When Elves Attack (8 page)

Jim sagged against the table. “That's what Martha said.”

“What about the explaining?” asked Serge.

“She said if I really wanted to see the touchdown, I could have stopped going.”

“But you can't stop the stream,” said Serge.

“Yes he could have,” said City.

“It's impossible,” said Coleman.

“No it's not,” said Country. “Men just don't want to make the commitment.”

Serge shook his head and turned back to Jim. “You were saying?”

“So then I tried explaining that it was no big deal, meaning if there were any drops, I could quickly wipe them up, but she took it to mean that all her hard work keeping the house nice was no big deal.”

“That's an easy one,” said Serge. “With women, you don't get to pick the meaning of what you mean. They do. All men understand this.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” said Country.

“It means that when you're arguing, you have to watch your words carefully.”

“You just don't respect women,” said City.

“That's not what I meant,” said Serge.

“Don't try to take back what you said!”

Serge sighed. “I think we've made a breakthrough. Up to now, the division between the sexes was this: liking and not liking the Three Stooges. Who would have thought it was actually touchdowns and peeing?”

Country offered the whiskey bottle. “Another round, Jim?”

He shook his head. “Better not on an empty stomach.”

Serge slapped his forehead. “Where's our hospitality? The first guest to our new family castle and we haven't offered him anything . . . Coleman, get him something to eat.”

“Like what?”

“Anything.” Serge stood. “Country, come with me. I want to show you something. I'm taking Christmas big!”

They left the table and walked around the corner.

A half hour passed.

“Serge? . . .” said Coleman. “Serge, where are you?” He walked through the kitchen. “Serge? . . .”

He turned down the hall and stopped. There they were beneath the mistletoe. Serge and Country, buck naked on the hardwood floor humping their brains out.

“ . . . Yes! . . . Faster! . . .”
Country's teeth gnashed.
“ . . . Harder! Fuck it harder! . . .”

“Serge,” said Coleman, “I thought you were just supposed to kiss beneath the mistletoe.”

Serge looked up and smiled. “I'm taking Christmas big! . . . Why are you interrupting us?”

“It's Jim,” said Coleman. “I think we might have a problem.”

Chapter Nine

MR. DAVENPORT

Serge jumped up. “What's the matter with Jim? What kind of problem?”

Coleman pointed back in the general direction of the living room. “You need to come see.”

Serge zipped up some shorts. “Country, don't move. I'll be right back.”

Coleman led the way. “He's in here.”

The pair approached the living room. “What's that music?” said Serge. “It isn't the Christmas tunes I had on the stereo.”

They turned the corner. Jim sat cross-legged on the floor.

“What's he doing?” asked Serge.

“Going through your Led Zeppelin CDs.”

“ . . . Hey, hey, mama, said the way you move . . .”

Jim looked up. “This is the most excellent music I've heard in my entire life.”

“Jim?” Serge took a step forward. “Are you okay?”

“Listen to that time signature, man!” Jim slowly curved his arms apart in the air. “Drums go one way and the guitar blasts off in another, and then every few measures they meet up perfectly, like it was always meant to be—” Jim stopped and became racked with uncontrollable giggles.

“Coleman,” said Serge. “His eyes are all bloodshot. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing. We were all just sitting around the table, and he suddenly started acting weird.”

Serge looked over at the table. In front of Jim's chair was a serving plate full of gingerbread crumbs. “Coleman, please tell me you didn't give him the gingerbread house. It's got pot in the walls.”

“You just said to feed him. It's all we had.”

“Baby Jesus! What's Martha going to say when she finds him in this condition?”

“Maybe we can get him into bed before she finds out, and he can sleep it off.”

“Good thinking.” Serge bent down and grabbed Jim under one of his arms. “Help me get him up.”

Coleman grabbed the other. “He's heavy.”

“Jim,” said Serge. “Time to be getting home, big boy.”

Jim pointed back at the stereo as they guided him toward the door. “But ‘Stairway to Heaven' . . .”

Serge helped him crawl under the Christmas tree. “I'm afraid right now they're playing ‘Stairway to Your Bedroom.' ”

The pair steadied Jim as they walked him across Triggerfish Lane. Jim's head lolled to the left. “I know you. You're Serge.”

“Just keep on the way you're going, one foot in front of the other.”

Jim looked ahead. “That's a big house. And I own it. There are a lot of electrical wires in the attic connecting everything. Far out.”

“He's completely baked,” said Coleman.

“Don't think we're not talking about this later.”

They made it up the steps. “Get his keys.”

“They're in this pocket,” said Coleman.

Serge quietly opened the door and peeked inside.

“Why are you worried?” asked Coleman. “Martha's not home.”

“But Nicole might be.” Serge tugged Jim forward and tiptoed. “She can't see her dad like this. On the other hand, I did help her with the tattoo, so she might play ball.”

“There are the stairs,” said Coleman.

It was slow going, but they finally made it to the landing.

“What's that music?” asked Coleman.

“Coming from behind that closed door,” said Serge. “Must be Nicole's room. We're in luck. Let's hurry and get him under the covers.”

They hustled Jim into the master bedroom.

“Just lie down.” Serge began taking off Jim's shoes.

Jim sat up. “But I don't want to. Music . . . I heard music . . .”

Serge pushed him back onto the mattress and pulled off his socks. “You've had a big day.”

“Let's go,” said Coleman.

“Husbands don't sleep in street clothes,” said Serge. “Martha will know something's up. What do you think he wears to bed?”

“I don't know. His underwear?”

“Good enough.”

They undressed Jim down to his skivvies and tucked him under the sheets. He snuggled the pillow and closed his eyes. Serge stood and took a deep breath. “Whew, that was fun-tastic. Let's get moving before Martha gets back.”

They returned to their rental house. City and Country were dancing in the living room to Madonna.

“ . . . Respect yourself . . . Hey, hey! . . .”

“Yo, Serge.” Country passed City a joint. “What got into Jim?”

“Like you don't know. And turn down that music! Want all the neighbors to call the cops?”

Coleman stood at the front window. “They may call them anyway.”

“Why?” said Serge. “What's going on?”

“See for yourself.”

Serge looked outside at Jim standing in the middle of the street in his underwear. “Shit, we got to get him back inside!”

They ran toward the road. “Jim, what the hell are you doing?”

Jim swayed and stared straight up. “Look at all the stars. We're so insignificant.”

“Coleman, grab his other arm.”

Coleman glanced down. “Serge, I think he has a hard-on.”

“Just let's get him back in bed.”

Minutes later, Jim was under the covers again with eyes closed. “Time to split,” said Serge. “And hope the Happy Wanderer stays put.”

They ran back across the street.

Coleman got on his hands and knees in front of the Christmas tree. “Serge, aren't you coming?”

“Just a minute.” He stood and faced the house across the street. “I want to make sure he remains down this time.”

They watched and waited.

“Dammit,” said Serge. “A light just came on.”

“Where?”

“I think it's the kitchen.”

“Maybe it's Nicole.”

“We should be that lucky.” Serge took off.

No stealth this round, galloping through the front door. Serge's feet hit the brakes in the kitchen doorway. “Jim, dear God, look at you!”

Coleman tapped his shoulder. “Serge . . .”

“Not now.” Serge swatted his hand away. “Jim, I know it's not your fault, but you've got to pull it together.”

A tap on his shoulder. “Serge . . .”

“Stop it, Coleman . . . Jim, look alive! Martha's going to be home any minute.”

Another tap. “Serge . . .”

“What!”

“She
is
home.”

Serge's eyes darted toward the front door. Keys jingling. “Coleman, quick. We need to find the back way out.”

“Where is it?”

“I don't know.”

The knob began turning.

“No time,” said Serge. “This way! . . .”

They dashed out of sight just as the front door opened. Martha flicked on the lights. “Jim? . . . Jim, I'm sorry we had a fight . . .” Walking through the living room. “Jim? Are you still up?” She reached the kitchen doorway . . .

“What in the name of . . . Jim? . . . I . . . you . . . Jim? . . .”

Jim looked up with a silly smile. Sitting on the kitchen floor in his underwear. In front of an open refrigerator. Eating leftovers with his bare hands.

“Martha, did I ever tell you you're the best cook in the entire world?”

Nicole came running down the stairs. “Mom, I heard you yell. Is everything okay?”

“No! Look at your father!”

Nicole's mouth fell open. She looked at the drumsticks in each hand, then his eyes. She covered her mouth. “Oh my God! Daddy's . . .”

“Daddy's what?” demanded Martha.

“Uh, Daddy's hungry. Yeah, that's it.”

“I've never seen him like this.” Martha grabbed the drumsticks and put them back in their Rubbermaid container. “Something's not right.”

“He started having a pretty bad cough,” Nicole said quickly, thinking on her feet. “I think he took some of that syrup in the medicine cabinet.”

“You mean the prescription? But he hates to take that stuff. Says it makes him loopy.”

Nicole shrugged. “It was a pretty bad cough.”

Martha looked down. “Is that what happened?”

Jim looked up. A loopy grin.

“Okay, let's get you to bed.”

Martha got Jim to his feet and walked him up the stairs. Nicole followed, having the time of her young life.

A half hour deeper into the night.

The master bedroom of the Davenport residence. A woman's voice:

“ . . . Oh Jim! . . . Oh God! . . . Don't stop! . . . Yes! Yes! . . .”

The sheets moved up and down in the moonlight pouring from the south window.

“ . . . Jim! . . . Where'd you learn that? . . . You've never been this good! . . . Oh yes! . . . Do it again! . . . Yes! Yes! Yes! . . .”

“Serge,” whispered Coleman. “They're really going at it.”

“Stop listening to them,” said Serge. “It's rude.”

“Must be the pot he took.”

“And stop whispering. She might hear you.”

“ . . . Oh yes! . . . Oh God! . . .”

“Serge?”

“What!”

“Why did we run up the stairs instead of taking off out the back?”

“Because Martha was just about to come through the front door, and there wasn't enough time to make it down the hall without her seeing us.” Serge checked his glowing wristwatch in the dark. “Was hoping we could open a window and climb onto the roof, but they were all stuck.”

“And we ended up in the bathroom shower with the curtain pulled?”

“Too much clothes in the closet.”

“So what do we do?”

“Sit tight in this bathtub until they fall asleep. Then creep out like thieves.”

“I think they stopped.” Coleman strained to listen. “Yes, they've definitely stopped.”

“No more talking.” Serge eased himself down onto the bathtub and checked his watch again.

The night wore on.

Serge's closed eyes fluttered open. He shook the fog from his head. “Must have dozed off. What time is it?” He checked his watch. “Four-thirty? Time to be going.” He started getting up. “Coleman? You awake? . . . Coleman?” He reached out in the darkness and felt only air. “Coleman, where are you?”

Then a familiar sound.

Serge grabbed the hair on his own head and pulled. “Fuck me.” He yanked the shower curtain back and stuck his head out. “Coleman, what the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I have to pee.”

“Stop!” he whispered harshly. “She might hear you!”

“I can't. The stream's already started.”

“So cut it off!”

“It's impossible—”

The door suddenly opened and the lights came on.

Martha stood in shock at what she saw: Serge's head poking out from the shower curtains, and Coleman standing at the toilet, looking back over his shoulder at her, his piss stream spraying all over the floor.

Serge grinned sheepishly. “I can explain.”

Chapter Ten

THE NEXT DAY

Serge stared out the front window with binoculars. “Man, I've never seen a woman as mad as Martha. And I've seen a lot of women mad.”

“She yelled at us way too much.”

“Coleman, after all we talked about over here, did you have to pee on her floor?”

“I think she was mainly mad that we were just there.”

“But what made you tell her you tried hard not to hear them banging each other?”

“I thought that would be a nice thing to say.”

“For future reference, any random sentence from a library is nicer.”

“I'm just glad she didn't call the cops,” said Coleman.

“She would have,” said Serge. “Thank heavens Jim and Nicole were there to talk her down from that idea.”

From behind: “You guys are buffoons.”

“Great,” said Serge. “Taking it from all angles.” He lowered his binoculars. “I need to find a way to make it up to them . . . Coleman, stop staring over there. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“But City and Country are making out. I can't help it.”

City looked over at Coleman. “Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer.”

“Serge, can I borrow your camera?”

“Shut up!”

“I didn't know they were lesbians.”

Serge raised his binoculars again. “They're not.”

“But they're making out.”

“That's because City's current other option is you.”

“You mean they're doing that for me?”

“Uh, yeah, Coleman. That's exactly what's going on.”

“Do you think they'll take requests?”

“Coleman, just . . . hold on, what's this?”

“What do you see?”

“It's that Ram pickup again.” Serge shortened up the focus on his binoculars. “One of the vehicles from yesterday. It's the third time I've seen it on the street today.”

“What's it doing?”

“Slowing down and looking at Jim's house. It's like he's casing the place.” Serge pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “I don't like the looks of this.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Shhhhhh! It's ringing . . . Jim? Me, Serge. Don't hang up! . . . Something important might be happening . . . Well, like, do you have any enemies? . . . Given your demeanor, I didn't think so . . . How about your job? What kind of consulting do you actually do? . . . What do you mean you don't do any consulting? Then what do they pay you for . . . Could you repeat that last part again? . . . Why didn't you tell me that before? . . . Just relax and forget I called.” He hung up. “Damn.”

“What is it?” asked Coleman.

Serge walked across the room. “Jim's life is in danger. I just found out he's a consultant.”

“Someone mad he gave bad advice?”

“Worse. He's with one of those companies that fires people by proxy to take the heat.” Serge arrived at a box of clothes. “That pickup made its last pass at sunset. He's waiting for dark. So the next step is obvious.”

“You don't mean—”

“That's right.” Serge reached in the box and pulled out a green felt hat.

J
ust after nightfall.

Two green hats poked out from behind a palm tree on Triggerfish Lane.

Looking across the street at the Davenport residence.

“I don't see anything yet,” said Coleman. “Are you sure about this hunch?”

“Never been more sure about anything in my life, except all the times I was more sure and was wrong, so they don't count.”

“Then I think you should warn Jim. Just in case.”

“I'm not exactly excited about going anywhere near that house after last night.”

“But Martha's car is gone. It's your chance.”

“You may be right.” Serge stepped out from behind the palm tree. “This is too important . . . But stay alert. If you see Martha coming back, give me a secret signal.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Yell something in code that only I will be able to interpret.”

Serge ran across their yard, then the street, then Jim's yard, and up the porch steps.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong—

Jim opened the door.

Yet another gasp.

“Don't close the door!” said Serge. “I know how you must feel about us listening to you fuck and peeing on your floor, especially so close to Christmas, but I have something important to tell you . . .”

“Dang it, Serge! Martha's going to be home any minute!”

“And it will only take a minute.”

Jim stuck his head outside and looked up the street. “She can't see you out here.” He jerked Serge inside and closed the door. “Now what's going on?”

“I think someone you may have fired—”

Headlights swept through the living room window.

“That's her coming up the driveway now!” said Jim.

Coleman's faint voice from across the street.
“Serge! Martha's coming!”

Jim grabbed Serge by the shoulders. “You have to get out of here. And no upstairs this time. The back door's right down that hall.”

“You got it.” Serge took off and disappeared out the rear just as Martha came in the front.

. . . Back across the street, a green hat poked from behind a palm tree. Coleman watched as Serge crept along the side of the Davenports' house, peeking around the front to make sure the coast was clear, then dashing back across Triggerfish Lane.

He rejoined his buddy behind the palm tree, grabbing his knees and panting.

“Did Martha see you?”

Serge shook his head. “But it was too close for comfort.”

Coleman sniffed the air. “What's that smell?”

Serge sniffed with him. “What
is
that smell?” He checked the bottoms of his elf shoes. “Dammit.”

“What's the matter?” asked Coleman.

“I think I just tracked dog shit all through their house.”

“You forgot to wipe your feet?”

“And so close to Christmas—”

Suddenly yelling erupted across the road. The front door opened. Jim stepped outside and turned around to say something. The door slammed shut. Jim checked the bottoms of his shoes.

“Pssssst!” Serge stood beside the palm tree, urgently waving Jim over.

Jim slowly crossed Triggerfish Lane and stopped a few feet in front of Serge. He just stared.

“Is Martha mad?” asked Serge.

Continued staring.

“Maybe it's been a long time since you took her out to dinner.”

“Serge! There's dog crap all over the house!”

“And that just isn't correct,” said Serge. “Someone around here is walking their pets and not cleaning up behind. I'll keep an eye out for who's responsible—”

“Serge!”

“Jim, I think your life might be in danger. I've seen several vehicles casing your house, especially this one Ram pickup.”

“I know you're just trying to help, but please stop helping!” Jim walked toward his house.

Serge grabbed him from behind.

Jim turned around. “I told you I don't want your help.”

“No, look.” Serge pointed up the street. “That pickup truck's coming back. Quick! Behind the palm tree!”

They all watched as the Dodge Ram slowly rolled to a stop at the curb in front of Serge's rental house.

“Is that a blue parking sticker on the windshield?” asked Jim.

“The streetlights sometimes play tricks,” said Serge. “But looks blue to me.”

“I think it's from a distribution warehouse in Lakeland where I fired some people a few days ago.”

“Shhhh!” said Serge. “He just turned the cab light on.”

Inside the pickup, a man in a trucker cap guzzled straight from a nearly empty bottle of Smirnoff. Then held a .44 Magnum revolver in front of his face, popped out the cylinder, and inserted bullets.

“Vodka and guns,” said Serge. “I hate to be the suspicious type, but that's not a rabbit's foot.”

The pickup's door opened and the driver got out. They heard indistinct muttering. Cowboy boots staggered across the street, gun swinging by his side.

Jim jumped from behind the palm tree. “Martha's still home!”

Serge grabbed him again. “Jim, you don't have the training. You'll just get yourself shot.”

“But my wife—”

“I'm on it,” said Serge. “I've done this a million times, so nothing possibly can go wrong . . .”

Cowboy boots stomped up the porch steps. They staggered back, then forward again. An unsteady index finger circled the doorbell button until it finally found its mark.

Ding-dong.

Just then, the man in the trucker's cap heard quickly approaching jingle bells. He spun around and looked down at elf shoes. “What the hell—”

Serge swiftly grabbed a giant terra-cotta flowerpot off the porch and smashed the man on the side of the head. Then he socked him in the jaw. The man went backward, losing his balance. He crashed through the side porch railing and landed unconscious between a tall hedge and the house.

Serge sniffed the air. He lifted his left leg by the ankle and checked the bottom of his shoe. “Damn.”

The door opened. Martha stood speechless, looking at a porch covered with broken pottery, busted pieces of porch railing, and Serge in an elf suit with a green shoe caked in poop.

He lowered his leg. “I can explain.”

F
ive minutes later.

Three heads poked out from behind a palm tree. Martha screeched backward out of the driveway and sped off down Triggerfish Lane.

“Excellent,” said Serge.

“You call this excellent?” said Jim. “Martha's a hair from divorcing me if she doesn't crash the car first, my porch is half destroyed, and there's a drunk guy with a huge gun somewhere in the shrubs.”

“All in a day,” said Serge. “With Martha gone, it's an excellent time to get the guy out of there. Imagine if she stayed home and saw us dragging him unconscious across the lawn with a .44 Magnum. Hallmark doesn't make that kind of card.”

Jim grabbed his head with both hands and rocked feverishly. “Ooooo, it's starting again. It's just like the last time . . .”

Serge pulled Jim's arms down. “You have to get a grip.”

“But every time you enter my life . . .”

“And every time I save you, right?” Serge lifted Jim's chin. “Am I right or not?”

“No, you're right. It's just the stress.”

“Here's the plan,” said Serge. “Go back home and act like nothing happened.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You don't want to know,” said Serge. “In fact, forget there ever was a guy.”

“How am I supposed to forget something like that?”

“I don't know,” said Serge. “Get busy doing something to take your mind off it. I'm sure your floors could use a good going over.”