Page 40 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
“Do you really think the traditional route is the way to go?” Max asks as he leans against the spice rack in the Myrrh-cantile.
“Yes,” I say. “Everyone likes tradition.”
“Yes, but this is Frank and Thachary we’re talking about,” Max says. “You’ve seen the cocktails they’ve created at Prancer’s. They’re not traditional in the slightest.”
I pause as I reach for the cinnamon. “They’re traditional,” I say.
Max blinks a few times. “Uh, if you don’t recall, they have a drink labeled Santa’s Balls.”
“I thought Krampus forced them to take that off the menu.”
“It’s on the secret menu,” Max says.
“There’s a secret menu?” I turn toward Max, who slowly nods.
“If you ever came out of your cave during the Christmas season, then you’d know that there’s a secret menu during the month of December. All the banned drinks come back. Santa’s Balls is on there, as well as Antler Sex, Tinsel Tits, and the very problematic Reindeer Hole.”
I wince. “I still have nightmares about that drink.”
“Exactly. But do you see what I’m saying?” Max says in a low voice as someone walks by us.
If there’s one thing I learned during the Christmas Kringle orientation,it’s that I’m going to have to step out of my comfort zone and be the jolliest dickhead I can muster.
So I straighten up, put on a large smile, and announce, “Merry Christmas! May your season be full of glad tidings.”
The shopper nervously glances at me and walks away—clearly a tourist. Damn it, wasted some mustered-up cheer on the wrong person.
“May your season be full of glad tidings?” Max questions me. “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m new at this.”
“New at what?”
“Uh, well, to name a few…talking to people I don’t know, smiling, acting like I’m pleased to see another human walk by me, and offering a Christmas-y hello. All out of my wheelhouse, man.”
“Huh, you’re right.” He scratches his chin. “Making a mental note to come up with some seasonal greetings for you. Now, back to Frank and—”
“Merry Christmas,” someone says as they walk past us.
I curtsy, pulling at the hem of my jacket—for God knows what reason—and say, “Merry Christmas, dear sir. And top of the morning.”
He smiles and walks around the corner while I feel Max’s questioning eyes trained on me.
“Dude…the curtsy?”
“Shut up,” I mutter. “I told you I’m not good at this shit. I feel like a goddamn robot out here trying to humanize myself.”
“Well, sayingtop of the morningis not the way to do it. It’s Christmas, not St. Patrick’s Day.”
“It just slipped out when I was mid-curtsy.”
“Well, get it together. We can’t have you—”
“Merry Christmas,” an elderly woman says as she shuffles by.
Jesus Christ!
“By George, it is a merry Christmas,” I say with a pump of my arm. “Can’t get enough of those baubles, am I right?”
