Tim Dorsey - When elves attack

“Better hear what it is first,” said City. “Never know with these guys.”

“It’s going to be great!” said Serge. “We’ll all go caroling!”

Non-enthusiastic stares.

“What’s the deal?” said Serge. “Everyone goes caroling.”

“Sounds like we’ll take a pass,” said Country.

“I can’t allow it,” said Serge. “Besides, you’re thinking of regular caroling. That’s what everyone does. We’re going Xtreme Caroling… I’m taking Christmas big!”

“What’s Xtreme Caroling?” asked Eunice.

Serge looked over his shoulder. “Coleman, get the boom box… Okay, ladies, here’s what we do…” And he laid it all out. When he was finished: “What do you think?”

“I’m in,” said Ethel.

“Me, too,” said Edith.

“But what do we wear?” asked Eunice, gesturing at the G-Unit’s matching apparel. “We can’t go around the streets in our nightgowns and slippers.”

“Already thought of that,” said Serge. “I know exactly what you need to wear.”

“What?”

“I’d like to surprise you.” He grabbed his car keys. “Come on, Coleman, supply run!.. The rest of you start getting ready-and keep practicing what I showed you. It’ll be dark soon…”

A ’72 Chevelle skidded back up the driveway.

Serge scrambled under the Christmas tree in the doorway. He stood and raised a shopping bag in each hand. “You’re going to love it!”

The G-Unit grabbed the sacks and pulled out the purchases. “We’re supposed to wear this?” said Edith.

“It’ll be a gas,” said Edna. “Let’s put them on.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were all ready.

Serge fit a green felt hat onto his head, and waved an arm forward like an infantry commander. “Follow me!”

Under the Christmas tree they went.

The unlikely alliance of eight people walked single file up Triggerfish Lane.

“When do we get going?” asked Edna.

“We’ll start at the end of the block,” said Serge. “Then work our way back down.”

They reached the last house.

Serge walked up the porch steps of a pastel-peach 1929 bungalow. A finger pressed a button.

Ding-dong.

Inside: “Honey, are you expecting anyone?”

“No.”

The door opened.

“Hello-” The woman’s smile disappeared. Her expression didn’t become one of alarm as much as: Improper Data Input. “… Uh, can I help you?”

“We’re carolers!” said Serge. “More specifically, Xtreme Carolers.”

“I’ve never heard of Xtreme Carolers,” said the woman.

“Nobody has, until now!” Serge turned to Coleman. “Hit it!”

Coleman reached for a switch on the boom box…

A minute later, the woman called into the house: “Honey, come quick. You have to see this.”

Her husband trotted down the hall. “What is it?”

“Just look.”

Out on the lawn, a boom box thumped at top volume, heavy on the bass. Kool amp; the Gang’s “Jungle Boogie.” Except the carolers had modified the words.

The G-Unit stood in a line, each wearing a tiny green elf suit. In unison they thrust their hips and pumped their fists by their sides, first to the left, then to the right.

Edna and Edith: “… Christmas boogie! Da-da-da, Da-da-da! Christmas boogie! Da-da-da, Da-da-da!..”

Eunice and Ethel: “… Get down, get down!.. Get down, get down!..”

Behind them, Coleman ran weaving and stumbling with a lit pair of sparklers in his hands. Coming the other way, Serge did a string of cartwheels the length of the yard. City and Country stood on the sidewalk, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads.

“… Christmas boogie!..”

Edith: “Shake it around!”

“… Christmas boogie!..”

Edna: “With the funk, y’all!”

The song ended with a bow from the entertainers.

The couple on the porch applauded heartily. “Bravo!”

“Wait here,” said the woman, heading back into the house. “I want to get you something…”

House after house, same reaction. More applause. “They’re so cute …”

And on down the street. Coleman caught up with Serge on the sidewalk. “This is excellent. Everyone’s forcing eggnog on us.” He guzzled from a to-go cup. “I didn’t know people would just give you liquor if you knocked on their doors and did shit in their yards… Caroling rules!”

“You need to be more careful with those sparklers. At the last house you singed your hair.”

“I don’t mind.” He raised his cup to the sky. “Free booze!”

Serge grabbed his arm.

“Hey, man, it’s cool,” said Coleman. “Nobody’s going to pinch us for open containers on this street.”

“It’s not that.” Serge stopped and watched red taillights slow down a half block away. “There’s that Delta 88 again, driving by Jim’s house.”

“Probably a real estate agent.”

“I got this feeling,” said Serge. “Just keep your eyes open.”

More houses and applause, until they finally arrived at 888 Triggerfish Lane.

“Martha,” said Jim. “Come out here and see this.”

“… Get down, get down!..”

“Ahhh!” Coleman pulled off his burning elf hat and stomped on it.

Serge pressed another button on the boom box.

“… It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes …”

Clapping from the porch at the conclusion.

“Why doesn’t everybody come inside and join us?” said Jim.

“Yes,” said Martha. “Come on in. We have eggnog.”

Coleman almost knocked everyone over running up the steps.

Serge yelled after him: “Wipe your feet!”

Coleman hit the brakes and shuffled elf shoes on the welcome mat.

Soon they were all seated around the living room on sofas and lounge chairs. Small talk. Martha made the rounds, pouring eggnog in clear coffee cups.

“Can I pick what’s on TV?” asked Serge, changing channels before getting an answer. “The Grinch is stealing Christmas.”

Coleman found something in his pocket. “I brought you an ornament.” He hung a candy-cane shiv on their tree.

Everyone smiled at one another in the warm hearth of holiday neighborliness.

“It’s been a long time,” Jim told the G-Unit. “Where are you living now?”

“We’re on the run,” said Edith.

“They had us living in this rest home with condescending caregivers and afternoon pudding,” added Edna. “But we said bullshit on that.”

Serge elbowed Coleman. “What’s wrong with you?”

Coleman looked wide-eyed, up and down the Davenports’ Christmas tree. “What do you mean?”

“You’re acting weird,” Serge snapped in a loud whisper.

“The little lights,” Coleman said, entranced. “They’re like fireflies swirling around the tree, playing tiny harps.”

“Did you take something again?”

“Oh no, absolutely not,” said Coleman. “No, no, no. Yes, actually a lot.”

“What did you take?”

“Mistletoe.”

Serge blinked hard. “Mistletoe?”

Coleman nodded, snatching at the air with his hand for a nonexistent glow bug. “Mistletoe gets you high.”

“But mistletoe’s poisonous,” said Serge. “ Extremely poisonous. Severe gastrointestinal toxin, and a potentially life-threatening drop in pulse. The hallucinations are just a side effect.”

“Fair trade-off.” Coleman snatched the air again. “Cool.”

Serge grabbed his wrist. “We have to get that crap out of your stomach.”

“Uh-oh.” Coleman put a hand on his tummy. “Think I’m going to be sick.”

“Don’t you dare throw up on the sofa.” Serge pointed sideways with a thumb. “Martha just started liking us. Even if it’s just a small amount of puke, women get funny about it.”