* * *
If you want to be a superhero and leap off the roof onto these Grinches, go HERE.
If you want to creep down the ladder and sneak up on them from behind, go HERE.
You say nothing. He puts you in the back of the squad car and drives you to the station.
You make your one phone call to Lauren’s house line. She would be the kind of person who puts her cell on “Do Not Disturb” after seven.
“Who is this?” Shit, that’s Harrison’s voice. “Hello?”
“Harrison, it’s your uncle. Is your mom there?”
“It’s late, where are you?”
“Nowhere. I’m…I just need to talk to her.”
“Why didn’t you use your cell phone? The caller ID says ‘County Sheriff.’ Where’s that?”
“Uh, you know what? I’ll call your mom later.” You hang up, embarrassed.
“Belt, shoelaces, phone, and wallet,” says the cop checking you in. She’s clearly done this thousands of times before, which makes you feel mildly less shitty about yourself. “We’re gonna put you in the drunk tank until you sober up,” she adds.
You’re pretty sure you’re already sober, but what’s the point of protesting? You walk into the cell. Luckily, it’s empty.
A few hours pass.
“Okay, you can leave,” says the officer as she opens the cell.
“Where can I pick up my car?” you ask.
“It’s been impounded. You can pick it up in 24 hours.”
You press your face into your hands. Fuck.
You grab your cell from the officer and dial Lauren.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
“Listen…officer…isn’t there anything I can do? I’m barely over the limit.”
Is that convincing? Probably not. You have to up your game.
“I need to get home…to my kids. One of them has a terrible flu.”
He can’t tell you’re lying, can he?
“I’ve got a pair of little ones at home,” he says. “Always getting sick, aren’t they?”
Awesome! You nod somberly. “So very sick.”
“Well, since it’s Christmas, I suppose I could be nice and let you off with a warning.”
“I’d really appreciate that,” you say.
“That is, if you were willing to do something nice for me in return. You know, share the Christmas spirit?”
Fuck. This guy is totally going to force you into some weird sex act. Still, it’s better than losing your license.
“Sure. Anything.”
You brace yourself.
“I need you to make me look like a hero.”
Well, that’s not at all what you expected.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You’re too hungover and depressed to fight Lauren on this. Anyway, she’ll have enough to deal with soon.
You trudge back into the living room.
“Sorry, bud. Those Moon Boots were meant for Toys for Tots.”
“NOOOOOOO!” Harrison shrieks.
“I’m sorry, they gotta go.”
“I HATE YOU!” Tears stream down his cheeks.
Lauren is standing aside, letting you take it. You do, impassively.
“WHY DID HE EVEN COME?”
Harrison’s screams set off Otto.
“WAAAAAAHHHHH!”
Harrison throws the Moon Boots at your feet and storms out of the room.
And to think, this is probably the last good Christmas he’ll have. It’s only 9 A.M., but you desperately need some Christmas spirits.
The End.
There’s no way you’re ruining Christmas for Harrison. It could be the last good one he has for a long time. It has to be perfect.
“I’m not returning the Moon Boots.”
“It’s not up for debate,” Lauren snips. “Go in there and tell him it was a mistake.”
“You’re being ridiculous!” you yell. “You know what happens when you try to control everyone? They rebel and make stupid decisions!”
“What?”
“RECKLESS DECISIONS!”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s going to come back to bite you in the ass. Your whole family’s ass!”
You’re cut off by a shriek of pain from the living room.
“AHHHHHHHH!”
“Grab some ice!” Gregory screams into the kitchen. “This looks bad!”
Lauren stares daggers at you.
“AHHHHHHHH!”
“Keep your ankle still, liebling! Nicht bewegen!”
“AHHHHHHHH!”
Hmmmm…maybe you should have picked a different battle.
The End.
You stare at each other for a moment, but you can’t think of anything to say. With a hrumph sound, Mom stomps off. Even her footsteps sound disgusted.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, you should definitely go apologize,” Lindsi says, looking at you sideways. You try to glare at her face, not her boobs.
“Seriously? You’re the one who—”
“Before she really gets angry.”
Sighing, you hoist yourself out of bed and shuffle downstairs. At least the rest seems to have improved your kidney pain. Mom’s in the kitchen, making disapproving noises to a pan on the stove.
“Umm, excuse me,” you say to Mom’s broad, chenille-sweatered back.
“Yes?” She doesn’t turn, but you can imagine her shit-on-my-upper-lip look.
“I just wanted to apologize. For…for what you saw.”
She sniffs.
“I didn’t mean to disrespect your house rules—”
“But you did. Flagrantly.”
You grit your teeth and keep going.
“It’s just that Lindsi and I are still so new as a couple, I suppose our emotions got the better of us.”
“You mean your animal lust.”
“Yes, well, it takes two to tango.”
Mom whips around, lasering you with her eyes.
“I’m sure it does. It only takes one to corrupt, however.”
You exhale slowly. Don’t punch an old woman.
“Anyway, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I know it won’t. I’ll make sure of that.”
You blink, unsure what else to say.
Fortunately, just then Lindsi walks in, smiling widely. Mom turns to her, also smiling. Seriously? Lindsi walks over to you and weaves a hand through your hair. “Hey, hon, do you want to go to the mall? I know you haven’t had a chance to shop for presents yet.”
Mom gives you a saccharine smile, but her eyes look like a reptile following prey. “That would be nice,” she says, squinting at you. “I’m sure it’s hard to be a houseguest and not have any small tokens with which to thank your generous hosts.”
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
Mom is staring at you with such utter contempt you blurt it out before thinking.
“I had nothing to do with this, I swear.”
Now both Lindsi and Mom are staring you down, their faces nearly identical pictures of disgust. Shit, that’s a peek into a grim future. There’s nothing for it now but to plow ahead.
“I was in here sleeping, because of my injury, and when I woke up Lindsi was…like this.” If eyes could laser off body parts, Lindsi’s would do it to you now. You wonder what you’d lose first. Actually, you can probably guess.
You try to backtrack.
“I think both of us are still just so excited about this relationship, and where it’s heading, that it’s hard not to give in to some of the temptations of…uh, young…love.”
You really wish you hadn’t had to use that word. Though Lindsi’s rage seems to have dialed down ever so slightly.
“Yes, well, she always was a disappointment to Reverend Mather,” Mom snips.
“Oh my GOD, MOM,” Lindsi twists around on top of you to stare daggers at her mother. The force of it causes her boobs—still free-flapping—to s
wing pendulously from side to side. “Why are you always such a fucking prude?”
“I didn’t raise my daughter to be a sexually promiscuous—”
“It’s not promiscuous to be with your BOYFRIEND, MOTHER.” Lindsi is full-on screeching now. “It’s always like this with you. You drove Steve away with your judgmental bullshit and you’re doing it again. It’s like you don’t want me to find love.”
“I just want you to act in a way that does the VanWhittington name—”
“You were a WAY bigger slut than I’ve ever been. Yeah, Uncle Warrington told me, Mom.” Lindsi smirks triumphantly. “About your ‘proving’ of every dick in Wickachaw County.” Proving? Is that like local slang for a beej? “Knocked off quite a few, huh, Mom? Too bad no one provides a haunch for someone who gives away her honey for—”
Mom strides across the room and slaps Lindsi across the face. Whoa. This is some daytime talk show shit.
“WE’RE LEAVING,” Lindsi shrieks. “SEE IF WE COME BACK, YOU BITCH. I HATE YOU!” Mom narrows her eyes and strides out of the room, leaving only a red handprint behind.
Lindsi grabs her bra and jams an arm through a strap.
“You’re ready, right?”
You’d really rather not go anywhere with her like this, but you’re too terrified to disagree.
“Mmhmm,” you whimper.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You crawl out of the bathroom.
“Hospital,” you whisper to the first feet you see. Judging from the timbre of the sniff overhead, they belong to Mom. Awesome.
Luckily, Lars can deadlift a full-grown man. He carries you to the car, and you head to the ER.
It takes approximately ten minutes in the waiting room to regret the decision. There’s a person a row over clutching—and occasionally vomiting loudly into—a bucket. An impossibly old man has fallen asleep near the wall, a thin stream of drool trickling down his spotted chin and pooling on his dingy collar. Someone nearby—you’re not certain who, but the blubbery guy in stained sweatpants seems likely—keeps farting. Unless he’s shitting. You don’t want to think about it too hard; it’s making you nauseous.
After at least two hours hunched in your chair, your name is called. Without prompting, Lars cradle-carries you into the room, which should be embarrassing, but is actually an overwhelming relief.
The doctor asks some questions, draws blood, and shunts you off to get x-rayed. Another hour passes before a different doctor—who looks at least ten years younger than you—returns, frowning at a chart.
“When did the incident occur, mister…” She squints through styleless wire-framed glasses, then mispronounces your name. Come on, it’s the twelfth most common surname in certain parts of the Midwest.
“Around ten?”
“That explains these levels.” She starts talking in a slow sing-song, as though she’s doctoring a kindergarten class. “You know when something hurts us, we need to go to the doctor right away!” She must think her smile is kind. You deeply hate her.
“It’s been at least three hours since I got here.”
“If you had come in right away, things would probably be fine,” she says, ignoring you. “We would have recommended bed rest. But you seem to have done real damage. Of course we can’t force you into procedures against your will—I want you to acknowledge that.”
“Uh, yeah, I know.”
“Good. Then you understand that I am recommending”—her eyes widen back to kindergarten teacher size—“very strongly, that you undergo emergency surgery to prevent renal necrosis.”
“Necrosis?”
“Also, you should know rates for this surgery are 25 percent higher because of the holiday.”
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You just have to grit your teeth and push through it.
Unfortunately, the VanWhittington family has dozens of Christmas Eve traditions. Like building gingerbread houses, complete with homemade gumdrops and “photorealistic” scenes in the poured-sugar windows.
Endless hours of hand-whipping frostings, bending over your piping bag, and forcing yourself to smile as you sample enough sugar to cause kidney death in a healthy horse, are really taking their toll. Even sitting upright pours waves of nauseating pain over your entire body. Except for that one bout of norovirus, you’ve never felt worse. And that wouldn’t even compare if it hadn’t hit in the hot tub with those friends of your boss’s. Next time you go on a work retreat, you are not eating the shrimp.
You grab the bowl of blue sprinkles, bending to arrange them into individual snowflakes on the roof (Mom did not like it when you argued that was “hardly photorealistic”).
You feel lightheaded. It’s hard to distinguish the shapes of the snowflakes. Your whole body suddenly goes cold, and you can’t feel your fingers or toes. The edges of your vision are going dark.
Oh god, you’re going to faint.
As your head crashes to the table, you vaguely hear Mom yell, “I told you his bloodline was inferior.”
You’d stick up for yourself, but it’s too late. You’re out cold.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
“Lars, call security,” you say, hobbling away from the Santa. “He’s unstable.”
“SECURITY!” Lars bellows. Seconds later, two men in uniform appear. Lars points. “He was threatening my friend.”
That’s not exactly true, but it sounds more impressive than “he might have revealed that you’re a paranoiac pussy,” so you let it slide.
They haul him away and you head home.
“What happened?” Mom’s lips are pursed in preemptive disapproval.
“He’s hurt pretty bad,” Lars says. “But they said his constitution is remarkable. If he rests, he might avoid surgery.”
Mom looks taken aback, then smiles and starts preparing a tray of snacks “for the strongman.” Once she’s finished, Lars carries you to bed, balancing the tray on his other hand. He leaves it on the bedside table.
“I’ll have Lindsi check in once we get back from mass. And Jimmy can sleep in the basement tonight. This bedroom is just for you.”
“Thank you.” Lars might be your favorite person ever. As you drift off to sleep, you briefly wish you were with Lars, not Lindsi.
You think the funniest things when you’re near sleep.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
This will end sooner if you own up. Plus, you’re starting to feel guilty for being afraid of a guy who plays Santa for cancer kids.
“I’m sorry, I know I acted…strangely the other night. I just got nervous. I didn’t know you, and you hear horrible stories with hitchhikers. I was rude, I admit, but I…well, I panicked.
Santa’s look of outrage transforms into what you think is a smug sneer. It’s hard to tell under the fake beard.
“I suppose I understand. Especially since you were at such a notorious cruising locale.”
“Notorious…what?”
“You must have known. The signs were everywhere. If I were into that sort of thing I might have been nervous, too. Never know who might be a cop, right?”
“A cop? Is cruising illegal?”
He ignores you.
“Is that how you two met?” He turns to Lars with a sickly-sweet smile. “People have the strangest get-together stories these days.”
“NO. No,” you say. “This is my girlfriend’s brother. He just brought me to the hospital.”
“Instead of her? Interesting.” Santa smirks and raises an eyebrow. “I should go. After all, these gifts won’t make it to sick kids on their own. Especially since I arrived so late.” He narrows his eyes accusingly and walks off, whistling “Holly Jolly Christmas.”
You follow Lars to the car, too embarrassed to speak. Once the silence feels utterly oppressive, you blurt out, “It wasn’t like that. He looked crazy. Actually insane. Did you notice how dead his eyes are? Like a turned-off robot? A
nd I didn’t know anything about cruising, obviously, I—”
Lars puts a meaty hand on your knee and gives you a knowing smile.
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to explain to me what happened at that rest stop. I wouldn’t judge.”
His hand inches up your thigh.
Wait, doesn’t Lars have a wife?
Does this mean he thinks you’re using Lindsi as a beard…and that he’s okay with that?
* * *
If you want to make it clear to Lars that you’re definitely straight, go HERE.
If you’d rather say nothing, since it seems to be getting you off the hook, go HERE.
“Lars, I just wanted to say…I’m sorry. I was acting like a jerk. I get so nervous around doctors, I think I overreacted.”
He looks at you, his face transforming into a beaming smile. What a beautiful smile he has. You feel the light of it warming something deep inside you.
“That’s okay, I understand.” He stands, slapping you on the back. “Honestly, I even get your concerns. I’ve lived with Lindsi almost my whole life, you know?”
You laugh together. It feels so good to laugh with Lars again.
“And she probably slept with you on the first date, right?” Lars shakes his head. “Classic Lindsi. I mean, it’s hard to want to commit to that, am I right?”
“Well…sure, yeah.” How would he know that?
“She doesn’t cheat, though. She’s just up-front slutty.”
“Oh. Cool.” You’re glad things are okay with Lars—you desperately wanted that—but this is getting a little uncomfortable. On several levels, actually.
“You know what we should do?” Lars says brightly.
“What?”
“Sneak in some guy time. To bond, you know?”
“Totally.” It’s so cool Lars wants to bond with you. You try not to smile too hard.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 19