Page 43 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
“You haven’t put the tree in the back of the car yet?” the woman says, stunned that I’m still standing there with her tree. She then turns to the woman next to her and whispers, “Told you this place isn’t what it used to be. Last year we come here.”
Fuck.
And that’s the nail in the coffin of all rational thoughts and behavior.
Yup.
The world around me spins, dread fills my lungs, and I know there’s only one thing I can do now.
Call the parents.
I shut the door to my office in the reindeer barn and pull my phone out of my pocket. This was not what I wanted to do, but it seems like I don’t have any other choice. I need help.
I dial my mom’s number and squeeze my eyes shut as I take a seat in my office chair. This is what some might call rock bottom. I thought I could handle this on my own. I thought I’d be able to actually make improvements on the farm and impress my parents, but instead, I feel like I’m drowning, like I’m fighting a losing battle and there’s nothing I can do about it.
The phone rings three times before it’s picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom, it’s Atlas.”
“What?”
“It’s Atlas,” I say, trying to fight the obvious background noise coming from her side.
“Who is it?” I hear Dad say.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, look at the screen.”
“Oh, it’s Atlas,” Mom says. “Atlas, you there?”
“Yes,” I shout, hoping that helps.
“What did you say?”
Sitting up, I press my fingers into my brow. “I said yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes,” I shout.
“What does he want?” Dad asks.
“He’s just saying yes.”
Jesus.
Christ.
“Is he drunk?”
“I’m not drunk,” I shout.
“Oh, he just said he’s drunk,” Mom says.
“No, I’mnotdrunk.”
