Steven Sandage
Next to the fireplace in a dimly lit three-bedroom house, I nervously wash down the last bite of the first cookie with a gulp of milk. Moonlight is the only light source, and it bounces off the tinsel on the unlit Christmas tree. My unsettled stomach rumbles.
First-week jitters.
As my jaw closes on the second chocolate cookie, the pressure feels lacking. The milk has a funky tang to it, and the chocolate chips in the cookies have an aftertaste that lingers bitterly on my tongue.
Page 14 of the Santa Protocols Handbook says “Children are not world class bakers, do not expect them to be if they make your cookies.”
So I chomp down. Crumbs cascade down my crimson coat, and my clenched teeth struggle to grind the baked chunks. I look to the right—nothing but the empty fireplace and unlit Christmas tree. I look behind—nothing but a dark hallway. In my confusion, I think I hear a giggle from down the hallway.
Page 23 says “Children are notoriously trying to catch a glimpse of you. If they happen to see you, just thank them for the cookies and move onto the next house.”
I breathe out the sour taste in my mouth and look to the left—nothing but the table with the half-empty cup of milk next to a note, handwritten in crayon.
“Should I read this note?” I muse to myself, as curiosity clashes with instincts.
I blink, my eyelids are heavy with warmth, and the nothing in the dark when I close my eyes feeling like a lullaby. I think about not opening my eyes; I have to intentionally screw them shut, saying “I am so screwed.”
My eyes struggle to open, my eyelashes are my enemies. I feel my grip in the leather glove weaken as the weight of the plastic plate flips over in my hand, falling and landing on the hardwood floor.
As I fear the worst, I hear two little voices laugh from down the hallway.
“That should make me feel better, but for some reason, it doesn’t,” I reach out to grab the drawstring on my bag and stumble forward.
My hands catch the edge of the table. My lips quiver. My knees betray me, buckling violently. I collapse to the floor as the table topples over with me, the plastic cup of milk oozes across the floor in an amoebic pattern, the note soaks up the milk with the words “thanks for ALL the presents” written in Radical Red®.
Sounds of menacing giggles are followed by the frantic pitter-patter of little feet behind my lump of a body and hit me just as hard as the red oak floor.
“Back to the unemployment line,” I mumble to myself as the sound of two little kids viciously unwrapping presents leads me into the darkness and fades away with the light.
losing our grip on purpose 