Bathroom Monologue: End of the World Sale

My nephew forced me to buy the chair at a yard sale. The "End of the World Sale," the plywood sign called it, and the chair was propping up the left side of the sign. The chair had only been owned for a week, real leather on the arm rests, and real steel in the supports. Walnut brown with a red undertone and yellow stitching, not as elegant as black models, but distinct. My nephew said I'd use it in my new writing room. He said I had to get writing again, which was his way of saying I needed to get over my wife. Little did he know, little did I know.

See, the seat cushion sighed when I sat on it for the first time in the morning. The same sound as so many of Ruth's sighs, when she'd get in after double-shifts and plop beside me to boot up Netflix. And I have this habit of leaning to much to the left when I'm hesitating over a plot idea, and every time I did, something in the supports grunted. I swear, grunted, like when Ruth was upset at me, the minor upsets, like I'd forgotten the turn signal on a vacant road, or put the toilet paper in facing the wrong way. I figured the chair had sat on the grass too long and some dew had gotten into whatever gears a chair has.

Then there was this Wednesday night when I wrote. Really wrote, for the first time since I couldn't anymore. A whole short story in one sitting, and I was at least a third of the way into another one when I realized I'd been holding the same posture the whole time, my back never touching the chair. I rubbed my eyelids and reclined, and the chair…

Man, I know that noise. I'm the only person who ever made Ruth make that particular squeal. Me, and peppermint gelato.

I never got it to make that sound again. You know what nephew said? To oil the chair. With peppermint oil. And people ask why Ruth and I never wanted kids.

It's not haunted. I don't know if I believe in hauntings, but I know I don't believe in this one. It's that one time I got the wrong e-mail from my sister-in-law at the wrong time, and I sighed, and I know I sat forward, and air escaped the cushion at the same time, and it sounded like Ruth was sighing with me. And that never happened when she was alive, but I spent the next two hours imagining how it could've. Wishing it did. I slept downstairs instead of in the bed across from the office.

The urge is to write about this, or take it as a sign and write about Ruth. Except I can't start a paragraph about her without devolving into how much I fucked hate and don't understand what are aneurysms are, and I'd need to research them, and I can't enter that word into Google. I can't bear the sound the chair might make, or that it might not make a sound afterward. That it might go as quiet as a floor model.

Anyway, I'm writing again. Three terrible short stories, and now something that's inflating into a novella. The chair has sounded like she was giggling at three parts so far. It's about the things you might find at an end of the world sale.

Lists of Other Magi

"If it’s really a second coming, he’ll need a bulletproof hummer. That’s my gift: the gift of not getting martyred again by some asshole on the way to work."

"You have no sense of tradition. Luckily, I have enough for both of us: I bought a pound of frankincense, a pound of myrrh, and a pound of gold. He’ll understand."

"I couldn’t afford any of those things with my job. I think those were all the magi could offer, so I’m offering him all I can: I’ll babysit whenever his parents are busy, and whenever he’s old enough, I’ll give him a hot home-cooked meal and host his first sleepover."

"Why do you think he’s going back as a boy? The Lord would take a woman’s shape based on the geo-political climate. I got her The Complete Joan Didion to prepare her."

"I also got her some books, but mine are about reincarnation and destiny. I’m not so much interested in teaching her about it as I am finding out what parts she thinks are BS. I figure I can write my own bestseller just based on that."

"I got him the same thing I have towards all men: good will."

"Why would he… Oh, smart ass. Well I got him an iPhone 5, and he’ll use it way more than your lousy good will gag."

"I hope that Jesus is a Droid man."

"I really hope He’s ambivalent about that stuff. But I can’t know what He’ll want for His first birthday back on earth, so instead I’ve bought some comfortable shoes, some instant coffee, and a lot of diapers. I’m buying presents that’ll be convenient for His parents, because this is going to be harder on them, at least for the first few years."

"Okay, but I’m still giving him or her A Charlie Brown Christmas."

The Judgment of Claus

When it gets close, everyone hates Christmas. But they hate for such boring reasons. Imagine a better world, with better reasons to hate holidays. Like the world in which a random shopper exits a random department store and tries to ignore the bell-ringer, like most people in most worlds do. But in this world the bell-ringer beseeches the random shopper, “You better give. Santa’ll know if you don’t.”

And the shopper adjusts his bloated bag of discounted turtlenecks and says, “Yeah. Hate to get shorted on presents.”

“Presents?" the bell-ringer replies, "He gives thrashings. You behave your ass this time of year.”

“Santa Claus gives what?”

“Justice. He knows who’s naughty and who’s nice, and he systematically assaults the former on Christmas Eve. Anyone dumb enough to be drunk in public, or yell at his wife near the car, or who’s just been a jerk in December is at risk. He gets around. He has eyes.”

You can already see why this is a better world, but the shopper is nonplussed. He says, “That’s not Santa Claus; that's the NSA. Santa Claus gives gifts to good children.”

“What, the livers and kidneys for sick kids? It’s nice of him, sure, but he harvests those from the bastards he hunts down.”

"Look, what is your deal? Is this a hard sell for charity? Because it's gross."

"I'm just trying to warn you about the hazards of Santa Claus."

"He's not even real. Goodbye."

"Whoa, whoa." And the bell-ringer steps away from the man and his own kettle as though wanting to dodge any flying reindeer crap that might hurtle their way. "You did not just deny Santa."

Instead of leaving, the shopper cocks an eye at the bell-ringer. He says, "What? Are you four?”

“It’s not my fault when he cuts out your adrenal glands.”

Now it's the shopper's turn to step away. “What?”

At this time the random shopper's random friend arrives. Her name is Jane, which we can tell because our random shopper greets her as such. “Jane," our original bell-ringer calls. "This Santa Claus. What is the story of Santa Claus?”

Jane looks between the shopper and bell-ringer, then says, “He has magic reindeer, flies around in the night, and when our kids doze off looking out the window we leave presents with his name on them. Lives in the North Pole. Hot chocolate. Mrs. Claus. What?”

The bell-ringer shakes his bell at her. “Magic reindeer? You people are insane.”

The random shopper says, “You think he maims random sinners.”

But because this is a better world, Jane turns on her friend. “I’m sorry, have we not seen The Dark Knight twelve times? Suddenly a costumed vigilante is implausible to us?”

The random shopper is immediately exasperated, “Santa Claus is not the same as Batman.”

“Why, because he’s not American? And he has elves. They’re like Alfred.”

The bell-ringer disagrees, “Elves? You people are insane. Santa Claus is an enforcer of the social contract.”

Our random shopper exclaims, “He’s not real!”

It's at this point that the bell-ringer decks our random shopper. Just as quickly, he raises his arms to the sky and waves off unseen magical forces, all the while chastising the shopper, “That was for your own good. You can’t go denying Santa that loud in public. He’ll hear you.”

Jane takes this in more stride than she would in a realistic world. She eyes the bell-ringer and says, “You just struck a man. That's naughty.”

The bell-ringer goes stark pale. “Dear Christ. Santa’ll kill me.” He clutches at himself, particularly at his midsection. “I need my kidneys.”

Before our random shopper can get up, the bell-ringer abandons his kettle and runs for safety. To where? To a better world.

Bathroom Monologue: SmartShop Shoppers

Welcome SmartShop shoppers.

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If you died today, wouldn’t you want your kids to have all the food, clothing and Dark Berry Mountain Dew they deserved?

It’s something to think about. SmartShop recommends you think about it while you browse our newly extended Used Movies Aisle.

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