Just about every semi-rural neighborhood has those same types of kids; the bookworm, the jock, the pretty girl. Ours was no exception.

For instance, there was that one kid, Dwayne, who lived two doors down. He lived with his remarried dad, his stepmother, and his half-brother.

Tall, thin, knock-kneed, a little acne. He was that kid who wore the long, Robert Plant hair with a natural perm... you remember that kid? It seemed like that kid was always incredibly cool. Dwayne had an old dirt-bike, a ’73 Yamaha 125. It had two spark plugs, so that when one overheated you could switch to the other, and it sported a cheesy, homemade paint job. I loved that bike, and could do things on it Dwayne would never dream of... but I couldn’t make that old engine purr like Dwayne could. A natural mechanic, he was that kid whose garage light never went out, and whose fingernails were always blackened with grease and oil.

Dwayne paid for that old Yamaha himself, working odd jobs. Two weeks later his jealous old man bought himself a brand new Honda 250cc, and bought Dwayne’s younger half-brother a brand new honeybee colored Yamaha 75. Of course, there was no new bike for Dwayne. Dwayne was that kid. Cinderfella. But his little 125cc would flat out smoke that bigger 250 of his dad’s. It was beautiful to see. Almost as beautiful as Dwayne’s smile whenever it happened. Dwayne understood that it is not always the fastest bike that wins the race, so he’d hand it over to me whenever his dad brought his fancy new Honda out. I loved it when I was the one able to put that smile on Dwayne’s face.

A few of us kids were hanging in Dwayne’s garage one day when his old man came out, clearly pissed. ”Why can’t you squeeze it off so it doesn’t stop up the god damned toilet?” Mr. Mattson shouted.

We were all embarrassed for Dwayne. I mean, who says something like that? But Dwayne took it in stride. He got up off his stool and went inside, we assumed to plunge the toilet. A few minutes later he came out with a small duffel bag. He said, “when your dad tells you how to take a shit, it’s time to get the fuck out.” And he did. He walked up the street, leaving us sitting there in his garage. We didn’t see him again for more than a year.

I remember opening the door one day when I was sixteen, or seventeen, and there was a soldier standing there, a shiny shoe-ed, creased-pant, polished-button soldier. I asked if I could help him? “Chuck, it’s Dwayne,” the soldier said.

”What?” I didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t entirely my fault. The long curls were gone, and the acne. The chest was full, and the eyes clear. “It’s Dwayne.”

It was my mom saved me. She threw her arm around his neck, and invited him in. The two of them talked for about an hour while I sat there slack-jawed. Dwayne wasn’t the kid down the street anymore. I didn’t know how to talk to him? What to say? He seemed so much older than me. He was a man, now, and was learning to jump out of airplanes. He was itching to get his wings so he could go on to Ranger school, things I couldn’t even fathom. When he got up to go, he said, “C’mon. You always liked that old bike of mine. I want you to have it.”

That was the day I decided I wanted to be a soldier.

I rode that old Yamaha hard for a good while, but I still hadn’t turned eighteen yet when a shitty rumor spread through the neighborhood about a transport plane going down somewhere in Canada.

And that was it for the long-haired kid two doors down, that kid who became a man way too fast.

And what a great kid he had been! I knocked on his old man’s door not long after. My intent was to kick the old man’s fucking ass, but he was no longer the tough older guy who kicked it on the dirt-bike track. He just looked like a tired old guy. It was like Dwayne had already beat me to it. So instead, I just told him how I felt about Dwayne, and how Dwayne would still be alive if his fucking dumbass old man could have just felt that way, too... the old sack of shit. And yes, those were my exact words, and I looked him in the eye when I said them, adding to the challenge.

I half hoped those words would draw the man outside, but he knew better. I wasn’t as good a kid as Dwayne, for damned sure. But Dwayne’s dad got this one right, because while Dwayne was that good hearted, cool kid in the neighborhood that everybody loved, I was that one kid it was best not to fuck with.

I see a tiny boy digging into his tiny pocket. He pulls out a coin which he places in the paper cup of a homeless man. This same tiny boy marches on down the street where he hears a steel drum, made out of tin cans, sending beautiful music to his tiny ears. Once again, he reaches into his tiny pocket and drops a shiny nickel on the ground next to the street musician.

The tiny boy knows he has only one copper penny left in his pocket. He saves it for tomorrow. His compassion is not tiny.

From a young age, I have been in love with life.

From the chirruping birds of the morning to the singing cicadas at dusk, each day is filled with wonder and awe. This could be the day I meet The One. Now could be the time my stars align. Who’s to say that today is not the day I find my way?

Yes, life is filled with such joy and potential, how could one not be drunk on the experience?

But as an old man, facing the inevitable undiscovered country, I look back and see so many wasted opportunities, so many empty days.

The times I should have said, ‘I love you.’ The lost embrace which was never shared. A stoic expression which could have been replaced by a smile.

Unlike Frank, I have many regrets, all of them of things which I did not do. That is a sobering thought.

Working in Santa’s workshop is torture, or so Sparkly Glitterface thought. 

The singing, the costumes, the names, the pay: it was all terrible. For twenty-three days a year, the elves worked tirelessly making presents for kids that were only okay. The Naughty List? Barely a thing anymore. Pretty much everyone made the "Nice" List now. Everybody but elves. 

They slaved away for twenty-three days, and they did not even get a stocking on Christmas morning. 

Sparkly Glitterface was tired of it. It was time Santa treated them right!

Sparkly Glitterface worked next to Jimmies Sprinkles. They grew a close bond over the one hundred seventy-two years that they worked at the workshop. Jimmies Sprinkles and Glitterface shared the same views towards Santa. In fact, it was Jimmies Sprinkles who brought it up. 

This year was different for the two close friends. Rather than talking about how awful Santa was, Sparkly Glitterface and Jimmies Sprinkles planned to murder Santa. If that failed, their plan was to threaten him until he caved and improved the poor economy in which the elves lived, as well as improve the naming system, the uniform, and the fact that they were forced to sing constantly. 

They were paid eighty-thousand candy canes a year. One candy cane was equivalent to one U.S. dollar. There was no taxation because Santa had no need for the money. He ruled over the land as king. Whatever you owned was his. He did not flaunt this. He acted as if he was a normal citizen, though he did not have to pay for anything. This explains why he is morbidly obese… and why he needs nine reindeer rather than three or four. 

At birth, Santa named each child. He then handed the parents a workshop uniform, made by Mrs. Clause, for the child. These uniforms were the only clothes available in the North Pole. They are very accurately depicted in Elf, the movie. 

Singing was a requirement. There had to be singing in the workshop at all times. If you were not talking, which Santa allowed, you had to sing. 

While Sparkly Glitterface and Jimmies Sprinkles talked, the elves sang Santa Clause is Coming to Town. 

He sees you when you’re sleeping,

He knows when you’re awake,

He knows if you’ve been bad or good,

So be good for goodness’ sakes!

Sparkly Glitterface pulled the massive candy cane out of his mouth. This particular candy cane was worth twenty candy canes, but it was important to his plan to be sucking on it. 

“I went to the bank today,” he said to Jimmies as he put dresses on Barbies. “Made this withdrawal for our plan tonight.”

“Awesome,” Jimmies replied, struggling to put a particularly stiff dress onto a Barbie. 

“It already has a small point. Are you sure you don’t want to join me?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I really, really want to, but you know how difficult it can be to sneak out without Giggles knowing.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot about your wife. How’s the boy?”

“Kitty-kitty Purr-purr? He’s doing alright. Bummed about starting work next year. I remember when I was twelve… Worst year of my life, man.”

“Can’t believe that fat--I mean--Santa named him that,” Glitterface said, shaking his head. 

“Trust me, he hates it too. Giggles doesn’t like hearing me talk politics with him though, so I try not to bring it up. At least my name is kinda normal. Jimmies? I’m lucky. You and my son got the short end of the stick.”

Sparkly itched his neck. “I hate these costumes so much!”

“Do you think we should let others know about our… what the heck is this?” Jimmies lifted a Barbie off of the conveyor belt and hit the stop button on the control panel in front of him. 

“Is that…”

“It’s a fat Barbie,” Jimmies confirmed. “When did these start getting made?”

“I guess this year. I never would have guessed to see one of those,” Sparkly replied. “What were you gonna say?”

“Oh, yes,” Jimmies began, turning the conveyor back on. “Should we spread the word about our plan? I mean, the more support we have, the better, right?”

“Sure, that’s a good idea. I’ll tell a few people I know at lunch. Maybe you should do the same. Maybe we can hold a huge uprising tomorrow morning when Santa makes his annual visit to the workshop on the fifteenth, rather than attacking him at night,” Sparkly Glitterface added. 

“Sounds good. I know about twenty people, so word should spread fast.”

⇔

Santa walked into the workshop at 4:45 A.M. . He walked in with every elf that worked there. 4:45 A.M. to 9:30 P.M. were the hours for an elf. But Santa did not care: he sat on his butt basically all year, had the elves put the gifts into his magic bag, then flew around eating cookies and drinking milk. 

Santa Clause loved his life. 

Santa walked onto his platform in the far corner of the workshop. The young elves danced around him, asking him questions. He laughed his jolly laugh as they attempted to show off to him. After about ten minutes, Santa made them get back to work. It is then that he looked up and noticed that not many elves were working at all. His smiling face turned to a frown as he realized many of them were holding bats and sharpened candy canes. 

“Now, now,” he said, “there is no need to be violent. Let’s talk about this!”

“You already had your chance, fatty,” Sparkly said. 

“Glitterface, there is no need to call names!”

“Hah! We want to make some changes ’round here, Nick. Ain’t that right, boys?”

In unison, the elves yelled, “YEAH!!!”

“Since you brought it up, let’s start with names, shall we? Why did you have to name us like you did?”

“What’s the matter with Sparkly Glitterface?”

“Everything, Pilsbury. We want new names.”

“Okay, done.”

Sparkly rolled his sharpened candy cane in his hands, then pointed it at Santa. “This mandatory singing? I want it gone.  I also want a new uniform… something that isn’t as femine or childish.”

“Okay, anything else?” Santa said calmly.

“Better pay.”

“You get paid really well already,” Santa Clause said. 

“Candy canes? Really?”

“Fair point. I’ll do my best."

"What is it with us not getting any gifts on Christmas? Like, really, dude? We work our booties off for you, and you can't even squeeze yours down our chimneys Christmas night to give us some gifts. How's that fair?"

Santa scratched his chin and thought for a moment. "The gifts would be spoiled."

"Really? Is that all you've got?"

"Alright, I'll give you guys some gifts! Jeez! Anything else?" Santa said.

The elves looked around at one another. No one said a word. “If you don’t mind, then, I’ll be on my way.”

The sea of elves parted as Santa walked past. 

"Well, that was easy," Sparkles said, looking over at Jimmies who was standing next to him.

⇔

Sparkly walked into work on the seventeenth with a huge grin on his face. His new orange jumpsuit really screamed "I work in a factory."

Every other elf walked in with the same uniform: orange jumpsuits with their new names on their backs, as well as a sweet ankle chain thing. It had two clamps that attached to each leg, and a chain connecting them in between. Everyone loved the new uniforms.

“Prisoner 638, you may enter," a robot said as the elf in front of Sparkly entered the workshop. 

"Ooo, robots!" Sparkly said. "Fancy."

"Prisoner 626," the robot said to Sparkly, "you may enter."

I died on a warm August morning.

Took the coronary people six days to find me keeled over in the backyard, all moldered up and decayed, the crows having pecked out my eyes. Unceremoniously, I was hauled from the premises in a black thing that vaguely resembled a garbage bag, the flies dancing around, desperate to infiltrate. My wife was out of town, in case you were wondering. I’d like to think she would’ve noticed my absence had she been home; but I doubt it.

Honestly, with how the past two years have gone, things would’ve probably played out the same. She’d flit around the house, head in a dream, singing softly to herself, playing games on her phone, or maybe texting him, her brotherly coworker. The whole “he’s like a brother to me” part is her shtick. My opinion holds a bit different.

Brothers don’t typically drape their arms over their sisters’ shoulders like that, or lean that close to whisper into their sisters’ ears. Brothers don’t typically undress their sisters with long, lingering glances. And he does. I’ve seen him.

Oh yeah—and a brother doesn’t typically poison his sister’s husband by slipping arsenic into his morning tea. That was a lovely surprise. The day after Tanya left on business, he showed up on my doorstep, looking like a lost puppy. Said he’d had a fight with his girlfriend and thought maybe I could give him some advice. So, having nothing better to do on my day off, I invited him inside to share my breakfast. That was my first and last mistake.

He must’ve spiked it when I got up to get more napkins. How anticlimactic can you get?

And now I get the pleasure of watching their story continue without me. Yes, watching. I may have died but I didn’t go very far. Reverse the old adage and you have it: “Forgotten, but not gone.” Devoted as my dear spouse was, it took her a whole day to move on. And then she was off to find comfort in the arms of who else—Ted McGhee, her brotherly coworker. The pretense kinda’ dropped after I left the picture. She stopped calling him her brother and started calling him all the things she used to call me.

They were married three weeks later. By then I’d learned a neat trick. If you concentrate hard enough you can move stuff as a ghost. It’s a dimensional thing, popularized by TV and apparently applicable here. So I started following them, knocking stuff off the tables. I’m a pest like that.

Ted always prided himself for his machismo, or whatever you call it. I learned very quickly that it was all a facade. A few moving pieces of furniture captured by our glitchy old security cam and he was out of his mind. Tanya was the one having to comfort him, and I could tell the luster was already fading. The thing about people like Ted: they’re good at pretending, but give them something real, any taste of conflict or fear, and they fall apart. I downed a lamp and he dove for cover behind the couch; first making sure nobody was around to see.

I didn’t consider it revenge so much as entertainment. I was bored and lonely—predisposed to both in life, but they were even less tolerable in death. My mind began playing with the question why. Why was I still here? What had kept me from crossing over? I wasn’t the one in the wrong. And my heart wasn’t really revenge-bent, as one might’ve assumed. If Tanya wanted this guy, who was I to stop her. I knew more about him than she did. And I knew them both enough to know that they deserved each other.

The answer arrived on a warm August morning, almost a year after my passing. Ted wasn’t feeling so hot, so he’d taken off. Tanya was away and he was alone in the house. I overheard him on the phone with someone, and I could hardly process what followed.

“Yeah, she’ll be out of the picture real soon. I just gotta’ work a few things out. The spark’s gone. There’s nothin’ in it for me anymore. Plus Tanya’s old hubby was worth a small fortune. Get her dead and we’ll have enough to spring for a royal-tier wedding. We can retire nice and comfy in the Bahamas, just like you wanted.”

A million thoughts pounded in my skull. Not only was this two-bit hustler looking to kill my wife—well, I guess ex-wife—but he was talking to this ‘other woman’ like they’d been seeing each other for months. I couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d been planning this. Probably since the day he and Tanya tied the knot.

By the time Tanya got home, Ted had a nice candle-lit dinner ready and waiting.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, red smile stretching, bouncing on her heel with that adorable enthusiasm I used to love.

I knew then that I couldn’t let this monster kill her. She wasn’t mine anymore. But she didn’t deserve to be his.

So when he offered up her tea, I promptly knocked it over. She let a frightened squeak, and he nearly jumped out of his socks as per usual. Upon recovery, he went to get her a refill. I prepared myself for round two. It was going to be a long night.

Seven refills came and went before Ted got fed up. Angrily, he flipped the table so hard and high that it struck the window. Noticing the gaping hole it left in the glass, an idea crossed his eyes. He grabbed a steak-knife off the floor and lunged at Tanya. I knew then that he was going to stage it and make it look like a breakin.

Tanya was small-framed and fragile. She didn’t stand a chance. And that was what dogged me most about cowards like Ted: they only preyed on the weaker. He would’ve never tried a thing like that with me.

Gathering all my concentration, I sent a vase crashing into the wall. It missed Ted by a hair. I figured if I could incapacitate him, maybe that would give Tanya a chance to run. I hadn’t even bothered to look what vase I’d grabbed. Imagine my surprise when my own cremated ashes puffed everywhere, like a smoke bomb in a riot. They blinded Ted, and he staggered around, refusing to relinquish his grip on the knife. By the time the ashes cleared, Tanya was already out the door and running up the street. Ted made a break after her, but he failed to account for our elevated threshold, and tripped out the front door, landing facedown on the porch. When he rolled over, I saw the knife had stuck in him, and blood climbed thickly from both sides of his mouth. As he died, it was almost as if our perceptions brushed for a moment, him staring directly into my eyes and me staring back ever-so-calmly.

“It was kill or be killed...” he muttered in delirium, in what was the most unconvincing excuse I’d ever heard.

That’s what I call a twofer’ one then, I wanted to retort. But I maintained my class and upheld my silence. No need to lower myself. He already knew that he’d lost.

The life left him, and there I stayed, stranded on the porch against a world that I was no longer any part of. I’d helped save Tanya, but I was still here. Nothing had changed.

And then I saw it, a light in the distance, so radiant it couldn't be natural. I ran toward it the fastest I could manage, and as I collided with it all became new. I saw a great many instances, the proverbial life flashing before my eyes; and it all ended with Tanya hunched over, panting and tearful at the end of our street, and a half-muffled “thank you” stirred off with the wind.

Note: This is strictly fiction as I do not believe in ghosts, nor do I condone fighting with cremated ashes, not even your own. Peace. :3

#fiction, #strictlyfiction, #donttrythisathome