Read Online You Better Not Cry: Stories for Christmas by Augusten Burroughs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Augusten Burroughs
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traveled once again to the window where I saw now that the drapes and the bedding shared the same design.
That is when I knew that something in the universe itself had, indeed, malfunctioned; I was somewhere color-coordinated.
I scanned the nightstand but did not see the familiar glint of gold—a tiny lighthouse flashing: HERE ARE YOUR GLASSES . So I leaned over the edge of the bed and began to spider my hand along the carpeted floor. I’d stepped on enough pairs of glasses to know that mine seemed to prefer the floor.
Blind, and with my head upside down, I glanced toward the foot of the bed and saw a slash of red.
Odd,
I thought.
What could that be?
And in reply, five words burned through the murky blue of Magic Eight Ball juice: BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW .
I thought,
Seriously. What is that?
Finally, my fingers located the glasses tucked into an uncanny little crevice behind the front legs of the night-stand; a spot seemingly designed to attract and retain fallen objects. No human eyes would ever have found them there. I plucked them from the crevice, hoping not to find a bent temple. What I found instead was a pair of lenses so mental-patient filthy and caked with crud, it shocked me that I had been able to see through them. Pretending that that had not been a pubic hair on the left lens but only an exceedingly svelte and limber dust bunny, I fogged the lenses with my breath and attempted to polish them with the edge of the sheet. As I did this, I glanced over at the streak of red and as I stared, more detail was revealed, not unlike a word rising slowly to the surface of my internal Magic Eight Ball.
A band of white
smoke
seemed to surround the red cloud. And there was a luminous, tiny golden star—in the center.
Glasses were amazing.
Because the instant the mysterious floating blob was resolved in clarifying detail, there was no puzzle to what it was. Any kindergarten-aged child in America knew the answer.
The red velveteen, the white fur trim and then the glossy flash of black. Yes, that would be the belt. The sun kicked a highlight off the buckle:
a tiny golden star.
So. If that’s Santa’s suit,
I wondered dangerously,
where might
Santa
be?
For the answer, I needed only to slide my eyes left, to the bed on the other side of the nightstand.
He was probably about sixty-five. A portly gentleman, apparently naked beneath the sheet, he had a full, white beard and silver, somewhat stylish reading glasses perched low on his nose. He was peering at me over the top rim of those glasses, with an amused little smile.
If the notepad next to the telephone was correct, I was naked in the bed next to Santa Claus at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City.
There was even a
twinkle
in his eye. “Ah, bonjour!” he said. “Bonjour.” He took a noisy sip from the cup of coffee.
I removed my glasses and tossed them on the night-stand. Then I dropped my head into my hands and groaned; undoubtedly rather rude as far as gestures went.
This was not happening to me.
YOU MAY RELY ON IT .
I still felt slightly drunk from the previous night. Of which I could remember absolutely nothing. I did know that a Long Island Iced Tea would have really hit the spot at that moment.
“Aww,” he said. “Not feeling so clear-headed this morning?”
When I slipped my glasses back on and looked at him, he raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “I feel e
xtremely
clear-headed this morning, as a matter of fact. And that’s the problem.”
Oh.
My.
God.
It was apparent that something terrible had happened. I was at the Waldorf with Santa and I didn’t have even the vaguest idea how the hell this came to be. Was it possible my glasses were so filthy I could have mistaken him for a hockey coach?
Given my history, I was most likely at a bar when I saw a dirty old Frenchman in a ratty Santa suit. That much I could believe. Something about
December
in New York always squeezed the crazies out from under their rocks. It was
That is when I knew that something in the universe itself had, indeed, malfunctioned; I was somewhere color-coordinated.
I scanned the nightstand but did not see the familiar glint of gold—a tiny lighthouse flashing: HERE ARE YOUR GLASSES . So I leaned over the edge of the bed and began to spider my hand along the carpeted floor. I’d stepped on enough pairs of glasses to know that mine seemed to prefer the floor.
Blind, and with my head upside down, I glanced toward the foot of the bed and saw a slash of red.
Odd,
I thought.
What could that be?
And in reply, five words burned through the murky blue of Magic Eight Ball juice: BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW .
I thought,
Seriously. What is that?
Finally, my fingers located the glasses tucked into an uncanny little crevice behind the front legs of the night-stand; a spot seemingly designed to attract and retain fallen objects. No human eyes would ever have found them there. I plucked them from the crevice, hoping not to find a bent temple. What I found instead was a pair of lenses so mental-patient filthy and caked with crud, it shocked me that I had been able to see through them. Pretending that that had not been a pubic hair on the left lens but only an exceedingly svelte and limber dust bunny, I fogged the lenses with my breath and attempted to polish them with the edge of the sheet. As I did this, I glanced over at the streak of red and as I stared, more detail was revealed, not unlike a word rising slowly to the surface of my internal Magic Eight Ball.
A band of white
smoke
seemed to surround the red cloud. And there was a luminous, tiny golden star—in the center.
Glasses were amazing.
Because the instant the mysterious floating blob was resolved in clarifying detail, there was no puzzle to what it was. Any kindergarten-aged child in America knew the answer.
The red velveteen, the white fur trim and then the glossy flash of black. Yes, that would be the belt. The sun kicked a highlight off the buckle:
a tiny golden star.
So. If that’s Santa’s suit,
I wondered dangerously,
where might
Santa
be?
For the answer, I needed only to slide my eyes left, to the bed on the other side of the nightstand.
He was probably about sixty-five. A portly gentleman, apparently naked beneath the sheet, he had a full, white beard and silver, somewhat stylish reading glasses perched low on his nose. He was peering at me over the top rim of those glasses, with an amused little smile.
If the notepad next to the telephone was correct, I was naked in the bed next to Santa Claus at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City.
There was even a
twinkle
in his eye. “Ah, bonjour!” he said. “Bonjour.” He took a noisy sip from the cup of coffee.
I removed my glasses and tossed them on the night-stand. Then I dropped my head into my hands and groaned; undoubtedly rather rude as far as gestures went.
This was not happening to me.
YOU MAY RELY ON IT .
I still felt slightly drunk from the previous night. Of which I could remember absolutely nothing. I did know that a Long Island Iced Tea would have really hit the spot at that moment.
“Aww,” he said. “Not feeling so clear-headed this morning?”
When I slipped my glasses back on and looked at him, he raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “I feel e
xtremely
clear-headed this morning, as a matter of fact. And that’s the problem.”
Oh.
My.
God.
It was apparent that something terrible had happened. I was at the Waldorf with Santa and I didn’t have even the vaguest idea how the hell this came to be. Was it possible my glasses were so filthy I could have mistaken him for a hockey coach?
Given my history, I was most likely at a bar when I saw a dirty old Frenchman in a ratty Santa suit. That much I could believe. Something about
December
in New York always squeezed the crazies out from under their rocks. It was
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