When Elves Attack (7 page)

“There's a Christmas tree stuck sideways in the door,” said the brunette.

“We're trying to win a ribbon,” said Serge.

The foursome got on their hands and knees and started crawling under the tree.

“Hold it,” said Coleman, standing back up. “There's some cards in the mailbox . . . Do we know anybody from Christmas, Florida?”

Chapter Eight

ONE HOUR LATER

Dining room table.

Coleman and the two women sat around the gingerbread house.

The blonde had her mouth over the chimney.

Coleman flicked a Bic lighter and held it to a tiny flowerpot near the front door.

A watery, bubbling sound.

Serge stood in the background, scratching his head with a puzzled expression. “Coleman, what kind of weirdness am I looking at here?”

“It's a bong.”

“That was your motivation?”

Coleman flicked the lighter again. “No other point to put myself through that kind of work.”

“Silly me,” said Serge. “But it's going to make the gingerbread taste awful. We'll have to throw it out.”

“Like hell,” said Coleman. “I baked pot into the walls, and the frosting.”

“Nice work, Hansel.” Serge turned. “So, ladies, I've been meaning to ask. What names are you going by these days?”

The brunette exhaled a hit from the chimney. “She's Crystal River and I'm Belle Glade.”

“Nice ring,” said Serge. “Almost as good as City and Country . . .”

City and Country, products of their environment. Tuscaloosa, Alabama, to put a pin in the map. Town girls in a university town. Hardworking, no drugs or wild weekends, not the remotest legal scrape between them. Until the night they went in that student bar. Some coked-out sorority sister fell on the knife she'd been using to cut rails in a toilet stall. The girls found her. Pulled out the blade, tried mouth-to-mouth. It stacked up fast. Fingerprints, blood, victim's father a huge donor to the law school. They didn't stick around for the opinion polls; on the run ever since, which just hit the ten-year mark. Couldn't stay in one place long, couldn't give Social Security numbers. Their employers knew the score and took advantage. Waitress gigs, saloons, strip clubs. It was a hard decade, and they came out the back end as hard as they make 'em. Country had grown up on remote farmland a half hour toward Muscle Shoals. City was a transplant from the Bronx. To cast the movie, you might pick Daryl Hannah and Halle Berry.

“Coleman,” said Country. “What the hell's Serge doing?”

Coleman glanced over his shoulder. “Looking out the window with binoculars to see how Jim does it.”

“Does what?”

Coleman shrugged.

“There seems to be a lot of traffic on the street,” said Serge, swinging the binoculars left to right. “A minute ago, a Ford Focus went by, then a Delta 88, and now a Ram pickup.”

“Why is that unusual?” asked Coleman.

“It's the second or third time I've seen each, and they're all slowing down in front of Jim's house like they're looking for an address or something . . . Now Martha's coming out of the house. She's screaming at Jim, who's standing bewildered in the doorway. Looks like he's in shit. Now he's making desperate gestures to explain, which means he's only making the shit deeper. That's the key to love: Never explain yourself. If a woman attacks, and your response is explanations, then strap on a helmet. But that's just my experience. I'm sure Jim knows what he's doing. And this is the perfect chance!”

“What chance?” asked Coleman.

“Martha just fishtailed out of the driveway and hit our garbage cans speeding away. That means it's bachelor night for lucky Jim! We'll get him over here to pick his brain and learn his secrets . . . Be right back.” Serge tossed the binoculars on the sofa and crawled under the Christmas tree.

Across the street:
Ding-dong . . . Ding-dong . . . Ding-dong. . .

Jim ran and opened the door. “Jesus, Serge, how many times are you going to ring the doorbell?”

Ding-dong . . .
“That's the last one. So listen, Martha's seriously fucking pissed at you, so come on over and have laughs.”

“No! In fact . . .” Jim stuck his head outside and looked both ways. “You need to get out of here before Martha sees you. She could be back any minute.”

Serge shook his head. “Not the way she almost clipped that stop sign at the end of the street. You've got two solid hours minimum.”

“Serge,” said Jim. “There's absolutely no way on earth I'm going over there—”

Fleet, quiet footsteps across the lawn. Serge looked back. “Country, what brings you to this pleasant abode? Decided to help me invite Jim into joining us?”

She bounded up the porch steps. “I want to break some of her shit! Calling me a cunt!”

Serge braced himself in the doorway with both arms. “You're not breaking anything.”

Country tried to force her way past. “I'll bet she loves that china cabinet.”

“Not the china cabinet!” said Jim.

Serge made a guttural straining sound. “Don't think I can hold her much longer. But if you give me a hand, we might be able to get her back across the street and calm her down. Otherwise, you might want to check your home owner's deductible.”

“Darn it, okay, if that's what it takes. Her grandmother gave her that cabinet.” Jim grabbed his house keys. “But I can't stay.”

“Now you're talking,” said Serge. “You won't regret . . .”

Coleman and City were still at the dining room table when three people crawled under the Christmas tree.

Serge bounced up. “Hey everyone, it's Jim!”

“Yo, Jimbo,” said Coleman, saluting with a joint. “What's up?”

Serge helped Jim to his feet. “He's going to share all his secrets on holding a family together and making the nation secure. And maybe, just maybe shrink our carbon footprint.”

“No, no, no!” said Jim. “I just came to get her home. Like we agreed.”

“Okay, the footprint was just wishful thinking.” Serge clasped his hands together. “Then let's not waste any of Jim's time! Coleman, chair!”

Coleman kicked one out for Jim to take a seat at the table.

“I can't sit, Serge! I have to go.”

“Look out for the train,” said Serge.

“What train?”

A little locomotive whistle blew, and a model train came around the bend from the kitchen, toward Jim's feet. He hopped back out of the way and fell into the chair.

“That's better,” said Serge.

The train circled the table and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. City passed the joint to Jim, who waved her off without words. Country took a swig of whiskey from the bottle and grabbed the roach.

Jim started getting up. Country pushed him back down and handed him the bottle—“Ease out. Your stress is a buzz kill”—headed for the kitchen and more ice.

Jim tried passing the bottle toward Serge, who pulled back his hands. “You're on your own with these women. I'm sure your techniques are rock solid, but these are the chicks I'll be dealing with, so I need to see if your interaction with them passes the acid test.”

Jim turned and handed the bottle toward Coleman.

“My hands are busy.” Coleman broke down the walls of the gingerbread house.

Country came back with clean glasses and ice. “Jim, here's yours.”

“But I rarely drink.” He turned toward Serge.

“Don't look at me. Acid test.”

Jim looked back up at Country and held a thumb and index finger a quarter inch apart. “Okay, but just a little.”

She poured four fingers and splashed a fifth on the table, then jammed the rocks glass in Jim's stomach and wandered away, upending the bottle.

“Feet,” said Serge.

Jim looked down and swiftly raised them. The Orange Blossom Special rolled under his chair and chugged out of sight into the bathroom.

“So, Jim,” said Serge. “What's your first tip to someone starting a family? Begin with the biggest thing!”

“Actually the biggest thing is the smallest thing.”

“Jim,” said Serge. “You're talking Zen warrior shaman shit. Is the Eastern jazz what it's all about?”

“No, I mean that the little things are what make your wife happy and your marriage solid, because after a while it isn't fairy-tale royals' weddings; it's commitment to each other's small considerations during the marathon of raising children.”

“Example?” said Serge.

“Not tracking stuff into the house.”

Serge's head jerked back. “You're blowin' smoke up my ass.
That's
number one?”

“Not the least speck of dirt. They spend so much time vacuuming and mopping.” Jim raised the glass to his mouth for a sip. More like sticking in the tip of his tongue for a taste. He made a face. “It shows you appreciate her efforts.”

City took a big hit—“He's on the money”—then blew Country a sensuous shotgun that gave all the guys boners.

Country exhaled. “Don't wipe your shoes, no pussy.”

“Jim,” said Serge. “You're in the zone! Dr. Phil can't carry your jockstrap. What else?”

Jim raised the glass for another tongue test. Verdict: not bad. He took a moderate sip. Then another. Then he finished the drink. A look on his face. He began coughing and slapping his chest.

“You all right?” asked Serge. “Go down the wrong way?”

“No, just burns.” His eyes bugged and watered.

“Whiskey does that,” said Serge.

Jim looked at his watch. “What time is it? I need to be getting back.”

“I don't think that's a good idea right now,” said Serge. “Just sit still a moment and gather yourself.” He offered a tissue. “You got a little spit coming off . . .”

Quiet around the table except for an unending series of watery bubbling episodes. Finally: “I'm better now.” Jim whistled. “But I'm really feeling that drink. Where was I?”

“Wiping feet.”

“Uh, yeah. When I mentioned not tracking stuff in, that really isn't number one.”

“You must tell,” said Serge. “The knowledge that is the source of all truth . . .” He got up and bent into a Karate Kid pose.

“Number one is actually peeing.”

“Hold that thought.” Serge stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “Must have wax buildup. I thought I heard you say peeing.”

“I did,” said Jim. “There are all kinds of guidebooks to educate the genders about each other's sexual physiology. But the real ignorance zone is how we urinate.”

“Jim,” asked Serge, “are you on some kind of medication where you're not allowed to drink alcohol?”

“Hear me out. You ever wander into the ladies' room by mistake, like at a restaurant?”

“Who hasn't?”

“What did you notice?”

“It was clean,” said Serge. “Like an operating room.”

“And men's restrooms?”

“A disgrace,” said Serge. “Especially when it's a busy place like a sports arena, and all the urinals are taken and they have to use the toilets to pee. Might as well set a pack of chimpanzees loose in there.”

“Exactly,” said Jim. “Men were built for urinals, not toilets. But homes only have toilets. Even the most careful guy can't prevent a certain amount of sprinkle and ambient mist, not to mention a little splashing from the bowl if your stream's strong enough.”

“I follow,” said Serge. “Women don't realize we really are trying as hard as we can, but it's a curse. They think we're not aiming at all.” Serge looked across the table. “Country?”

She raised her mouth from the chimney. “You
aren't
aiming. You just go in hosing wherever you like.”

“Yeah,” said City. “We're tired of cleaning that nastiness up.”

Serge looked back at Jim. “Pray tell, what can we possibly do? We're only men.”

“If you really love a woman,” said Jim, “then right at the beginning of the relationship, you have to get your arms around the urine issue. After every use, wipe the place down like you're leaving a crime scene because, in a way, you are.”

“Brilliant!” said Serge. “Any other gems? Like earlier when I saw Martha outside yelling like a banshee, and you were trying to explain yourself. Explaining goes against everything I've ever heard, centuries of men comparing notes. Have you made some kind of breakthrough that hasn't hit the news yet?”

“No.” Jim looked down at the table. “Trying to explain was a mistake. It's the toilet thing again.”

Serge sat back in surprise. “But after all you just said. I thought you were the master.”

“I did, too,” said Jim. “But that's another thing: You're always learning. Like tonight I was in the living room watching a football game, and we have this bathroom off to the side. Actually, a half bath because it doesn't have a tub, which some claim might cost you on the resale, but others believe new kitchen countertops—”

“Jim!” begged Serge. “We're grasping for knowledge! In God's name, focus!”

“. . . But anyway, I leave the bathroom door open so I can still hear the play-by-play, and right in the middle of doing my business, I hear the announcer go nuts, the halfback is in the open, racing down the right side for the tying score. So naturally I look over my shoulder to see the touchdown. And wouldn't you know it? Martha picks that exact moment to walk by, and she yells, ‘Jim!' And I say, ‘What?' And she detonates, but I still don't know what I've done.”

“What
did
you do?”

“What did he do?” said City. “He wasn't paying attention!”

“But it was a touchdown,” said Serge.

“So football's more important than his wife?” said Country.

“But it was the tying score,” said Coleman.

“It's just a stupid game,” said City. “He needs to keep his eyes on the bowl at all times.”

Serge scoffed. “It's not like he's capturing a rattlesnake.”

“It's worse!” said City. “It's symbolic of his disrespect for her contributions to their union.”