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time he’s surrounded by beds. And not only that, he’s surrounded by shoppers who see the beds and can’t help but think, Man, I’d love to lie down
on that bed for a second. So not only does he have to stop himself from lying down, but he has to stop everyone else from doing it, too. I knew if I
were him, I would be desperate for human company. So I decided to take him into my con dence.
“I’m looking for something,” I said. I glanced at his ring nger. Bingo. “You’re a married man, right?”
He nodded.
“Wel , here’s the thing,” I said. “My mother? She was looking at bedding and she total y dropped her shopping list under one of the pil ows. So
now she’s upstairs in cutlery, upset that she can’t remember what to get anyone, and my dad is about to blow his last fuse, because he likes
shopping about as much as he likes terrorism and the estate tax. So he sent me down here to nd the list, and if I don’t nd it quick, there’s going
to be a major meltdown on oor ve.”
Super-tan Barney Rubble actual y put his nger on his temple to help him think.
“I might remember her,” he said. “I’l go look under those pil ows if you want to look under these. Just please be careful to put the pil ows back
in their place and avoid mussing the sheets.”
“Oh, I wil !” I assured him.
I decided if I were ever to get into booze and women, my line would be Excuse me, madam, but I would real y love to bed and muss you.… Are
you perchance free this evening?
Now, at the risk of saying something legal y actionable, I have to remark: It was amazing the things I found underneath the pil ows at Macy’s.
Half-eaten candy bars. Baby chew toys. Business cards. There was one thing that could have been either a dead jel y sh or a condom, but I pul ed
my ngers back before I found out for sure. Poor Barney actual y let out a lit le scream when he found a decomposed rodent; it was only after he
ran away for a quick burial and thorough disinfecting that I found the slip of paper I was looking for.
7. I dare you to ask Santa for your next message.
No. No fucking no no no.
If I hadn’t appreciated her sadism, I would’ve headed straight for the hil s.
But instead, I headed straight for Santa.
It wasn’t as easy as that, though. I got down to the main oor and Santa’s Wonderland, and the line was at least ten classrooms long. Children
lol ed and dgeted while parents talked on cel phones or fussed with strol ers or teetered like the living dead.
Luckily, I always travel with a book, just in case I have to wait on line for Santa, or some such inconvenience. More than a few of the parents
—especial y the dads—gave me strange looks. I could see them doing the mental math—I was way too old to believe in Santa, but I was too young
to be after their children. So I was safe, if suspicious.
It took me forty- ve minutes to get to the front of the line. Kids were whipping out lists and cookies and digital cameras, while I just had Vile
Bodies. Final y, it was my turn. I saw the girl in front of me wrapping up, and I started to move forward.
“One second!” a dictatorial rasp commanded.
I looked down to nd the least satisfying cliché in Christmas history: a power-mad elf.
“HOW OLD ARE YOU?” he barked.
“Thirteen,” I lied.
His eyes were as pointy as his stupid green hat.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice not sorry at al , “but twelve is the limit.”
“I promise I won’t take long,” I said.
“TWELVE IS THE LIMIT!”
The girl had nished her stint with Santa. It was my turn. By al rights, it was my turn.
“I just have to ask Santa one thing,” I said. “That’s al .”
The elf body-blocked me. “Get out of the line now,” he demanded.
“Make me,” I replied.
The whole line was paying at ention now. Kids’ eyes were wide with fear. Most of the dads and some of the moms were get ing ready to jump
me if I tried anything.
“I need security,” the elf said, but I couldn’t tel who he was talking to.
I walked forward, knocking his shoulder with my thigh. I was almost at Santa when I felt a tug on my ass—the elf had grabbed the back pocket
of my jeans and was trying to pul me back.
“Get. O . Of. Me,” I said, kicking back.
“You’re NAUGHTY!” the elf screamed. “Very NAUGHTY!”
We’d caught Santa’s at ention. He gave me the once-over, then chuckled out, “Ho ho ho! What seems to be the problem?”
“Lily sent me,” I said.
From somewhere behind the beard, he gured it out. Meanwhile, the elf was about to pul down my pants.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Get o of him, Desmond!”
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Get o of him, Desmond!”
The elf let go.
“I’m cal ing security,” he insisted.
“If you do,” Santa murmured, “you’l be back to folding hand towels so fast you won’t even have time to take the bel s o your boots or your
bal s out of your elfy boxer briefs.”
It was a very good thing that the elf wasn’t packing any of his toy-carving tools at that point, because it might have been a very di erent day at
Macy’s if he had.
“Wel , wel , wel ,” Santa said once the elf had retreated. “Come and sit on my lap, lit le boy.”
This Santa’s beard was real, and so was his hair. He wasn’t fucking around.
“I’m not real y a lit le boy,” I pointed out.
“Get on my lap, then, big boy.”
I walked up to him. There wasn’t much lap under his bel y. And even though he tried to disguise it, as I went up there, I swear he adjusted his
crotch.
“Ho ho ho!” he chortled.
I sat gingerly on his knee, like it was a subway seat with gum on it.
“Have you been a good lit le boy this year?” he asked.
I didn’t feel that I was the right person to determine my own goodness or badness, but in the interest of speeding along this encounter, I said yes.
He actual y wobbled with joy.
“Good! Good! Then what can I bring you this Christmas?”
I thought it was obvious.
“A message from Lily,” I said. “That’s what I want for Christmas. But I want it right now.”
“So impatient!” Santa lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “But Santa does have a lit le something for you”—he shifted a lit le in his
seat—“right under his coat. If you want to have your present, you’l have to rub Santa’s bel y.”
“What?” I asked.
He gestured with his eyes down to his stomach. “Go ahead.”
I looked closely and saw the faint outline of an envelope beneath his red velvet coat.
“You know you want it,” he whispered.
The only way I could survive this was to think of it as the dare it was.
Fuck o , Lily. You can’t intimidate me.
I reached right under Santa’s coat. To my horror, I found he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was hot, sweaty, eshy, hairy … and his bel y
was this massive obstacle, blocking me from the envelope. I had to lean over to angle my arm in order to reach it, the whole time having Santa
laugh, “Oh ho ho, ho ho oh ho!” in my ear. I heard the elf scream, “What the hel !” and various parents start to shriek. Yes, I was feeling up Santa.
And now the corner of the envelope was in my hand. He tried to jiggle it away from me, but I held tight and yanked it out, pul ing some of his
white bel y hair with me. “OW ho ho!” he cried. I jumped o his lap. “Security’s here!” the elf proclaimed. The let er was in my hand, damp but
intact. “He touched Santa!” a young child squealed.
I ran. I bobbed. I weaved. I propel ed myself through the tourists until I was safe in menswear, sheltered in a changing room. I dried my hand
and the envelope on a purple velour tracksuit that someone had left behind, then opened it to reveal Lily’s next words.
8. That’s the spirit!
Now, all I want for Christmas
(or December 22nd)
is your best Christmas memory.