Tim Dorsey - When elves attack

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.”

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.”