stick figure.
The ghosts were silent for a while.
“I love your new ceiling,” Mrs. Bender said finally.
Mrs. Carr looked up and gasped. The crown molding was gone, replaced by a shapeless, throbbing whiteness. She couldn’t remember when the men had come to install it.
“Should we go to it?” she asked softly.
“I think so,” said Mr. Carr. They took each other’s hands, and the Benders instinctively did the same. The four ghosts floated upward, past the wine racks and the bookshelves. Mrs. Carr glanced down at her son, Brent, and was surprised to see a bald spot in the middle of his scalp.
“I think we’re ghosts,” she said. And for the first time, they all understood the situation.
