How the Grinch Won Christmas

I saw mama snogging Santa Clause under the mistletoe one night. Most kids could have gotten over that and I was one of those kids who could. The real problem was when Thumper got in on the act. Most kids would have trouble getting over the reindeer bit, and I was no exception but with a few lucky breaks and some hard work, I would have gone on to live a perfectly normal life. Except that in his vaporous raptures, Thumper entangle himself in the Christmas tree lights and pulled the spruce down. As if fell, the tree knocked over the big glass of milk I set out for Santa. The lights in the big star on top of the tree shattered in the cool milk. The three star crossed lover's ecstatic throes succumbed to a high voltage danse macabre eight step.

Maybe Dad would have been able to do something if only he had been there. I stood transfixed by the sight of steam rising from sizzling milk, and the smell of burnt flesh and caribou fur. Eventually mom's combat boots ceased their fearless death rattle-hammer upon the hardwood floor. Still I stood. I have no idea how much time passed but I was still there when dad came down in his PJ's. He wet himself. I haven't been quiet right since.

So today when I started a wide circle around the Salvation Army bell ringer but his elf assistant tugged my sleeve toward the red pot, I decked the son of a bitch. And when he tried to get up, I kicked the little freak right in the gut.

Unfortunately, most people do not share my feelings concerning Mr. K. Kringle and everything about that blasted holiday of his. Lester Stubbles, my barber (no joke) was on my back in an instant and for a moment I thought he had a straight razor to my throat but it turned out to be just a comb. Then the bell ringer beat me about the head and shoulders with his tripod until I lost consciousness. They don't call it an Army for nothing.

I woke to the smell of cinnamon, spruce, and the breath of one moderately drunken elf. The elf's hideous youthful face framed diabolical eyes which glowed sky blue in this fireplace and candle lit room. I did my best not to have one of my attacks. My shrink calls them PTSD freakouts, but I call them anxiety attacks.

This one started like every other attack I'd ever head. The smell of Christmas tree burned in my nose, scorching my brain and overfilling my gut with that cloying sweet stench of Christmas morning. Jingle Bells tolled like bats in my belfry till even my skull seemed to ring. The elf billowed before my eyes, swelling until I could see up his puggy little nose.

I took a swing at him and it was then that I realized I was chained to bed. In blind terror I turned to run and saw the bedsheets below me, gore-red with corpse-white snowflakes and scratchy holly.

“Easy there, friend,” The elf said. His voice was irresistibly cute luring me inexorably to a Siren island populated with elves where I would take permanent leave of my senses.

“Two Liters of Eggnog, Stat!” A second elf shouted. He wore doctor's whites cummerbunded with red and green silk.

“Pulse is cheerless and thready,” a nurse elf said, her voice the epitome of professional concern. Two bags of creamy off white fluid appeared on my IV pole.

“50 cc's of intramuscular Yulezapine, nuse. Come on, hurry, we can't lose him, it's Christmas.” The doctor shined a light in my eyes. The light was pure and white as Christmas snow but I felt instantly at peace. Visions of sugarplums danced in the clear light, then just as the doctor clicked off the light, I thought I saw Buddha hovering over a cloud.

“There, there, all better now, aren't we?” The cute voiced elf said. Christmas lights glittered on his two cunicular front teeth and sparkled in his Buggs Bunny eyes. He patted my head.

“Where am I?” The ceiling was a vaulted spray of jewels sagging from eleven green spines. Candy canes held up the arthritic bits.

“You are in a state of Christmas,” the elf's voice trembled, “one door down from Nirvana.”

“Why?” My voice a faint whisper.

“Enlightenment,” the elf's bony finger pointed up.

I saw The Clause. The Clause wore nothing but, mercifully, his lotus-ed legs, gut, and levitation altitude spared me sights no one wants to know about.

“Ho Ho, Ho Ho,” The Clause chuckled with regal mirth.

“Merry Christmas to all,” his voice rumbled and glissaded, “and forget about the presents. For verily I tell you, it is harder for a reindeer to pass between a woman's legs than it is to slip down her hearth and into her home with a bag of presents.” He scratched his clean shaved chin, “Oh, that one wasn't for you,” he cleared his throat, “Forget the past, forget the future, find the moment, man. The moment is where it's at. And once you drive off the cliff of the moment, man, there is it.” He stared up at the stars which now hung among the eve's eleven elven eaves. Tears welled up and ran down his chubby cheeks.

“What is it?”

“The instant that contains all others. That's it.”

I scratched my chin for he was obviously awaiting my considered response. “Forget, so you get off the hook?”

“Don't forget, just don't remember,” Said The Clause.

Then he was gone. I found myself limping away from the city, away from home, and into the woods. Leaf crunch, whip, poor, will, pearly instances strung on spider silk. Each gem pure, spotless, until I see my reflection and wonder who it is.