Merry Nickmas [ReWrite]

Hi All, I'm not sure what the rules about plugging publications on the site are, but I'm plugging a publication! Last year I wrote a short story called Merry Nickmas and posted it to this site. Below are the first few chapters of the rewrite. I have published the full thing on amazon here(link is external). If you want to support my writing, it's only 99 cents, and if not, I'll be posting the full re-write on here anyway later this month! Also, if you don't want to buy it, leaving a review helps too :)

Happy Holidays,

Mac

Merry Nickmas

Ashton Macaulay

1.  

As Nick erected the three-foot, plastic Christmas tree that had been given to him by his father, he felt as though he had been shot with a yuletide harpoon. In earlier days, even the rustling of the plastic branches would have brought joy just short of world peace, but as a productive member of the working class, it brought back memories, and with them, unwelcome feelings of holiday dismay. Contrasted against the bright red and green lights, his life seemed grey and dull.

On the one hand, he was lucky to have a job in an economic climate akin to a venomous snake pit, but on the other, he yearned for the freedom of unemployment. As part of a government regulation, he had been given two days off for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. He had planned to use these days to mull over his existential crisis with rum drenched candy canes, and the warm glow of a flat screen television, but life, it seemed, had other plans.

     Just one week before he was to fuse his spirit with a yuletide hangover, a lovely woman named Darlene (who had given birth to him) gave him a call. She had informed him that his grandfather was not “doing well”, and that “he might not be around for any more Christmases.”

Nick’s grandfather was a war hero, very clever at chess, and enjoyed scotch more than water. The outside world might have considered him to be a drunk, but Nick knew better; he had dealt with drunks who might as well have held the Olympic gold medal in liver abuse. In the many years, he had spent with his grandfather, Nick had come to admire him more than anyone else. His mother’s implication both enraged, and saddened him.  

     By his mother’s simple mention of his grandfather’s potential demise, Nick had been backed into a corner, and checkmated. “Alright, I’ll be down Thursday,” he said, trying without success to hide his glumness. The bottle of rum can go to the cat. Nick hung up the phone and fell onto a mattress that was supposed to contour to his body, but instead congealed in uncomfortable lumps. He marveled at the strides of modern technology until he fell into uneasy judgmental sleep.

2.

     Work the next morning was just as uncomfortable. Prior to his mother’s phone call, Nick had been able to shrug off holiday plans as he did not have any. His usual routine involved drinking until he thought the cat was Santa Claus and waking up half dead on the 26^th. Now that being alone was no longer an option, it seemed that everyone was compelled to discuss the holidays with him.

“Any fun plans for the break Nick?” asked a dull co-worker wearing a brightly mismatched sweater that might have been considered a Christmas war crime.

     Sod off and bother someone who gives a fuck, was what Nick thought. While it would have brought about the result Nick wanted (an end to conversation), it would also have dropped hot napalm on the delicate tapestry that was remaining employed. “I’m going home to see my folks,” he replied, with what he believed to be a cheery air.

Apparently, he had come off melancholy, as the response he got was “Bless your heart. Family can be difficult, but they’re the only one’s we’ve got.” The woman, stocky, and smelling like scented pine cones, wrapped Nick in an overpowering hug. He found himself wishing that she would implode from the sheer force of his unease, but was unable to do anything but wheeze from her grip.

The rest of his work day was a cycle of back pats, festive greetings, and sympathetic looks. Every time he turned a corner he felt like he was navigating a merry mine field, and each step ended with him blown sky high by more jubilant exclamations than he could handle. By the time five o’clock came around, he felt more like a The Grinch, living atop a mountain, pissing all over the joy of those below, than a person. Christmas had never been something that Nick actively disliked until he had spent every day of December in a grey office building, actively participating in the demands of the greater good.

Watching coworkers flock around plastic trees, their hands trembling from the weight of paperwork, and heads adorned with baubles intended to bring back childhood memories just made him sad. The year before, Nick had been unemployed and crashed on the couch of his parents’ home, eggnog in hand, and reruns on the television. It occurred to him that there was nothing so noble in the world as getting good and tipsy to reruns of Charlie Brown’s Christmas.

As he stepped out of the office double doors, a perky man in a holiday vest jumped up just in time to have one last barbaric yawp of cheer. Nick returned the greeting, and was nearly blinded by the train-wreck of Christmas ornaments and hand-knit trees on the man’s chest. The grey drizzle outside was a welcome reminder that the world was not so cheery, despite its denizens’ best efforts. He pulled up his hood and began the long trudge home.

3.

     It was Wednesday night, December 23^rd when a terrible realization dawned on Nick. Ordinarily his Christmas shopping list consisted of eggnog, rum, candy canes, and a renting two copies of the movie Gremlins. One for watching, and the other to set aside, for when he inevitably lost the other one in a drunken. By accepting the invitation to stay with his mother, he had effectively thrown a jolly firebomb on said plans. Nick looked wistfully down at the tumbler in his hand and told the rum that it would have to wait just a little longer.

     It was around 7PM when the engine in his bland sedan struggled to turn over in the evening chill. Each breath brought with it a wretched plume, smelling of canned beans and Doritos (a dinner that was both easy to make and satisfying in a mediocre sort of way.) The car whined like an unsatisfied child on Christmas morning, but eventually turned over like a “good little automobile.” Nick gave the steering wheel a reassuring pat and sped out of his apartment’s parking lot like he was beginning a race.

     The speed lasted for all of five miles, and then he reached the freeway exit leading to the mall. Nick found himself bumper to bumper in holiday gridlock. Hundreds of cars had lined up, creating a string of maddening Christmas lights, all leading to the packed mall parking lot. In one of the world’s great ironies, Nick felt like Santa, following the red lights of the cars in front of him through the fog of traffic.

     Twenty minutes later he began the battle for a parking spot. The elderly are out in force tonight, he thought, spying a slow moving mini-van going the wrong way around a mall roundabout. Nick had to swerve deftly to avoid collision, and in the process ended up finding Valhalla; a parking spot in front of Macy’s. He had expected a long hunt through unending rows to find an empty spot, but it seemed that on that night, luck had favored him. It’s a Christmas miracle, he thought and tapped the roof of his car.

     He pulled forward slowly, savoring the end to his journey, and at that moment noticed an angry pair of headlights, with a blinking turn signal. Through the half-frozen windshield, he caught sight of an elderly man in a Santa hat that looked as though it had been through The Great War, sitting behind the wheel of an equally elderly Buick. On the front bumper was a tiny red nose that drained the car’s already struggling battery. The man began to shriek and shout as Nick pulled toward the spot, honking weakly, and revving his engine.

     In Nick’s mind, there were two options: Allow the man to take the spot, and continue searching through the barren wastes for another, or fight the man in a high-stakes automobile jousting match. He revved his engine and gave the horn a gentle tap. The beep echoed through the cold air, and was met by the loudest blare the Buick could muster. He wrapped his gloved fingers around the wheel and stepped on the gas.

     With lightning speed, the old man’s Buick shot into the spot and bumped the curb. Nick barely had barely moved forward before he had to slam on the break. “Fuck,” he muttered and pulled away from the now occupied space. The old man stepped out of the car and performed a dazed bow before hobbling merrily towards the shopping center.