Tim Dorsey - When elves attack

“I thought she needed parental permission to get one.”

“She’s got one.”

“What is it?”

“Does it matter?” Martha stomped down the hall to a closed bedroom door. She tried the knob. Locked. Pounded with fists. “Open the door this instant! You’re in so much trouble!”

The door didn’t open. Thumping rock music inside. Joan Jett.

“… Hello Daddy, hello Mom, I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb …”

Martha turned. “Jim?”

“What? Kick the door in?”

“No, get a key.” Martha kept pounding.

“Where’s the key?”

“I don’t know.” More pounding. “Try the junk drawer.”

“I’ll go look.”

Before he could leave, the door opened. “What’s all the racket out here?”

“… Don’t give a damn ’bout my bad reputation…”

“You got a tattoo!”

“So?”

“We forbid you! And we didn’t give any permission!”

Nicole shrugged. “Serge got it for me. He’s really cool.”

“Serge!” snapped Martha. She began strangling something invisible in midair. “I’ll kill him. He disfigured our daughter!”

“You’re such a drama queen,” said Nicole.

“Turn around immediately!” said Martha. “I want to see what that monster did to you!”

“No!”

Martha looked sideways. “Jim!”

“Nicole,” said her father. “Turn around.”

The teen opened her mouth. But then remembered her promise to Serge. “Okay, Dad.”

She turned around, lifting her shirt and pulling the waistband down an inch.

The parents leaned in for a close inspection.

There it was, just below the tan line. A word in feminine cursive script:

Family.

Nicole dropped her shirt and turned around to face them again. “Satisfied?”

Her parents stood mute.

“Serge also told me to be more grateful for you guys. Whatever.”

Nicole went back in her room and closed the door.

Coleman burped. “Look at this line.” He stuck his head around the side in an attempt to see the front. “It’s like Disney.”

“Maybe longer,” said Serge, licking a stamp.

“We drove like forever to get here, and now… where are we? This is the middle of nowhere.”

“Twenty miles east of Orlando to be exact.”

Coleman strained his neck for a view of the counter. “But what’s the point?”

“Because Florida doesn’t get snow, we have a chronic inferiority complex when it comes to Christmas.” Serge handed Coleman a stamp. “So we overcompensate: Santa Claus on water skis, on Jet Skis, on surfboards, Christmas cards with barefoot Santas in beach chairs drinking beer, inflatable snowmen, reindeer in tropical shirts, town celebrations where they bring in special machines that shred ice and blow out fake snow that melts immediately and makes the children cry

… But this place just might be the weirdest.”

“What is it?”

“The post office in the city of Christmas, Florida, where thousands descend each year to get their holiday cards postmarked. It’s the best tradition we got, so fuck it, I’m rodeo-riding this cultural mutation.”

“Why’s it called Christmas?” Coleman licked his own stamp. “They have a big celebration way back or something?”

“No,” said Serge. “On the twenty-fifth of December, 1837, they began construction of Fort Christmas to fight the Second Seminole War. Nothing says the ‘Prince of Peace’ like a military installation.”

“Who are we mailing your card to?”

“Me,” said Serge. “It’s got a bitchin’ cool Florida postmark. I tried to think who might appreciate it more but drew a blank.”

Coleman looked at his own envelope. “Mine’s addressed to me, also.”

“I did that.”

“But when I open this, there’ll be no surprise.”

“You won’t remember,” said Serge.

“What’s this address, anyway?”

“You’ll find out after we drive back to Tampa.” Serge used the envelope to fan himself in the heat. “A lot of people will be surprised.”

Jim Davenport packed a fake-leather briefcase. “Sure feels good to be back on Triggerfish Lane.”

“It’s not like we had a choice,” said Martha. “We were upside down on the house.”

Jim shuffled papers into a file. “The economy hit everyone. We came out better than most.”

“I liked Davis Islands better.” Martha cradled a large mixing bowl and stirred. “This just doesn’t feel… as safe.”

Jim snapped the latches shut on his briefcase. “This neighborhood’s perfectly safe. Kids play in the street, neighbors know each other…”

Martha stopped stirring. “And remember what happened last time we lived here?”

“So there was a little crime.” Jim grabbed the handle of his attache. “We also had our problems on the island.”

Stirring again. “Where are you off to?”

“Work.”

“It’s one in the afternoon.”

“You know my job has odd hours.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I won’t be back for dinner.”

“I’ll cover a plate in the fridge.”

“Love you…”

Jim indeed worked strange hours. And it was true the Davenports had fared the economic downturn better than most. Those two facts went hand in hand. There are opportunities in even the worst economies. Jim had caught one.

He was a consultant.

His company was called Sunshine Solutions, and his specialty was everything. Didn’t matter the industry-manufacturing, hospitality, transportation-Jim got all the biggest accounts.

Not because he had broad experience. He actually knew squat about most of the accounts. In fact, he seemed like the most ill-suited person to offer any kind of advice whatsoever. Which is why he was perfect.

“You’re perfect,” said the executive who hired him after his interview. “Here’s your first account.”

“But I don’t know anything about hospital administration.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Then how am I supposed to consult?”

“You’re not,” said the exec. “We’re in the consulting business. We don’t consult.”

“What do we do?”

“Fire people. It’s what our clients pay us for. When heads need to roll, they want the ax in the hands of someone who doesn’t work in the building and nobody’s seen before.”

Jim sat puzzled. “Why?”

“Because fired people get pissed off. Some even start shooting. I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines.” The executive came around and sat casually against the front corner of his desk. “Who needs that kind of shit in their lives?”

“So I’m getting paid to have people shoot at me?”

The executive waved dismissively and walked back around his desk. “Probably never happen. Most of the shooters have to go home to get their guns. By the time they get back, you’ll at least be able to make it to the parking lot, maybe the highway, if you’re lucky.”

“Sounds dangerous, especially if they realize I know nothing about their business and have no legitimate basis to fire them.”

“Oh, they’ll definitely realize that. It’s part of the plan.”

“Plan?”

“Most of the firings are unjust anyway, merely to dazzle Wall Street by cutting operating costs in the portfolio and making top management rich from stock options. So if these employees are given walking papers by some consultant who wouldn’t last a day in their mail room, it shifts blame for the injustice-and the direction of the gun barrel.”

“But why me?”

“Because you’re non-confrontational.” The executive opened a file and removed a computer scan sheet with little ovals filled in with a number-two pencil. “The psychological test when you applied.” He leaned back in his desk chair and held the sheet toward a ceiling light. “In all our years, we’ve never seen anyone score so high in conflict avoidance.”