Whether Connie Sandrelli didn't care for fruitcake or simply had a cast-iron stomach, Ethel would never know. But the man-stealing hussy not only survived the holiday season, she married Bud Schmidt just a few months later. To show that there were no hard feelings, Ethel baked them a chocolate cake-or, to be more precise, a chocolate, Clorox, Cascade, Tide and lemon-fresh Pledge cake. The resulting black sludge was so noxious with chemicals Ethel had to throw it out, pan and all. She nearly passed out from the fumes.
Only two more Always Sunny men came on the market after that. One died three weeks after his wife's funeral. The other moved to San Francisco with his wife's brother, something he'd apparently been waiting forty years to do.
That made Bones Heaton the only unattached male in the trailer park. He was a little too young and a lot too lazy, but he was eligible, and Ethel needed a husband. For her, being single was simply not an option. Take the "man" out of "woman" and all you've got's a "wo," her mother used to say. Ethel always assumed this was a firm endorsement of matrimony. She had no intention of being a "wo" the rest of her life.
Bones accepted her attentions with uncharacteristic patience, largely because he'd grown sick of frozen pizza and fish sticks. Like Bud Schmidt before him, he never invited Ethel inside or dropped by her trailer in return. But he never chased her away with the garden hose, either. In fact, as Christmas drew closer, he began to worry that she'd give up on him before his refrigerator was fully stocked. Given the trailer park's demographics, it was only a matter of time before another Always Sunny widower stepped onto the auction block. And Bones was realistic enough about his personal charms to know what would happen if he faced competition.
What was called for was a Christmas gift. But Bones being Bones, it would have to entail minimum effort to procure. Ideally, it would be something he could find within ten steps of his La-Z-Boy.
Which is how it came to be that one warm December evening Bones Heaton presented to Ethel Queenan a beautifully decorated, twelve-month-old fruitcake. Ethel cooed and made a fuss over it, though it actually looked far too gussied up for her tastes. But the man had made an effort on her behalf, and that boded well.
And anyway, Ethel thought as she walked back to her trailer, peel off the peppermints and the thing was probably perfectly fine.
She'd been cooking all afternoon, and she was hungry.
I KILLED SANTA CLAUS
After Christmas break, everyone in the dorm was talking about what they did over the holidays. People were like, "I watched 22 movies" and "I went to Cancun" and "I smoked a lot of pot, man."
When I got asked what I did, I'd say, "I killed Santa Claus." Which would get a polite ha ha. And then I'd say, "No, really. I'm not kidding." And then I'd tell the story.
Before long, people were coming up to me all over campus saying, "Are you that Santa-killing chick?" I was famous. Or maybe infamous. It was pretty cool-for, like, a week. Then I got sick of telling people about it over and over again. I mean, it's a pretty long story. So after a while when people came up and said, "Did you kill Santa Claus?" I'd say, "Sorry, you've got me confused with someone else. I killed the Easter Bunny."
But I guess I could tell the story one more time. After that, I'm going to retire it. I won't tell it again till I've got kids I need to scare into line. "Don't mess with your mother, Timmy. She offed St. Nick."
My own mom, she believes in the importance of work. For everybody. All the time. So one of the joys of coming home from school is finding out what sucky job she's got lined up for me. During my first summer break, I worked for the dog census. You walk around to people's houses-or, in some of the neighborhoods I went to, trailers-and ask if they have a dog and, if so, does Fido have a license? Tons of fun, let me tell you. There's no better use for a cheery summer afternoon than asking Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel if his mutt is registered with the county. And all for minimum wage. Thanks, Mom!
Christmas two years ago, I wrapped presents at J.C. Penney until my fingers bled. The summer after that, I went back to the dogs. Come the next Christmas, I was a squirter, chasing people around Dillard's with a perfume bottle. Then, for the summer, I worked a cash register at Chuck E. Cheese…an experience I plan to talk to a therapist about, as soon as I can afford one. Hell isn't other people. It's hearing an animatronic ostrich sing "Wind Beneath My Wings" 50 times a day.
So finally I reach the Christmas break of my senior year-my last chance to kick back and truly chill without worrying about finding a job or a place to live or any of that "real world" stuff I'm looking forward to soooooooo much. But does my mom give me a break and let me spend my vacation doing what I want to do-suck candy canes and watch TV? Of course not. Instead, I get The Speech.
"When your father ran off with that woman," it begins, "he left us to fend for ourselves. We don't have it easy. We can't sit around eating bonbons. We've got to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty. That's exactly what I've done. I have worked hard-very hard-to keep this house and put food on the table and send you to college. But I can't do it alone. You've got to take some responsibility and chip in and – "
Yada yada yada, as they say.
After a few minutes of this lecture, all of which I know by heart, I said the only thing that can bring it to an end, which is, "You're absolutely right, Mother. How could I be so selfish? Please tell me what [mind-numbingly tedious minimum wage] job you've found for me."
My mom smiled and said, "This one's going to be fun, Hannah," which sent a chill down my spine. If my mother thinks it's "fun," I figured, it's got to suck big-time.
And I was right.
"You remember Missy Widgitz, Mark Widgitz's mother," Mom said, referring to two people I have absolutely never heard of. "She just became the promotions director over at Olde Towne Mall. She's got a holiday position that would be perfect for you."
I sighed and said, "Great. Gift wrapping. I'll go get the Band-Aids."
Mom laughed-another ominous sign. "No, it's a lot better than that. They lost one of their elves."
There was a long pause, during which my mother stared at me with this big, goofy grin, waiting for me to say something upbeat like, "Wow! Really? What great news, Mom!" But I was confused.
"Lost…an elf?" I said. "What? They want me to help find it?"
Mom laughed again. it's nice to know I can provide her with so much cheap amusement.
"No, no. They need an elf for Santa's Workshop."
I was still thinking I was supposed to be an Elf Wrangler, which doesn't make any sense, when it dawned on me.
You're the elf.
My blood ran cold.
"You start tomorrow," my mother said.
I slit my wrists and threw myself off the roof.
O.K., I didn't. But maybe I should have. Instead, I showed up at Olde Towne Mall the next day and reported for elf duty.
Here's what you need to know about Olde Towne Malclass="underline" When they say "Olde," they're not kidding. In fact, "Ye Olde Crappie Mall" would be a better name for the place. It's what used to pass for a shopping mall back in the seventies, before River City got a real mall. It's all gray tile and florescent lighting and fake plants and rednecks. The nicest store they've got is Sears.
At the exact center of this dump was the horrifying torture chamber otherwise known as Santa's Workshop. You know the drilclass="underline" plywood house, plastic candy canes, mechanical reindeer, fake snow, fake everything. And the biggest fake of all sat on a throne lording over it all. Santa Claus. Or, as I came to know him, Big Buck.
Big Buck was not one of those professional Santa types you read about who grow their own beards and love children and act like playing St. Nick is a role worthy of De Niro. Big Buck wore a phony white beard that was always a little bit crooked from being yanked by the screaming kids he obviously loathed. And he didn't smell like peppermint and warm cookies, the way you think Santa should. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon. And his deep-fried drawl was all wrong, too: Last time I checked, the North Pole is not south of the Mason-Dixon.