Read Online You Better Not Cry: Stories for Christmas by Augusten Burroughs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Augusten Burroughs
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not uncommon to be having a drink and see a guy walk in with cute little reindeer antlers clipped to his head, even a red stocking cap. Rather less common, I supposed, was an old fat guy in a full Santa suit, though that was beside the point.
My question was: How did I go from merely
seeing
the dirty French Santa in a bar to being in his hotel room the next morning? And this presented me with an actual equation. How did one plus one equal old French Santa?
I was accustomed to waking up in bed with somebody I had never seen before. Not, however, with a man
in costume
; one old enough to be dead from natural causes. This was a new low for even me, a person who was essentially the gold medalist in the category.
I climbed out of bed because, no matter what, it was better to be dressed. This much was perfectly clear.
I saw my clothes, neatly folded on the low upholstered bench at the foot of my bed. As I stepped into my boxer-briefs, Santa said, “Mmm, even nicer by the light of day.”
Horrified, I looked up to see him stripping the covers away from his own doughy body, revealing a small, World War II–era erection. A leering, oily smile had formed on his lips.
He patted the unoccupied side of his mattress. “Come over here, Kevin,” he said, “and get your tail back into my bed.”
I froze, one leg in my jeans, the other raised. So, I was Kevin. Which was fine. It showed I’d had the good sense not to supply him with my actual name. So why had I followed him here in my actual body?
And what was this business about my tail? He’d said to get my tail
back
into his bed, which implied that I, Kevin, had been
in
his bed at an earlier point in time.
Dirty French Santa’s greedy little finger-eyes were trained on my crotch; I yanked the jeans up and buttoned them, zipping the fly with a finality that I hoped suggested a door slam. I stretched my T-shirt over my head, jabbed my arms through the holes and yanked it down. I felt the tag scratch at my throat but didn’t want to take the time to turn it around.
Fiddling with his irritating little doodad, he asked, “What makes you so shy all of a sudden? Hmm? Maybe you need another massage, yes?”
It was interesting, I noted, how the brain seemed to actually perceive a
slowing
of time when one was faced with unspeakable horror.
I tried to mask the panic in my voice by raising the volume, which only made me sound hysterical.
“You need to tell me exactly what happened in this appalling room last night.”
Santa was enjoying this. He cackled and produced a wad of phlegm, which led to a coughing fit. He covered his mouth with his plump, pale little fist and cycled through his repertoire of deeply repulsive sounds, gasping for air between gags, as he tried to expel what I could only assume was a dead rat.
“Excuse me,”
he said, finally. “I had a little something stuck in my throat.” He waited a beat before adding, “But not what I
wish
was stuck in my throat!” His watery eyes were now bloodshot.
I winced. What a hideous creature; ebola in need of a back wax.
“As for last night,” he continued in his slippery eel of a voice, “oh, but I wouldn’t even know
where
to begin. You were a very naughty, naughty boy.” He wagged his finger at me and then made a small French clucking sound, like he was attempting to nurse at the tit of a barn cat.
I stared down at him, wanting to cut his dark tongue right out of his foul mouth.
“Yeah, okay, okay, that’s cute. And you would of course know that I was ‘naughty’ because you, after all, are Santa Claus. Ha. I get it.” I bored into him with my most leveling gaze. My jaw muscles clenched and unclenched. “Now, what I’d like to know is, what happened during this little massage of yours? Do I need to be worried about catching dirty French Santa pox?”
Haughty and defensive now, he threw his hands up and shrugged. “What could we do? You were drunk.
You couldn’t even get an erection,
that’s how drunk
My question was: How did I go from merely
seeing
the dirty French Santa in a bar to being in his hotel room the next morning? And this presented me with an actual equation. How did one plus one equal old French Santa?
I was accustomed to waking up in bed with somebody I had never seen before. Not, however, with a man
in costume
; one old enough to be dead from natural causes. This was a new low for even me, a person who was essentially the gold medalist in the category.
I climbed out of bed because, no matter what, it was better to be dressed. This much was perfectly clear.
I saw my clothes, neatly folded on the low upholstered bench at the foot of my bed. As I stepped into my boxer-briefs, Santa said, “Mmm, even nicer by the light of day.”
Horrified, I looked up to see him stripping the covers away from his own doughy body, revealing a small, World War II–era erection. A leering, oily smile had formed on his lips.
He patted the unoccupied side of his mattress. “Come over here, Kevin,” he said, “and get your tail back into my bed.”
I froze, one leg in my jeans, the other raised. So, I was Kevin. Which was fine. It showed I’d had the good sense not to supply him with my actual name. So why had I followed him here in my actual body?
And what was this business about my tail? He’d said to get my tail
back
into his bed, which implied that I, Kevin, had been
in
his bed at an earlier point in time.
Dirty French Santa’s greedy little finger-eyes were trained on my crotch; I yanked the jeans up and buttoned them, zipping the fly with a finality that I hoped suggested a door slam. I stretched my T-shirt over my head, jabbed my arms through the holes and yanked it down. I felt the tag scratch at my throat but didn’t want to take the time to turn it around.
Fiddling with his irritating little doodad, he asked, “What makes you so shy all of a sudden? Hmm? Maybe you need another massage, yes?”
It was interesting, I noted, how the brain seemed to actually perceive a
slowing
of time when one was faced with unspeakable horror.
I tried to mask the panic in my voice by raising the volume, which only made me sound hysterical.
“You need to tell me exactly what happened in this appalling room last night.”
Santa was enjoying this. He cackled and produced a wad of phlegm, which led to a coughing fit. He covered his mouth with his plump, pale little fist and cycled through his repertoire of deeply repulsive sounds, gasping for air between gags, as he tried to expel what I could only assume was a dead rat.
“Excuse me,”
he said, finally. “I had a little something stuck in my throat.” He waited a beat before adding, “But not what I
wish
was stuck in my throat!” His watery eyes were now bloodshot.
I winced. What a hideous creature; ebola in need of a back wax.
“As for last night,” he continued in his slippery eel of a voice, “oh, but I wouldn’t even know
where
to begin. You were a very naughty, naughty boy.” He wagged his finger at me and then made a small French clucking sound, like he was attempting to nurse at the tit of a barn cat.
I stared down at him, wanting to cut his dark tongue right out of his foul mouth.
“Yeah, okay, okay, that’s cute. And you would of course know that I was ‘naughty’ because you, after all, are Santa Claus. Ha. I get it.” I bored into him with my most leveling gaze. My jaw muscles clenched and unclenched. “Now, what I’d like to know is, what happened during this little massage of yours? Do I need to be worried about catching dirty French Santa pox?”
Haughty and defensive now, he threw his hands up and shrugged. “What could we do? You were drunk.
You couldn’t even get an erection,
that’s how drunk
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