by Eric Mattys
5
A Fake Pregnancy
Christmas never appeared magical in the flying-reindeer, immaculate-conception sort of way for Max, Mew, and Terese. They walked through Cherry Creek Mall nearly aimless except for Terese’s desire to get something truly special for her mother for Christmas since her father passed away that year. In more recent Christmases, she shopped online to avoid the frantic shoppers, but this was before they were able to steal wireless internet from their neighbor. Maximus and Bartholomew went mostly as social anthropologists, but also to bear witness to the consumer spectacle.
The Christmas spirit prevailed; decorated plastic trees with welcoming radiance behind bright red signs that said, “Do not touch” and “30% off!!” in various, eye-grabbing fonts. Mannequin families perpetually smiling and giving each other wrapped presents with nothing inside. Bells ringing at all times somewhere in the distance for the Salvation Army or chiming rhythmically through cheap Muzak speakers or toys clanking away on demonstration. The smell of frying foods and sodium caused the conditioned desire to consume and salivate. People’s overtly loud cellphone conversations with “like” injected every fourth word while discussing their obligatory gift-giving. Cell phone salespeople crowned with plush red Santa hats and suited in full business attire asking anybody who breathes, “Are you happy with your current cell phone service?” Shimmery, rip-off designer purses in Christmas colors. Pay-by-the-minute massage therapists speaking broken English as they offer Christmas gift certificates also sporting plush red Santa hats. Overpriced everything in ultra-white light with electronic dub bass music pounding out some remixed version of “Let It Snow” that infects the rhythmically inclined with an uncontrollable urge to dance. Store greeters poised to tell you about the best new deals on the winter fashions in rehearsed, friendly, memorized, nonstop voices. So many gadgets and trinkets made in China that might make, like, the most perfect present ever for the cousin you don’t really know.
The mall jammed their senses with too many signals. Of the three of them Terese blocked the endless overload best up until they walked past Victoria’s Secret. She stopped and glared, grabbing Max and Mew by their arms. Loud enough for any passing mall patrons to hear, she said, “The pink iridescent glow of this store makes me think of my vagina, with which, by itself, I’m very comfortable, but this store makes my vagina feel like it might not be as bright nor as bold. I feel somehow insignificant next to this glowing, window-sized woman and her vagina covered by fashionable lace underwear. It feels like the store is telling me, ‘Resistance is futile. Join our underwear brigade and become part of the super pussy glow or watch your iris wither from neglect!’”
All three of them stared into the store and Max said, “For me, Victoria’s Secret is more of a harmonious melding of seraphic pleasures with biologically-functional marketing.”
Mew broke eye contact with the giant women in the window to glance at Max. “W’the hell does that mean.”
Max took a deep breath. “A seraph is the highest order of angels which, I think you’ll agree, these ladies are. I revel in the idea of sexual plush ecstasy, and then I revel in the associative properties of the male psyche with its ability to mentally replace the flawed, freckled fertility fat of a real woman with the impeccable, streamlined, air-brushed body of an imaginary angel simply by changing the wrapping.” Max tilted his head. “It’s amazing what the mind can do in the dark. I admire the beasts for their efficiency and shamelessness in accomplishing this old bait-and-switch.”
Mew asked, “Who exactly are the beasts in this situation?”
Max shook his head. “Take your pick: the men mentally replacing their lovers, the numerous people involved in producing the advertisement, the women who objectify themselves while claiming to symbolize female empowerment, myself and my inability to look away. We’re all admirable beasts, aren’t we? Feasting on delicious manipulations.”
Terese nearly coughed and exhaled at the same time. “It’d be a lot more delicious if I didn’t have to buy something or change myself in order to be a part of it.”
Max squinted with his head still tilted. “Yeah. I’m glad I don’t have to look like a male supermodel in order to get laid. I value my function more than my form, and, under the right conditions, I believe the seraph on the poster would value my function more than my form as well. But alas, my fantasies are short-lived because this seraph is an artificial image devoid of any value besides selling undergarments. I can’t help but remember the end goal of the image which is get me to shell out more cash for the pictured undergarments. Cash, I, of course, do not have.”
Mew cocked his head to nearly the same angle as Max, crossed his arms and declared. “I’d like to dive head first into her cleavage and make a home in between her breasts, or maybe just catch a nap there as the mall crowds trot and mumble in that static hum that makes me so sleepy.” Mew looked up and away and added, “I do wonder if I desire this airbrushed perfection, or if it’s society that has always told me to desire her. That my desires may not actually be my own...? That bothers me. I mean, if it weren’t for the bombardment of my senses with desirable imagery of an artificially pristine female form for my entire life and jerking off to so many thong-song-style music videos in middle school, would I still find the image of this woman attractive? I saw this thing on a show once about a South American tribe isolated from outside culture and how the men of this tribe still preferred women with symmetrical faces and a proportional breast-to-waist-to-booty ratio. The ratio was three-to-two-to-three the same as men from western society. I think they had a different name for it, but it’s like that Commodores song... ‘Thirty-six twenty-four thirty-six. Oh what a winning hand. She’s a brick... house.’
Terese shook her head. “Please don’t sing like that in public ever again.”
Mew rolled his eyes and continued. “What I’m really wondering is, am I naturally programmed by my DNA to be attracted to the proportions of this super model like the scientists say, or is my attraction the result of repeated media and marketing exposure and my conditioned sexual stimulation? Like, am I a ruined experiment? Can I ever claim any of my tastes or desires as truly my own or are they all products of my media consumption?”
Terese bobbed her head and sucked her teeth dramatically. “The social scientists looking at the isolated tribe were probably trying to justify their own sexist desires.”
“Or heavily influenced by the lyrical insight of Lionel Richie,” added Max.
Mew gazed at the star-like shapes in the reflections of the woman’s eyes. “I want the social scientists to be right, though, because if I’m not hardwired to like a woman of even proportions, it means my mind isn’t actually mine. I’m submitting to someone else’s marketing, marketing I’ve been subjected to since I was a child, before I had any choice or self-control. That really bothers me. Like I’m a cow herded through some mental maze and all the cows eating the same thing makes the people who built the maze richer and richer.”
Terese broke her gaze and kept walking. “You know what bothers me even more? The end game of all these materials. What is the final destination of all these fantasies and manipulations? What happens to the lingerie and plastic and electronics and shoes once all the fantasy has been squeezed out of them? Where does it go? Maybe to a garage sale where one more person redeems the value of a previously useless trinket only for it to finally decay in a heap somewhere beyond sight. Maybe these heaps of refuse will be shipped to some underdeveloped and overpopulated country where, maybe, tribes will pick through it for the parts of remaining value. And maybe one of the children of these scavenger tribes gets out and gets an education and grows up to spite the ways of America, doing everything, inside or outside the law, to bring down the beasts of fantasy. Or inversely, this child might be so thankful for the waste we threw out that she works as hard as she can to keep pumping the shiny crap through the expansive American earthworm’s digestive
system so it continues excreting this fractionally-fantastic waste so the scavenger tribes can continue their newly formed way of life.”
Mew nodded. “Yeah. I don’t see how it all can continue. If the labor force moves overseas, if bank accounts move offshore, if military technology moves to anyone with money, and if American middle-class consumerism moves to China, then what are American citizens left with? The mall seems to be the answer: not aesthetically pleasing but well-designed for maximum product exposure. Well-maintained, but thoughtless of consequence as it dresses up the rise of the rest of the world with low prices that exploit somebody out of sight.
“Maybe that’s why I hate buying stuff; I’m preparing for the future where fantasy no longer relies on material wealth, where cars are outdated and for the excessively rich, and inane plastic particulars are only available in their recycled form. Where everyone but the top one percent sees the emptiness of material wealth and spends what little they have to make something for themselves rather than consume; where the vapid skills of market manipulation go bankrupt and instead favor tangible and practical production.” Mew shrugged. “Could also be that I’m just about broke.” The wordlessness of ringing bells hurled them back into the moment.
Terese widened her eyes and lifted one side of her lip. “It’s definitely not over yet, is it. Just look. So much stuff to buy… you could explode.”
Mew scratched the back of his neck. “Why the hell did we come here again, Max?”
Max shrugged. “I make a point of going to the mall at least once a year just to make sure I still can’t handle it. It’s like a trial by fire or running the gauntlet or something. Because I’m not making googobs of money, I’m constantly bombarded with how I don’t belong here. Definitely still feel that way. Terese, do we have some kind of direction in this relic of consumerism?”
Terese looked lost and horrified by her surroundings. “We should really do something about this.”
Mew scratched his neck. “Like what? Head for the hills? Start a leftist guerrilla war? Strap a bomb to ourselves to purify the masses? We’re not freakin’ terrorists.”
Max drifted in the fog of clattering high heels and expansive ceilings before snapping out of it. “Mew, why is terrorism your first response to this? And why wouldn’t you just say ‘fuckin’ terrorists’?” Max shook his head looking at Mew. “Life’s not a sitcom, man. The FCC isn’t going to fine you. If you can’t say ‘fuck’, there’s no way you’re going start a leftist guerrilla war.”
Terese slapped them both on the shoulder and pointed. “Warfare Schmorfare. We can do something about this place without getting blood on our hands.” She pointed toward the geographic center of the mall to a white, winterland known as the North Pole, the place where parents could bring their kids to talk to Santa Claus. The Santa turned around a sign that read, “Santa is away feeding the reindeer. Back soon.” Terese pointed to the sign more emphatically. “This is our time. This is why we’re here. My mom’s gift can wait. We can do something.”
Max nodded with his entire upper body. “Let’s do it.”
Terese, Max, and Mew watched as the Santa headed for the mall office. A couple of minutes later, he left in plain clothes with a lunch bag while hyperactive kids and impatient parents waited in line. Mew frowned before speaking. “That’s just a lack of stagecraft if you ask me. Any observant kid would put it together that Santa’s just a guy with a white beard who’s partial to sack lunches.”
Terese pointed to a door. “There’s the office where he changed. Santa didn’t have the suit with him when he left. So, it’s gotta be in there still. All we have to do is get it. Ideas?”
Max blinked repeatedly. “Wait. How is stealing the suit going to change anything?”
Terese looked Max in the eyes. “One of us, probably you, is going to be Santa.”
Max cracked a smile and scratched his chin.
Mew wrinkled his brow and placed his fist in the palm of his hand. “I suggest a three-pronged attack. You two paint yourself off-white so you blend in with the walls, and I’ll paint myself cement gray so I can crawl along the floor and sneak up behind whoever’s running the front desk. A chloroform rag over the mouth and nose will ensure some quality sleep. The suit is probably right there near the front desk and one of you two can snag it.”
Terese shook her head. “Tactically viable. But we have to move now before Santa gets back in town.” Terese’s eyes widened. “I’ve got boobs and a baby maker. One or both of those should be useful in this situation.”
Max squinted. “I don’t think they’re going to give you a Santa suit just for showing your boobs.”
Terese rolled her eyes. “Not doing that. I’m talking about a fake pregnancy.”
Mew nodded knowingly. “Terese, you know we’re all about a fake pregnancy.”
Terese snapped her fingers. “Mew, take off your sweatshirt, and Max, I’m going to need that sweater. We’re gonna make a baby.”
Max rumbles, “I’ve waited years for you to say that, Terese.”
“Gross. Shut up. Let’s go.” Terese snapped her fingers again and held out her hand as Max and Bartholomew gave her their outer layers of clothing. Terese stuffed the clothing under her shirt. “How does it look?”
Max scrunched up his nose. “Like a couple of sweaters stuffed under your shirt.”
Terese started walking toward the office door. “We’ll have to keep their eyes on me and not my stomach. Mew, you’re my husband. Max, you go in and grab the suit while whoever inside is distracted. Let’s find a water fountain.” Terese threw water on her face and her crotch. “My water just broke. ‘Kay. Here we go.” She grabbed Bartholomew by the hand. “You need to hold my hand like a husband, not like a child. Remember, we have to keep talking.”
Terese took off like a pregnant, world-class speed-walker with Bartholomew in tow toward the mall office. “The second we stop talking, they’ll see that I just have sweaters stuffed under my shirt. Say everything you think out loud. No pausing. I could never do this for real. There are totally too many people on this planet. If I got pregnant tomorrow, total abortion. I’m way too about myself to care for a kid. But babies are so cute, and whenever I see them, I want to hang out with them for no good reason. And seeing a man nurturing a baby makes me so... Doesn’t matter right now, just keep talking. We can’t stop talking.” Terese threw the door open to the mall office. “Oh god! Why? Why did you have to have such fertile semen!”
“Oh. Of course! It’s all me and my fertile semen that got us into this, right? It has absolutely nothing to do with your fertile uterus.”
“SHUT UP! I’m having this baby now! Right now!” She immediately calmed herself and softened her voice. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you. I totally love you.” She pulled Bartholomew down by the neck to kiss him on the cheek. “It doesn’t matter whose fertility is to blame.”
An older gentleman with a white, handlebar mustache stood up. “Hi there, what’s the mat—”
“I’m having a baby! I’m having a baby right now!” She frantically patted Bartholomew on the shoulder. “Honey, honey. Help me keep breathing.”
“In-in-out. In-in-out. Just like the class.”
Terese huffed and puffed while shaking her head. “We really don’t know what we’re doing here. Have you ever had a baby? OMG, what am I saying? Of course you haven’t had a baby. What I mean is, can you help us here?”
The older gentleman said, “I’ll call an ambulance right now.”
“NO!” shouted Mew and Terese at the same time.
“We don’t have insurance.”
Mew shook his head. “Nope.”
The old man wrinkled his brow. “What do you mean you don’t have insurance?”
“We can’t afford it, and I have wide birthing hips anyway.” She swatted the air at the older gentleman. “We’re not going to waste a doctor’s t
ime.”
The older gentleman responded, “Well, you must’ve seen some kind of a doctor.”
Mew shook his head. “Nope. All natural. Look, this baby is coming and we don’t have time for you to question us. Do you have an office that’s a little cleaner and a little more private than this room?”
“Um. Yeah. The head manager’s office is pretty clean.”
Terese and Mew followed the older gentleman toward the head manager’s office as Max entered the small lobby. There was the suit with a fake beard just behind the counter. He grabbed it and walked out toward the bathroom to become Santa. Mew looked back down the hall from the open door and saw Max leave.
As soon as they entered the room, Mew shook his head. “Are you kidding me?” He released Terese’s hand and gestured toward the room. “This office is nowhere near sterile. Honey, let’s get the hell out of here. There’s no way we’re having the baby in this bacterial paradise. Thanks for nothing, handlebars.” They marched out of the room even faster than they entered it.
“I’m a janitor, and I cleaned this office myself.” He shook his head. “Freakin’ crazies…”
Mew and Terese rushed to the bathroom where Terese disregarded the men’s symbol on the door. Max already had on the top half of the suit and the beard but wasn’t wearing any pants.
6
The Children’s Santa Rebellion
Max looked at Terese and Mew in the mirror and asked, “How about a no-pants Santa? You know, a Santa who’s a little on the wild side. A Santa looking to party? Or maybe a senile Santa. What do you think?”
Mew bit his lower lip. “It’d be funny, but you’d never make it to your Santa chair.”