Eye Candy

by Tijan

  I take back everything I said about wanting to live closer to my parents. Whoever bought the house across the street can have it, along with my sympathies.

  Chapter 7: Butthole Meat

  Sam

  “That’s it. The wedding is cancelled!” Alex announces, walking into the living room and throwing himself dramatically onto the couch as he stares at the cell phone in his hand.

  Everyone stops picking pills, pot brownies, loose pennies, random pieces of Aunt Bobbie’s makeup, and travel-sized bars of soap and shampoo out of the treat bags we have strewn all over the living room, and looks at Alex.

  “The wedding is in two days. What are you talking about?” Scheva asks, pushing herself up from the floor, walking over to the couch, and snatching the phone out of his hand.

  “If the wedding is cancelled, can I still keep the wedding dresses on all the clowns in the front yard? I even added veils to half of them. That was a lot of work and I’m not ruining it now,” Reggie asks Bev.

  “I can’t possibly get married. My life has lost all meaning. My dreams have died,” Alex complains, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands.

  “Are you upset just because of this silly email?” Scheva asks, still staring at his phone.

  Alex looks up and glares at her.

  “It’s not just ANY email. It’s an email from Urban Dictionary. THE Urban Dictionary. The ruler of all things awesome on the internet. They killed my hopes and dreams, Scheva. Do you not understand the severity of this situation? How can I possibly be a good husband when I can’t even be a good Urban Dictionary-er?” Alex asks.

  “Is that even a word?”

  “DON’T YOU JUDGE ME, SAM! DON’T JUDGE ME UNTIL YOU’VE WALKED A MILE IN MY SHOES OR RECEIVED A REJECTION EMAIL THAT HAS BROKEN YOUR HEART!” Alex shouts.

  “So they rejected a word definition from you. It’s not the end of the world,” Noel informs him.

  “I . . . you . . . how . . . SHITBALLS!” Alex yells, pointing his finger at her, unable to speak in any kind of coherent way.

  “What is this Urban Dictionary thing? Is it filled with street slang? I’ve been trying to use the word thug more often in a sentence. I really think it’s making a difference in my life,” Bev tells us.

  “It’s the Holy Grail of everything, Beverly!” Alex states, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. “And they’ve denied me entry!”

  “Oh my God,” Scheva groans. “You seriously tried to submit the phrase butthole meat to them?”

  “It’s another word for poop, Scheva, and it’s genius! Don’t shit on my butthole meat!” Alex argues.

  Noel and I both laugh, quickly hiding our amusement when Alex looks at us angrily.

  “I even provided them with a definition and very well-thought-out sentence, just like they asked. ‘Beth was mad when Chris left his butthole meat in the toilet.’ It was perfect and informative, and they denied my word!”

  Scheva tosses Alex’s phone onto the couch cushions next to him and walks back over to the rest of us, taking back her spot on the floor to resume combing through treat bags.

  “You have exactly five minutes to mourn the loss of your exclusion from Urban Dictionary, and then you need to get your ass back to work. There are still pumpkins to carve and illegal narcotics to remove from treat bags,” Scheva announces.

  Alex gets up from the couch and stomps out of the room toward the kitchen, where a pile of pumpkins is waiting, along with stacks of newspapers to catch all the guts.

  We all work quietly until someone rings the doorbell. Bev gets up to answer it, and a few minutes later, walks in with Todd, one of the neighbors.

  “Hi, everyone, sorry to interrupt,” Todd tells us with a smile.

  “Well, hello there, Todd,” Reggie says, speaking the name with contempt as he stares at the man standing in the doorway of the living room.

  I look at Reggie questioningly, and he leans closer to whisper in my ear.

  “Todd lives on the other side of the serial killers. I asked him the other day if he’d seen anyone coming and going, maybe with a white van, but he claimed he hasn’t seen anything. I know he’s lying. I can see it in his eyes. They’re all squirrely and shifty. Stupid Todd with the shifty eyes.”

  I look away from Reggie and the idiotic words coming out of his mouth to listen to Todd when he starts speaking.

  “Just wanted to tell you folks that my wife saw that clown lurking around our house last night, the one they’ve been talking about on the news. I was at the store and she got spooked and called the cops. Thought I’d give you guys a heads-up in case they come over here and ask any questions. Damn things scare the hell out of me. Why anyone thinks clowns are funny is beyond me,” Todd states.

  “There is nothing wrong with red noses, polka-dot clothing, and big red shoes, Todd!” Reggie informs him angrily.

  “Okay, well, thank you for letting us know,” Bev interrupts, grabbing Todd’s arm and pulling him out of the room. “We’ll be sure to keep an eye out. Tell Linda to give me a call. Poor dear must be just beside herself.”

  “SISSY!” Reggie screams, just as Bev gets Todd to the door and practically shoves him out of it.

  When Bev comes back into the room, Reggie is already up from the floor and stalking past her.

  “Where are you going? We still have about a hundred more bags to go through.” Bev asks him.

  “I’ve got a twelve-foot-tall Ronald McDonald sculpture to finish painting. Then, I’m going to walk over to Todd and Linda’s house and piss on their front lawn,” Reggie informs her as he stomps down the hallway to the kitchen and the door leading out to the garage.

  “My wedding is going to be ruined!” Scheva wails, burying her face in Noel’s shoulder.

  “Nonsense. Your wedding is not going to be ruined. There might be a clown burned in effigy on our front lawn, but your wedding will be fine,” Bev reassures her. “If Sam and Noel can survive the disaster of their wedding day and live to tell the tale, you can survive clowns and Reggie angering all the neighbors. We’ll just hire extra security. And maybe uninvite a few of the neighbors, just to be safe.”

  Scheva starts crying harder, and Noel pats her back soothingly.

  “It’s all fun and games until you buzzkills make me remove all the good stuff from the treat bags,” Aunt Bobbie complains, sticking her hand into one of the bags and pulling something out. “Ooooooh, that’s where my purple butt plug went! Sam, check the bags over by you. I’m still missing twenty Percocets, a sparkly necklace that says whore on it, and three sets of anal beads that glow in the dark. I don’t want some kid to mistake those things for glow-stick necklaces. Talk about awkward.”

  I immediately drop the bag in my hand and push myself away from the bags all around my legs. Nothing says Halloween like getting three Snickers bars, a Kit Kat, and a set of used anal beads to wear around your neck.

  Chapter 8: Hung Stocking

  Noel

  “It’s from the enemy and they’re trying to get in our heads . . . weaken our defenses,” my dad grumbles as we all get out of our cars and walk in small groups toward the festivities.

  Instead of a typical rehearsal dinner, Scheva and Alex decided we should just spend the night before the wedding at our town’s Halloween festival. It takes place at a local Metro Park, and there are food vendors, pumpkin-carving contests, face painting for the kids, and scary movies projected on a huge screen, with hay bales to sit on. The walking trail through the woods is all decked out for Halloween, with candlelit jack-o’-lanterns lighting the path and different scary movie displays throughout.

  “Dad, you were BOO-zed. It’s a Halloween tradition in a lot of neighborhoods. It’s fun and it’s sweet that your neighbors decided to start something like that this year. It’s not some imaginary enemy trying to screw with you,” I tell him with a sigh.

  Earlier today, my mom found a basket on the front porch filled with bottles of vodka, tequila, whiskey, Fireball,
two mason jars of homemade apple-pie moonshine, and four shot glasses with pumpkins painted on them. The basket included a note that read:

  You’ve been BOO-ZED!

  The ghosts and goblins love to spy,

  They noticed your liquor cabinet has run dry!

  Enjoy these spirits just for you!

  Nothing says Halloween like a Witch’s Brew!

  Make a copy of this and spread the good cheer soon,

  Within two nights in the light of the moon!

  Booze to you!

  Ever since my mom brought the basket into the house, my dad has been acting even crazier than normal. He checked the entire house for bugs, closed all the blinds and curtains, and wouldn’t let anyone near the windows. He unplugged their landline house phone and made everyone stop talking and write what they needed to say on pads of paper.

  “Noel, it says they’ve been spying on us! They admitted they’re out to get me. Why would they do that? It’s like some sort of reverse psychology, I know it. They want me scared. They want me off my game, but it’s not going to work,” Dad states as Sam comes up next to me and laces his fingers through mine.

  “Are you still talking about that basket of booze?” Sam asks. “The apple-pie moonshine was the best I’ve ever had.”

  Dad glances over at Sam with wide eyes.

  “They’ve gotten to you, haven’t they? They’ve brought you over to the dark side. I always knew you’d betray this family.”

  “For the love of God, Dad . . . ” I mutter with a roll of my eyes.

  “Okay, fine. Maybe he didn’t betray us. Maybe they poisoned him with that apple-pie moonshine crap. How are you feeling, Sam? A little woozy? Lightheaded? How many fingers am I holding up?” Dad asks, holding up three fingers.

  Tugging Sam’s hand, I lead him away from my dad before he can answer, walking us over to the booth that sells tickets for the hayride. With a quick head count, I tell the woman behind the counter how many we need, and Sam pulls out his wallet to pay.

  By the time we make it across the parking lot to the tractor parked at the edge of the woods, climb aboard the wagon hitched to it, and take seats on hay bales, my dad has run out of steam and finally stopped bitching about Sam being poisoned and how he’s going to take “the enemy” down.

  One of the workers starts up the tractor, and we take off slowly, moving into another area of the woods, separate from the walking trail. This one is more kids-oriented and has nothing that will scare them. The tractor takes us through a five-acre pumpkin patch, filled with every light-up, blow-up Halloween decoration there is: pumpkins, ghosts, black cats, Frankensteins, and witches popping out of cauldrons. We count at least a hundred, and I can’t help but smile at the excitement on the face of my two-year-old niece, Holly, as she points at every one of them with wide eyes and a squeal of happiness.

  Placing my hands on my stomach, I give it a little rub, imagining how much fun it’s going to be when Sam and I have our own child, finally here with us, in our arms, to carry on these types of traditions.

  “So, have you guys picked out names yet for your little bundle of joy?” Alex asks as we all hold on to the railing at our backs when the tractor takes a sharp turn.

  “We’ve been tossing a few around, but we’re not going to pick one until we meet the baby and see which one fits,” Sam tells him.

  “Obviously you’re going to keep with the family tradition and pick a name that embraces your last name, right?” my mom asks.

  Sam and I share a look, knowing we most certainly are NOT going to saddle our child with a dumb name like the ones my brother and I have. The main reason I hated Christmas until I met Sam was because my name was Noel Holiday, and it was definitely fate when I met Sam Stocking that day in the airport bar. He also despised the Christmas season because of his name. My brother, Nicholas, never shared my hatred, and when he was growing up, he thought it was the coolest thing ever when people referred to him as Saint Nick Holiday. Which is why he and Casey had no trouble naming their daughter Holly Holiday.

  Luckily, having the last name of Stocking now, there isn’t too much damage we could do picking out a name for our child, unless we named the baby something like Stinky Stocking.

  Or Silk Stocking, Fishnet Stocking, Holey Stocking . . . shit. I guess there is a lot of damage we could do. Note to self: Don’t let Sam make any name decisions when he’s drunk and hanging out with my family.

  “I’m partial to the name Hung. Hung Stocking has a nice ring to it. Perfect for a boy or a girl,” Alex tells us.

  “We’re not naming our baby Hung,” I reply with a heavy sigh.

  “Fine. But you should at least pick something with a Halloween theme.”

  My mother nods, and everyone else silently agrees, including Scheva. The traitor. And then they all start throwing out ideas, each one more horrifying than the next, until no one is paying attention to the hayride or the Halloween decorations that we drive by.

  “If it’s a boy, you could name him Jack, middle name O’-Lantern.”

  “Noel’s favorite movie is The Nightmare Before Christmas. If they’re going to use Jack, his middle name obviously needs to be Skellington.”

  “Pumpkin is an adorable name for a girl. It should definitely be Pumpkin.”

  “What about Cock Goblin Stocking?”

  “No, it should definitely be Blumpkin. Blumpkin Stocking,” Alex adds.

  “What in the world is a Blumpkin?” my mom questions.

  “Blumpkin is the act of performing fellatio while the recipient is taking a dump,” Alex informs us.

  “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard,” Scheva complains.

  “That’s Urban Dictionary, baby. Do you see the kind of amazingness I was denied? I was meant for that website. Born to be an Urban Dictionary king, and I’ve been denied my rightful place on the throne,” he complains.

  The hayride comes to an end with all the other families who were unfortunate enough to be on this thing with my family giving us strange looks as they continue throwing out name ideas. As we get off the wagon and head over to check out the pumpkin-carving contest entries, I’ve finally had enough and hold up both of my hands.

  “All right, that’s enough. And while we’re on this subject, can we also discuss how everyone needs to start toning down their language? This baby is due in a little over a week, and you all need to start learning how to not swear in front of it. And don’t any of you say one word about how I’ve never mentioned this before. I’m pregnant and crabby and I can do what I want, including make spur-of-the-moment decisions about my child’s future well-being,” I tell them. “No more f-bombs, no more taking the Lord’s name in vain, none of it.”

  “Why would we do that? That’s dumb,” Alex grumbles.

  “Because you can’t swear in front of the forking baby! This bullshirt stops now,” I argue.

  “We didn’t have to do that when Holly was born, did we, sweetie?” my dad says, ruffling the hair on top of Holly’s head as she walks next to him, holding my brother’s hand.

  “Where da fuck punkins go?” Holly asks, looking up at him with her sweet, innocent face.

  “Okay, I see your point,” Dad concedes, smiling down at his granddaughter. “Holly, we don’t say that word. It’s a bad word.”

  “Da fuck, da fuck, da fuck!” she chants excitedly, jumping up and down.

  Dad bends down and scoops Holly up into his arms, walking away from us to try and explain to her again about words she can’t use.

  Sam stands behind me, sliding his arms around my waist and placing them on top of my belly as he pulls me back against him. He rests his chin on top of my head as we watch everyone slowly make their way down the rows of tables covered with carved pumpkins, filling out voting cards to choose their favorite ones.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to keep with your family’s tradition and pick a holiday-themed name for our baby?” he asks quietly.

  “Cock Goblin Stocking is grow
ing on you, isn’t it?” I joke.

  I feel the rumble of Sam’s laughter against my back, and I rest my hands on top of his over my belly.

  “Not exactly, but I don’t really want your family to disown me. They’re certifiably insane, but I kind of like them.”

  Closing my eyes, I rest my head back against Sam’s chest, wondering how in the hell I got so lucky to find a man like him. It takes a strong man to deal with my family and actually love them. I’ve never felt more lucky than I do right now that I convinced him to come home with me and pretend to be my boyfriend that Christmas almost three years ago.

  I have a feeling this is going to be the best Halloween ever, and I can’t wait to kick things off with Alex and Scheva’s wedding tomorrow.

  Chapter 9: I’m in Mother-Forking Labor!

  Sam

  As we stand under the tent in Reggie and Bev’s backyard, I smile to myself when Noel squeezes the life out of my hand for the hundredth time in the last fifteen minutes as we watch Alex and Scheva pledge their lives to each other. The bride and groom are standing under a wooden lattice arch completely covered in orange, red, and yellow mums. Noel and I stand off to their right, Noel unhappily wearing a giant cardboard box painted to look like an oven with a magazine photo cut-out of an actual baby cooking, visible through a window in the oven door. I’m in a chef’s hat and apron. Of course, the happy couple is dressed as a bride and groom, while the rest of us look like we fell off the back of a Halloween costume truck. But since it’s their day, I won’t complain.

  The weather couldn’t be more perfect. The sun is shining brightly, the temperature is in the low seventies, and all of the trees surrounding the backyard are filled with fall-colored leaves that haven’t dropped to the ground yet, making the perfect backdrop for the Halloween-themed ceremony. Reggie and Bev sit in the front row, dressed as a priest and a nun, as they were instructed. And surprisingly, every single guest in attendance showed up wearing a costume. As I look out at the rows of chairs on either side of the aisle, I see everything from doctors and nurses to a guy in a red-and-white striped shirt and matching hat, dressed as Waldo (I’m pretty proud of myself for finding him immediately in the sea of people, I kick ass at Where’s Waldo)—and even a giant plastic Mr. Peanut.