Tim Dorsey - When elves attack

“Wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to shop for your mother. She returns everything, you know.”

“Not everything.”

“You’re right. She prominently displays anything you get her. That’s an attack on me.”

A group of gleeful children with colorful balloons ran by shrieking.

“Martha, you’re letting her get under your skin.”

“I’m dreading this next visit.”

“But we have to visit,” said Jim. “It’s Christmas.”

“God, that last visit. Can you believe what Nicole said?”

“Because she sees how my mom gets to you.”

“That makes it okay? Like it’s sport to her?”

“No, it was terrible,” said Jim. “I grounded her, remember?”

“Lot of good that did. She just kept going out. You’re not firm enough with her. And now she wants a tattoo!”

“I’ll sit down and talk to her.”

“Be firm this time.”

They went into the Apple store. The balloon kids shrieked by the entrance, followed by two elves, one tall and thin with ice-blue eyes, the other short and pudgy with a round, non-intellectual-looking head.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “Are we shopping?”

“No, I just love coming to the mall at Christmas, digging how stores tap into the whole holiday spirit, especially the bookstores with their special bargain displays.”

“Displays?” asked Coleman.

“Big ones near the front,” said Serge. “If you want to show someone you put absolutely zero thought into their gift, you buy a giant picture book about steam locomotives, ceramic thimbles, or Scotland.”

“But why are we wearing elf suits?”

“To spread good cheer.”

“What for?”

“Because of the War on Christmas.”

“Who started the war?” asked Coleman.

“Ironically, the very people who coined the term and claim others started the war. They’re upset that people of different faiths, along with the coexistence crowd who respect those faiths, are saying ‘Season’s Greetings’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ But nobody’s stopping anyone from saying ‘Merry Christmas.’ ”

“And they’re still mad?”

Serge shrugged. “It’s the new holiness: Tolerance can’t be tolerated. So they hijack the birth of Jesus as a weapon to start quarrels and order people around. Christmas should be about the innocence of children-and adults reverting to children to rediscover their innocence. That’s why we’re in elf suits. We’re taking Christmas back!”

“So how do we spread this good cheer?”

“Maybe by skipping. Let’s try skipping. You see someone skipping, and you wish wars would stop. Children skip all the time, but you become an adult and forget to skip. Let’s skip.”

“Wait up!” Coleman skipped alongside Serge. “But I still don’t get this elf thing. How can we be elves if the mall didn’t hire us?”

“And that’s what everyone thinks.” Serge skipped and waved at curious shoppers. “But there’s no law that says you can’t just unilaterally decide to be an elf, buy a costume, and hit the mall. That’s the whole key to life: Fuck the conventional wisdom on elves.”

“So then that makes us…”

“That’s right: wildcat elves.”

“But, Serge, what if someone says something?”

“What are they going to say?” Serge stopped skipping. “It’s like clipboards. You walk around all smart and serious, writing on a clipboard, and people stand back in respect. Or orange cones. You can buy them at any Home Depot. Then you set them out according to your needs, and the public thinks, ‘He must be official. He’s got orange cones.’ Those are the Big Three: clipboards, orange cones, elf suits. People don’t question… I need coffee. There’s the Coffee Circus.”

The Davenports emerged from the Apple store. Outside, a line of small children stood in fear against a wall. Their balloons floated to the ceiling. Tears rolled down little cheeks.

A mall cop pointed at them menacingly and shouted. “Stop running and screaming! This is a mall, not a playground! If I catch you again-”

“Hey!” yelled Martha Davenport. “Don’t talk to them like that!”

“Are you one of their parents?” demanded the security guard.

“No, but there’s no reason-”

“Then butt out!”

Martha stepped forward. “What did you just say to me?”

Jim tugged her sleeve. “Martha…”

The mall cop leaned into her face. “I said, butt out!”

“Or you’ll what?”

Jim tugged her sleeve. “Martha…”

The mall cop sneered. “Or I’ll toss you out of the mall!”

“Excuse me,” said Jim. “Please don’t talk to my wife like that.”

“I’ll toss you out, too!”

Martha stormed off.

“Martha!..” yelled Jim. He ran and caught up to her as she walked briskly past the Jelly Bean Barn. “Martha, where are you going?”

“I’m going to report him.”

“But he’s a mall cop.”

“Oh, big position of authority.”

“No, that’s the point. Mall security sometimes attracts a certain type. And that guy demonstrated he has an authority complex. What if he gets fired?”

“That’s what I want to happen!”

“But who knows what kind of retaliation he’ll take. He clearly has impulse problems.”

“You could use some impulse problems.”

Jim did his best to keep up with her raging stride. “But I’m out of town a lot on business. I don’t want to worry about you and Nicole while I’m gone.”

“It’ll be an anonymous report.”

“But what if he finds out?”

“He won’t. It’s anonymous.”

“It was anonymous when you reported those neighbors with the washing machines and motorcycles in their yard. They weren’t even living on our street. I don’t understand-”

“It was against code. We keep a nice house and pay taxes.”

“But the code people accidentally gave them a copy of your anonymous report,” said Jim. “Didn’t the motorcycles give you a clue? They were bikers! They came to the door. I had to talk my way out of it.”

“It was the code people’s fault for giving them that report. I reported them.”

“And for the next year we got cited for every little branch that fell out of the yard waste container.”

“I’m still reporting that guy,” said Martha. “Here’s the mall office.” She turned and marched down a stark corridor, past the restrooms, toward a series of plain doors.

Jim called after her: “I’ll wait here.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jim’s heart rate rocketed from the stress. Under his breath: “Relax. Count to ten…”

From behind: “Jim! Jim Davenport!”

Jim turned around. “Ahhhhhhh!”

Two elves approached. “Jim, it’s me, Serge. And you remember Coleman.”

Jim backed up. “Don’t come any closer!”

“Is that any way to greet a dear old friend?”

Jim glanced back and forth, then grabbed Serge by the arm and hustled him out of sight from the opening of the corridor. “I can’t let Martha see you.”

“Martha’s with you? I’d love to say hi.”

“No!” Jim put up his hands. “Serge, I realize you mean well. But please leave us alone. Martha still hasn’t gotten over the last stuff.”

“Did I conduct myself badly? I mean, yeah, gunfire and a few very tiny explosions, but I love you guys!” Serge scanned the crowd of shoppers. “Where is the little lady?”

“Down the hall in the manager’s office.” Jim peeked around the corner. “Reporting a mall cop.”

“What for?”

“Screaming at little kids and making them cry.”

“What were they doing?”

“Running and laughing.”

“What an asshole!”

“And he said some nasty things to Martha.”