“I see you didn’t have time to pick anything up for the house. But that’s all right.” Mom purses her lips in something approximating a smile. “You were probably distracted.”
“Mmm.” You knew you should have stopped at that gas station.
You head inside, awkwardly carrying your bag. A man with a white beard, smiling eyes, and the exact amount of belly that makes you trust him emerges. This must be Lindsi’s father. God, you hope Mom didn’t tell him about that phone call.
“I’m Dad! Lindsi will be right down,” he says, smiling warmly. “She’s just making herself decent.”
“I know it’s late, and I don’t want to keep you up,” you say. “If you just point me toward Lindsi’s room, I’ll be off to bed.”
Mom and Dad stare at you, eyes wide with horror. Dad lets out a little “humph,” his face dangerously red. Jesus, is he going to have a heart attack? You only half-remember CPR.
“We, ahem”—Mom clears her throat delicately—“we thought you’d share with cousin Jimmy. Since you’re still…unmarried.” She can’t seem to help wrinkling her nose. Dad is just staring at you, obviously confused and upset. Awesome. “Though if you’d prefer more privacy, there’s a couch in the basement. I’ll warn you, the dog likes to sleep down there.”
* * *
If you want to share with cousin Jimmy, go HERE.
If you want to slink off to the basement, go HERE.
It’s the thought that counts.
You swing into the gas station and pick up the classiest things you can find: a package of those melty peppermints, four different varieties of pocket pie, and a sleeve of gingersnaps. You spring for a roll of colored saran wrap and a package of Santa-themed paper plates and make a little arrangement. Unwrapped, the food looks kinda nice, right?
It’s the thought that counts.
A half hour later, you arrive. It’s just like Lindsi described: the one with Christmas sweaters on all the bushes. How they persuaded bushes to grow into human shapes is beyond you.
You tap on the door softly, assuming only Lindsi will be up, but the woman who opens it is unfamiliar. No, that’s not true; you can see Lindsi looking like this in another thirty years. This woman has the same wide brown eyes, and the same rosebud mouth, but on the doughy, unfashionable, late-middle-aged canvas of a first-grade art teacher.
“You can call me Mom,” she says.
It makes that one late-night booty call—when you and Lindsi had just started dating and she hadn’t told you her mom was visiting for the weekend—even more awkward to recall.
“I made it!” you say, smiling broadly. Maybe if you’re cheery enough, her memory of that conversation will just disappear.
“So glad to see that; there are so many drunks on the road this time of year.” Mom stares at you, eyes narrowed. Fuck, she totally remembers the call. Well, don’t pick up your daughter’s cell if you don’t want to hear about free moustache rides.
“Oh, and you brought…this.” Mom takes the plate, pursing her lips in something approximating a smile. “What a…gesture.”
That’s another $32.98 down the drain.
You head inside, awkwardly carrying your bag. A man with a white beard, smiling eyes, and the exact amount of belly that makes you trust him emerges. This must be Lindsi’s father. God, you hope Mom didn’t tell him about that phone call.
“I’m Dad. Lindsi will be right down,” he says, smiling warmly. “She’s just making herself decent.”
“I know it’s late, and I don’t want to keep you up,” you say. “If you just point me toward Lindsi’s room, I’ll be off to bed.”
Mom and Dad stare at you, eyes wide with horror. Dad lets out a little “humph,” his face dangerously red. Jesus, is he going to have a heart attack? You only half-remember CPR.
“We, ahem,” Mom clears her throat delicately, “we thought you’d share with cousin Jimmy. Since you’re still…unmarried.” She can’t help wrinkling her nose. Dad is just staring, obviously confused and upset. Awesome. “Though if you’d prefer more privacy, there’s a couch in the basement. I’ll warn you, though, the dog likes to sleep down there.”
* * *
If you want to share with cousin Jimmy, go HERE.
If you want to slink off to the basement, go HERE.
No, you won’t go gently!
Luckily, you’re not so far down the road that you’ve run out of options.
“Do you hear that?” You cock your head to one side thoughtfully. Man, you should have been an actor.
“Hear what?”
“That flapping. I think a tire might be flat.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Better safe than sorry, right?” You pull over at the next intersection. “Would you mind grabbing the flashlight out of the trunk? I’ll pop it for you.”
“Okay.” The hitchhiker’s smile falters, but he opens the door and steps outside.
You wait until he’s halfway down the car, lean over the console, and throw his bag—Jesus, is it heavy—onto the ground at the side of the road. Can’t be found with the evidence. You hear him shout, “Wait, what are you…”
But you don’t hear the rest, because you’re speeding away, door flapping in the wind.
You wait until you’re at least five miles down the road to pull over and close it. That was a close call. Thanks to your quick thinking, though, you’ve managed to keep yourself from getting murdered by that freak.
You make it the rest of the way to Lindsi’s parents’ without incident.
You head inside, awkwardly carrying your bag. A man with a fluffy beard, smiling eyes, and the exact color of sweater vest that makes you trust him emerges. This must be Lindsi’s father. A few seconds later a woman with a pursed face and permed hair appears behind him. Ahh, and her mom. Didn’t you speak to her once, late, when you thought you were booty-calling Lindsi? Maybe she won’t remember that.
“Lindsi will be right down,” the dad says, smiling warmly. “She’s just making herself decent. By the way, call me Dad. And this, of course, is Mom.”
“I know it’s late, and I don’t want to keep you up,” you say. “If you just point me toward Lindsi’s room, I’ll be off to bed.”
They both stare, eyes wide with horror. Dad lets out a little “humph,” his face dangerously red. Jesus, is he going to have a heart attack? Should you start CPR just in case?
“We, ahem”—Mom clears her throat delicately—“we thought you’d be sharing with cousin Jimmy. Since you’re still…unmarried.” She can’t seem to help wrinkling her nose. Dad is just staring at you, obviously confused and upset. Awesome. “Though if you’d prefer a little more privacy, there’s a couch in the basement. I’ll warn you, though, the dog likes to sleep down there.”
* * *
If you want to share with cousin Jimmy, go HERE.
If you want to slink off to the basement, go HERE.
You’re being ridiculous. This man isn’t going to kill you. How many murder-hitchhikers can there really be out there? The chances of you picking one up have to be pretty slim, right?
Something glints at the top of his bag as you pass under a streetlamp.
It’s definitely a knife.
For his protection?
You’ve never packed a “just in case” knife. Especially not when you were planning to drive yourself somewhere.
The further you go, the less light there is on the road. You can’t bother to keep up conversation—you have to focus on not having a heart attack—but the silence makes things even more terrifying.
“You’re going to want to—”
“AHHH!” You shriek in terror.
“Are you…all right?” He gives you a strange look. A murder look?
“Yes, fine. Just lost in my thoughts. HA! I guess you scared me.”
He narrows his eyes. “I was just saying you’ll want to turn up here. The road is hard to see.”
No, it’s almost impossible to see, since it’s to
tally unlit.
Oh god, this is it. He’s taking you to his personal murder hole.
“It’s just a little further. The road will curve around and you’ll see it.”
What could possibly be out here? A shack where he tans the skins of his victims? A shallow grave he dug yesterday hoping to find you?
You nose the car around the bend, barely able to breathe.
Then you see it.
The lights of…a hospital?
“Wait, you’re going here?”
“Yup.”
“Are you unwell?”
He laughs, the tinkling bell sound spiking your fear again.
“Didn’t I mention? I volunteer here. Every year. I play Santa on the children’s cancer ward. It’s expensive, of course, but if you start saving a little bit every week around the end of April, you can buy them some spectacular stuff.”
He reaches into the bag and pulls out a bright, shiny, silver…superhero cape.
“They let me bunk in the supply closet. It helps make the experience more authentic for the kids.”
“Wow. That’s so…generous.”
“It’s the least I can do. After all, there are so many good people in the world, I have to do something. Look at you, driving me all the way here.”
A stone of guilt rolls around the bottom of your stomach. He opens the door and turns to smile at you.
“Thank you. I appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight. I know the children will too.”
Then he grabs his bag and walks into the glare of the hospital lobby.
Holy fuck, did you just meet Jesus?
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
Oh, hell no.
You grab your duffel off the seat next to you and run off the bus, telling the first cab you see to take you back to the rental car counters.
“Oh, it’s you.” The clerk from the first counter sighs and rolls his eyes.
“Yes. I’d like a car?”
“Fine.” He taps at his computer. “We have one sub-sub-compact left. It’ll be $350 per night plus gas.”
“Are you kidding? I was here a few hours ago and it was only—”
“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Take it or leave it.”
At least you got a holiday bonus at work. Which will almost cover this.
You take it.
Traffic on the highways out of town is terrible. By the time you make it to the interstate, it’s almost 2 A.M. You’re desperately tired, not quite sure where you’re headed, and judging from Lindsi’s descriptions of her parents’ neighborhood, you’re looking at some dark, winding roads toward the end of the trip.
But the sign for the next exit does show a motel: “Local Motel.”
* * *
If you want to push through and just drive the rest of the way to Lindsi’s, go HERE.
If you want to spend the night at Local Motel, go HERE.
It only takes you fifteen minutes to realize how ill-advised this was.
The infant is clearly suffering from a long-term injury or serious depression. The homeless man didn’t buy a coffee can…but should have. And the old woman brought homemade tuna fish with onions. Which, apparently, she wants to air out for a while.
God, you hope that smell is the tuna fish.
Twenty-six hours, three layovers, and one shit in a coffee can later, you’ve made it to the Greater Bentneck bus depot.
You step off the bus, feeling grim and knowing you smell like some combination of recirculated air, Combos filling from where you accidentally slept on a package, and fermented ass.
Thank god, Lindsi’s here. Your phone died several hours ago, somewhere past Farmhamlettonshire.
Wait, who are all those people around her?
Why do they all look so angry?
Hesitant, you walk over.
“Hey…is this…?”
“My family,” Lindsi says curtly. “We’ve been here for the last three hours waiting for your bus.”
“Why did you all come? I could’ve taken a cab, or just…maybe only met up with you?”
“We thought we’d pick you up on time for caroling, then dinner at Aunt Lori’s.”
“Oh, dinner would be—”
“Of course, it’s too late for that now.” A woman with a tight perm and a massive cat-in-Christmas-lights sweatshirt is looking at you with a pinched smile and dead eyes.
It has to be Lindsi’s mom. Clearly you’re already making a great impression.
“At least we haven’t missed mass yet,” she adds, raising an eyebrow like a challenge.
Ugh. You hate church. Though possibly not as much as Lindsi’s mother clearly already hates you…
* * *
If you want to go to mass, despite the fact that you’re an atheist and feel like seven kinds of shit, go HERE.
If you want to beg off and tell them to go without you, go HERE.
While he’s occupied in back, you grab your duffel, whip open the door, and start sprinting back the way you came.
“Heeeyyy!” you hear, but it already sounds distant. You veer into the woods at the roadside so he won’t be able to spot you. “This isn’t Little Hampshireton…”
After about fifteen minutes of huffing in the cold, you spot a farmhouse. Thank god, your cell hasn’t been getting reception. If you had to go much further, he’d definitely catch you, probably with some sort of chainsaw made out of axe heads.
You knock on the door. An old woman wearing a raggedy housedress answers, hair in curlers.
“Could I use your phone? I’m lost,” you say.
She ushers you into the kitchen. Good thing you’re you, and not the axe murderer you were just with.
You call your girlfriend.
“Hello?”
“Lindsi, it’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“I got stranded outside…” You frown at the woman. New Dindelwood, she mouths. Seriously? You mouth it back to her and she nods, smiling. “New Dindelwood?”
“That’s at least an hour away!”
“I know; it’s a long story. I’ll explain when you get here. But I need you—or anyone—to pick me up.”
“Can’t you catch a cab?”
You turn to the woman. She shakes her head solemnly.
“Lindsi…”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” she snips, and hangs up the phone.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
This is your chance! He’ll never be expecting it less!
Luckily, you have a full metal water bottle in your duffel. You wiggle it out as silently as possible.
“Here it is,” he says.
Now! You have to do it now!
You bang the bottle against the base of his neck as hard as you can.
“Ooooh,” he says, then slumps over, out cold.
Thinking fast, you grab the two packs of Combos you bought at the station out of the center console, stuff the water bottle back in your bag, and make a run for it.
You pick your way down the road a ways; better to go forward than back, while you know he’s not following.
After a few miles you spot a turnoff for County Road Q.
What was it the radio lady said? “Take a cue from this clue?” It could have meant this.
You turn down it. Your cell has no service, but maybe there’s a farmhouse down this way. They’d have a landline. Then you can call the cops on this freak.
You walk on.
Huh, that’s weird. Wasn’t the third clue something about “sticking you between a rock and a hard place”? On the left-hand side of the road, what must once have been a gentle hill has been sheared off, exposing a wall of bare rock. On the right is a barn with a name whitewashed onto the clapboard in huge letters.
HARD PLACE.
Old-timey farmers were so into their fucking suffering.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You thank the man and head out to a cab at the taxi stand.
“I want to go to On the Beach. Do you know it?”
The taxi driver looks puzzled. “On the Beach?”
“Yeah, I think that’s right.”
“Are you sure? Do you perhaps mean the Sandals located on the beach?”
“I’m certain it was called On the Beach…” Had you read it wrong? He raises an eyebrow, shakes his head, and drives.
The cab stinks of weed. How authentic!
You shoot an approving smile toward the rearview mirror. The driver squints at you suspiciously.
“So, you a big Bob Marley fan?”
He shakes his head in contempt. So much for talking.
You look out the window. Kingston isn’t exactly what you thought it would be. Instead of cabanas with thatched roofs and rows of swaying palm trees, all you see are sickly-looking stray dogs and viscous puddles with plastic bags coated in filth floating on top.
You check again to make sure the door is locked and the windows are fully rolled up. You’re starting to wish you’d borrowed your dad’s fanny pack.
You’ve almost made it down an entire block when a scruffy-looking man opens the far door of the cab and sits down beside you.
Adrenaline rushes straight into your heart. Oh god, this is how it all ends…
“Camp Road.”
“Yeah,” the driver says without batting an eye.
What? What the hell is going on here? This guy already has a passenger—you.
You place your hand over your pocket, cradling your wallet lightly. Steady, now. Did you mistake this for a cab and somehow get into a…what, Jamaican carpool?
After driving at a snail’s pace for another five minutes in inner-city, bumper-to-bumper traffic, nothing happens. The stranger doesn’t murder you. No street kids even manage to crawl in through a window. You start to relax.
Just then, a rough-looking pedestrian jumps into the front seat of the cab.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 3