“Spanish Town Road.”
“Yeah,” the driver says. He turns and looks you square in the eye, almost a challenge.
“Detour.”
Your heart beats heavily.
This is no Jamaican carpool. It’s almost definitely an elaborate ruse to kidnap you! Who can blame them? It’s obvious to anyone that your Ray-Bans are real. Wearing these is basically like asking to be ransomed.
* * *
If you want to jump out and make a run for it, go HERE.
If you want to sit tight, go HERE.
It feels as though you’ve died and gone to tropical heaven. You’ve nearly maxed out your credit card, but you couldn’t be more pleased. Everything about this place is perfect.
Armed with a John Grisham thriller and a pair of totally real-looking Ray-Bans, you lie down in a hammock and swing back and forth. Someone immediately brings you a mojito.
From a distance, you see someone who looks like a mid-nineties Cindy Crawford sitting by the pool.
Oh shit, she’s made eye contact. And now she’s walking over to you. Think fast. Would a lazy eye be a good enough cover for ogling? Can you fake lazy eyes?
“Hey there, stranger,” she purrs.
“It’s a childhood thing…” you say, pointing toward your eye.
“Um, okay. Do you mind rubbing a little lotion on my back?”
Is this really happening?
“Sure thing,” you say, your voice almost steady.
She giggles and hands you her sunscreen.
“Don’t miss any spots. Oh, pool boy? Could we get another round of mojitos?”
Magically, she not only stays through that drink, and the next, she seems to think you’re funny. Like, really funny. Even when you’re talking about your childhood cat’s diabetes.
“Want to go back to your room?” she asks as you’re sipping your fourth drink.
Is this still really happening?
“Yes?”
“Great. I’ll grab some drinks for the road.”
You head up to your room and she hands you the drink in her left hand.
“Cheers.”
You take a big swig.
“Drink up,” she coos.
You do. You’ll do anything she says. But why is the room getting so dark? Is this what pure ecstasy…feels…like…?
THUD.
• • •
You wake from a dreamless sleep with the worst hangover of your life.
You look around from your spot on the floor. The room is empty, at least of all your things. The woman is gone. Your suitcase is gone, and—you pull yourself to your knees to check the edge of the dresser—yup. Your passport is definitely gone.
You try to muster up some hate for the woman who just drugged and robbed you, but you can’t. She’s too hot.
But you’ll definitely need a passport to get home. And the leisurely pace of Caribbean life probably doesn’t lend itself to resolving these types of issues quickly. Especially over the holidays.
Head still throbbing, you call down to the front desk.
“Can I get a cab to the embassy?”
When you arrive the wait time is approximately five…days. Which means you’ll be spending what’s left of your vacation trying to prove that you are indeed who you say you are.
The End.
It’s the third time you’ve fallen asleep trying to finally make it through Clue. You really don’t know why Kasia, your hipster friend from college, is so into this hunk of crap.
You reach over to the bedside table and toss a few soggy egg rolls into your mouth from the most recent delivery of Chinese food.
You swallow and simultaneously fart. You should be disgusted with yourself, but whatever. That’s just what happens on a steady diet of crab rangoon.
Only a few more hours until your girlfriend gets back to the city. At least she doesn’t have to know how you really spent Christmas. Specifically: lying in bed for three straight days without changing your underwear.
Excited by her return, you call her cell to see if she wants to come straight over.
RING, RING, RING.
No response. Oh well, at least you tried.
You rewind Clue to roughly the part where you last fell asleep and hit play. Tim Curry is great in almost anything, right? This time you’ll definitely get why Kasia thinks this thing is so funny.
Your eyes slowly start to close.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
“Hey, Debby?”
“Merry…” You hear her chewing on something hard and brittle-sounding. Maybe a brittle? “Christmas! SNRCK!”
“So, I know this is last minute…” Now that you actually have her and her chewing sounds on the line, you’re not sure hanging out is such a good idea. Do you even like Debby? But what are you going to do instead, stay in your apartment alone? You don’t even have any brittle to snack on. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
“Am I doing anything,” you hear more chewing sounds, “tonight? Well, I don’t know. Did FDR pass the New Deal? SNRCK!”
You cringe.
At least you’re talking to another human being.
“Let’s,” more chewing, “par-TAY!”
• • •
How much time should you let pass before you actively clarify to people at the party that you and Debby aren’t together? Three minutes?
Debby leads you to a walk-up third-floor apartment, chattering the entire way about the Roosevelt White House at the holidays. She knocks, snorting merrily, and a tall, awkward-looking man opens the door and gestures you inside.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Debby says, face like a frowning pie crust. “I’m about to burst!” The guy points, and she immediately trundles off, leaving you to fend for yourself.
You take a cursory look around the room.
You don’t recognize a single person.
You pull out your phone and start randomly opening and closing apps in an attempt to look busy. You don’t even see the sad sack in the formless, baggy gray dress—hair limp with grease, Coke-bottle glasses actually taped in the middle, like some kind of passive-aggressive commentary on her pay grade—sidle up to you.
She sighs heavily. You jump. Jesus, is she like some ninja of misery? How’d she get here so stealthily?
“Looks like you and me are the lonely ones at Christmas, huh?”
* * *
If you want to talk to the first person who’s acknowledged your existence, go HERE.
If you want to escape to the bar, go HERE.
“Just curious, why no plastics?”
“There are endocrine-disrupting chemicals—”
“Never mind,” you say, already bored. “I’ll return these first thing tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Lauren says. “But let me write you a list of preapproved toys before you leave the house.”
• • •
The toy store is even worse the next day.
You pull your sister’s shopping list from your pocket, doing your best not to elbow the ten people standing shoulder to shoulder with you.
You start reading:
1. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry LEGO set from Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Model D420. Quantity: 1 Made in Denmark
Jesus, she’s like the totalitarian of toys. The…toy-talitarian? Also, LEGOs are definitely plastic.
2. Smart Car Robotics kit. Model 662. Quantity: 1 Made in USA
That’s it. Those are the only approved toys.
You manage to find the car, but the Harry Potter LEGO sets are sold out—all of them.
You stroll through the aisles, mulling over options that wouldn’t violate any of your sister’s stupid bans. You see a boxed set of the Harry Potter books at the end of an aisle. Harrison must like them if he wanted the LEGO version, right? That could work…
But then you see them, three rows down.
Moon Boots.
You rush over, picking up the box. Th
ey’re metal and rubber—perfect, they don’t even contain plastic!
Though you have a gut feeling Lauren wouldn’t approve of something so obviously awesome.
* * *
If you want to buy the complete Harry Potter book set, go HERE.
If you’re going for the Moon Boots, go HERE.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” you say.
“No plastics. And no guns,” Lauren says curtly. “What aren’t you understanding?”
Already your sister is wearing on your last nerve.
“The toys are for charity.”
She raises an eyebrow skeptically, trying to gauge whether you’re lying. God, she pulled that maneuver right out of Mom’s old playbook.
“Then why did you bring them here?” she asks.
* * *
If you want to tell her you purchased them before leaving the city, but you’re going to the toy store now to get the boys their real presents, go HERE.
If you want to tell her you want to give the boys the greatest gift of all: the experience of giving to someone less fortunate, go HERE.
“What should I do with this expensive truffle oil?” you say.
“We already have some,” Lauren says, waving a hand dismissively. “Gregory mail-orders the real kind.”
You hang your jacket, teeth gritted.
“Maybe we’ll use it for marinade,” she adds, moving in to rearrange your coat on the hanger.
“Okay. Well, it’s the thought that counts, right?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Are you finished? I had to push everything back to wait around for your…unexpected arrival.”
Jesus, what have you gotten yourself into? It’s only been two minutes, but already you feel yourself reverting to the middle schooler who hated his bitchy older sister.
It would be so great if you could still pull her hair.
* * *
If you want to lob a devastatingly accurate insult, go HERE.
If you want to turn around and leave, go HERE.
You drive toward the town’s main intersection, searching hotels on your phone.
The only one with any vacancy is in that seedy neighborhood near the Kmart that closed in the early nineties.
Christmas wasn’t supposed to be like this.
After getting turned around twice exiting the highway, you finally arrive.
The hotel’s shaped like a prison block and is the color of bleached turds. The neon sign over the entrance is missing letters. It just spells HOL. There are pink frosted trees all over the lobby, and a pair of “sexy” Mrs. Claus and Santa tapestries. They look handmade.
Didn’t a kid from your high school kill himself here right before senior finals? Maybe just seeing the place made him go through with it.
* * *
If you want to go upstairs and fall asleep to fast-forward your stay, go HERE.
If you want to go to the bar and drink until it seems less depressing, go HERE.
“Oh, um, I’m happy to share with cousin Jimmy. Great way to get to know the family better,” you say, realizing the second it comes out of your mouth how creepy it sounds.
It seems even creepier when you get upstairs and realize two things: cousin Jimmy is maybe fifteen years old, and there’s only one bed.
Also, the room smells terrible, sort of like fermented farts.
“Well, we’ll leave you to it,” Mom says, looking at you with something near disgust. “I trust you’ll respect our house rules.”
“Yes, of course. I’m just glad to be here. It’s so kind of you to welcome me into your home.” She sniffs and walks away. That went well.
You turn to Jimmy. He’s gangly, with greasy hair flopping over an acne-riddled forehead. He’s currently in the process of digging a bony finger into his largish nose, staring at you the entire time.
“Uh, hi, Jimmy,” you say, extending a hand, then withdrawing it quickly. Who knows which hand he might choose? “Nice to meet you. Do you know where I can find some extra blankets? I don’t mind taking the floor, since I’m already putting you out.”
“The floor?” His voice has all the inflection of a GPS system.
“I mean…” His face is utterly blank. “Unless you prefer the floor? I assumed…”
“The bed is more than large enough for two adults, and though I’m tall for my age, I’m not yet at my adult proportions, meaning the sleeping arrangements will be even more spacious.”
“Well…that’s true.” How can you explain to this kid that there’s something objectively weird about an adult man sharing a bed with a teenaged boy?
“I take it from your silence that you’re concerned about the implications of sharing a bed. This concern, however, is unfounded, as I have no sexual interest in men.”
“Me neither.”
“That’s reassuring,” he says, voice flat. “Of course I was not concerned. Most sexual predators prefer to know their victims and to condition, or ‘groom,’ them to sexual activity. A crime of opportunity, as this would be, carries too much risk.”
You frown deeply. You’re not sure you’ve ever been in a more unnerving conversation.
“Also, I do not move in my sleep. For all of these reasons, not to mention ergonomic concerns, the only logical solution is to share the bed.”
“Okay…”
* * *
If you’re taking the floor anyway, go HERE.
If you want to be “game” and bond with the family in a totally not-rapey way by sharing a bed with Jimmy, go HERE.
You don’t even know cousin Jimmy. What if he snores, or sleep-farts?
“I’ll be fine on the couch. I don’t want to disturb anyone.”
“Bit late for that,” Mom says with a bright laugh, like she didn’t just verbally bitchslap you. “But we don’t mind. We like to assess the young men Lindsi dates.” The fuck? “Follow me.” She heads down the hallway.
She wasn’t kidding about the dog liking the couch. Literally every inch of its surface is coated with a fine layer of hair. And you can already tell from the burning, itching, oozing sensation around your eyes that your usually mild dog allergies are going into hyperdrive.
“You’ll find linens in the cupboard,” Mom says. “Please help yourself to anything you need upstairs, keeping in mind that sound travels through the house and we’re all incredibly light sleepers.” She smiles widely, eyes narrowed.
“Sure. Thank you, Mrs.—”
“No, no, call me Mom.” Her voice is so devoid of warmth you actually shiver.
“Thanks…Mom.” You force yourself not to wince. In the last twelve hours this relationship has upgraded itself from “may or may not last until summer” to “you basically have in-laws,” without your consent or input.
You lay two sheets and a blanket over the couch, trying to cover some of the surfaces, but it’s too late; your allergies are already blindingly painful. You lie down, hoping that closing your eyes will help, but your eyelids feel like they have shards of glass stuck inside.
Maybe because the dog has sauntered up and is panting heavily inches from your tenderized face. You’re not certain, but you think you feel welts forming where its spit is hitting your skin.
* * *
If you want to lock the dog up somewhere to try to help your symptoms, go HERE.
If you want to take an entire bottle of allergy meds and hope for the best, go HERE.
You drive to Lindsi’s parents’ house half-dazed. Her parents show you to the couch in the basement, where you drift off into the best sleep you’ve had in months.
The sleep of the beatified.
• • •
When you wake up, the feeling of peace that washed over you the night before has only grown. Instead of living in fear, shouldn’t you do more good deeds, like Santa-Jesus?
You almost run up the stairs, you’re so eager to find Lindsi.
She’s sitting at the kitchen island, drinking coffee.
“Go
od morning!” You hug her from behind. She laughs slightly.
“Hello to you, too. What’s going on?”
“I dunno, I just feel good. And I have an idea!”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t we go down to the hospital to volunteer? They have a children’s cancer wing. I think we could do a lot of good!”
“I don’t know, I’m pretty busy,” Lindsi says vaguely.
“They’re so sick, and it’s a hard time of the year if you’re not in a good place.” You come around to face her. She looks down, refusing eye contact.
“The hospital, though? Probably they have lots of people already.”
“Or we could do a soup kitchen. I know hospitals wig some people out. There must be some nearby. Do you have your phone, or—”
“Just stop, will you?”
“Why? It would feel so good to do something for others. We’ll go together, it will bring us—”
“Shut up with this shit.” Lindsi scowls.
“Lindsi, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is people getting in the way of natural selection.”
“What?” You can’t have heard that right.
“The gene pool doesn’t need the weak and weak-willed scumming it up and choking off everything good, okay?”
“Lindsi, what are you—”
“Some people are supposed to die!” she shouts.
Whoa.
You knew Lindsi was a little shallow but you wouldn’t have jumped right to eugenicist. Is this something you should know about someone by the four-month mark?
“I think I should go,” you murmur.
“Listen, it’s not like that,” Lindsi starts.
“I’m going home.”
Choose Your Own Misery Page 4