How My Neighbor Stole Christmas

The warm lit houses shine all through the town,

while Cole walks around with a very grumpy frown.

For he knows every Kringle will think he’s lost a screw,

as he traipses around whistling yodel-ay-hee-who.

But he is bound to win, and win it well,

even if that means a day in reality hell.

“Have you seen Cole?” I ask Taran as I adjust the red velvet dress Aunt Cindy made me try on this morning. It barely fits me. I’m wearing a cardigan to cover up the unzipped part of the dress.

“I haven’t,” Taran says, glancing around Ornament Park. “I’m not sure anyone has seen him. I’m worried he might try to shock the crowd.”

“Nothing’s going to shock the crowd more than Jimmy Short dressed in his version of Cousin Eddie’s robe while handling an RV hose and telling everyone the shitter’s full.”

Taran shivers in disgust. “He didn’t need to add the smell to it. Unnecessary touch.”

“I know. I saw Sherry crinkle her nose.”

“The guys from the hardware store loved it, though—really got into t he Christmas Vacation spirit,” Taran says. “And from what Aunt Cindy told me, she thinks Sherry might be privately involved with someone from the hardware store.”

“What does privately involved mean? And I thought she was with Beatrice’s ex?” I ask as Taran adjusts my hair. It took a while to get the bouffant right, but I’d say we got pretty close. It helps that my hair is red and so was Judy Garland’s in the movie.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

Because Antlers Antiques is so cluttered, with little space to host a competition, we’re having the live-action Upcycle Christmas in Ornament Park on the stage. There’s a tent for contestants to get ready in, but we haven’t seen Cole or Max, which makes me think…did they drop out?

Wouldn’t that be the best news? Given the competition we’ve seen so far, Ursula seems to be the only threat, especially when Dr. Beatrice Pedigree lay on the stage, dressed as a bloody Bruce Willis, and shouted “yippee ki-yay, mother-fudger” before tossing a felt flame at a fake toy plane that popped confetti, imitating an explosion.

Although a thoughtful rendition of a cinematic moment, Die Hard is not exactly a Christmas movie, and even worse, the scene she reenacted was from Die Hard 2: Die Harder, which is not even close to being considered a Christmas movie, so I think we all know who’s getting last place—even if Jimmy’s robe was short enough for us to see his hairy man thighs.

“You look nervous. Are you nervous?” Taran asks.

“I mean, yeah. Last time I had to do something onstage, I tossed a lady into the river behind us.”

“First of all, you didn’t toss her. Second of all, that was a long time ago, and we’ve taken out all opportunities for you to trip. It’s why I’m going to wheel out Aunt Cindy from the crowd myself, bringing her onstage. And I’ll even set up your window for you. You just have to walk on and sit. I think you can manage that, especially with how the dress hits above your ankles so you have nothing to trip over. And I checked with Bob about the stage—it’s flat. Nothing will trip you, no obstacles; you are good.”

“I know.” I blow out a heavy breath. “But I’m still worried. I don’t think I’ll ever not worry about being in front of people.”

“I get it, but we will be right there with you. You can do this.” Taran adjusts the silver sparkly scarf that’s fixed on my head. “Show me your teeth.”

I bare my teeth to her, and she nods.

“No lipstick?” I ask.

“Nope, you’re good.”

“Okay.” I shake out my hands. “God, I felt so confident this morning. I was envisioning success while taking a shower, remembering the look on Cole’s face when he lost the other night, letting that propel me to this moment, but now…God, now I feel so shaky and scared.”

“Don’t be scared. Look around—Cole’s not even here,” Taran says. “He probably realized what stiff competition you are and didn’t want to show up anymore.”

“You think?” I ask.

“Yeah, I think so,” she replies as Ursula wraps up her Upcycle Christmas scene as Kevin McCallister, BB gun and all, setting up her version of a booby-trapped house by using all upcycled products from Antlers Antiques. We heard whispers that she’s transferring the scene over to her light display as well, which will earn her extra points.

The crowd cheers—loudly—and Ursula comes off the stage, wearing a red sweater, khakis, and a blond wig that looks more like Ellen DeGeneres circa 2000 than that eight-year-old snotty protagonist who gets away with stealing a toothbrush without an adult present.

“Great job,” I tell Ursula. “Really loved the addition of the tarantula. It looked so real.”

“Can you believe I found it at Antlers Antiques? Sherry and I were laughing so hard about how it was such kismet.”All content © N/.ôvel/Dr/ama.Org.

Insert eye roll here.

“What a gas,” I say with a smile and chuckle.

Ursula moves along, and Taran whispers, “What a gas?”

“I don’t know, this old-lady garb has brought me back to 1904, when the roads were dirt and horse-drawn carriages were the mode of transportation.”

“Clearly,” Taran says. “Okay, you’re up next. You can do this. Just think—”

The tent flaps part and Cole and Atlas shuffle in, both wearing long coats, but Cole’s face is painted green while Atlas is wearing dog ears and has a dog nose painted on his face.

What the hell are they up to?

“What’s up?” Atlas says to me with a nod. He scans me up and down. “Recreating the magical scene from last year?”

“Yes, we thought it would be a nice ode to Aunt Cindy…given her condition.”

Atlas slowly nods. “No doubt there won’t be a dry eye in the park. Can’t wait to see it.”

“Thank you,” I say as Cole shifts uncomfortably next to Atlas. “You’re looking rather green, Cole. Nauseated maybe?”

“Funny,” he says, not smiling. “Don’t trip while you’re up there.”

My eyes narrow at him.

“Don’t listen to him,” Taran says into my ear. “He’s trying to get under your skin.”

“No, I’m not,” Cole says. “Just wishing her good luck. I want nothing more than for her to sprinkle everyone with Christmas spirit.”

“Which is exactly what she’s going to do,” Taran says. “Just watch how my sister makes everyone weep.”

“Weep with embarrassment for performing a used set,” Cole mutters.

“What was that?” I ask, stepping up to him.

“You heard me, Taylor.”

“Taylor?” I ask. “Oh, are we going by last names now?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not, especially when I blow right by you in this competition.”

“What a lame comeback.”

From the side of the stage, Bob Krampus says, “Storee, you’re next.”

“Break a leg…please,” Cole says with a grin.

“Lose a testicle…please,” I say as I reach up and drag my finger over his cheek, wiping a large smear of green off his face.

Atlas gasps next to us. “Ah, she ruined your makeup. It took me ten minutes to get that right.”

“Looks like you have a minute to fix it,” I say, feeling all the confidence in the world now.

I wait to make my entrance, and I can hear them shuffling around trying to fix Cole’s face as Bob introduces me. Head held high, I pose myself with shoulders tilted back, hands clasped in front of me, and while Taran rolls out the window, I walk onstage with elegance, not tripping once. The crowd cheers.

And as Ornament Park quiets down, the music starts playing and I position myself at the window, looking slightly up to the sky. Judy Garland’s beautiful voice rings through the speakers while I mouth the words. I can feel the sentiment in the air as everyone’s attention is on me. Chills break out over my arms as the lightest of snow showers starts falling across the park, adding perfectly to the moment, and as Aunt Cindy is rolled up onstage, tucked into a pile of blankets, she holds out her hand to me and I take it through the window, singing to her now.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a few people dabbing at their eyes, and when the song is over, the crowd erupts into the loudest cheer of the day. We’ve won this competition as well.

For the final cherry on top of the already first-place cake, I lean in and press a soft kiss to Aunt Cindy’s cheek before standing up and waving to everyone. With a final flourish, I hurry offstage, wanting to ge t into the warm tent as quickly as possible while Taran takes care of Aunt Cindy.

Nailed it.

I absolutely nailed it, and I’ve never been prouder of myself than in this moment.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, will be able to take this away from me.

I got over my fears.

I performed.

I made Aunt Cindy proud and—

I come to a halt right at the entrance of the warm tent as I take in the scene unfolding.

Both Atlas and Cole are standing in front of me, sans coats…and shirtless.

Atlas is in a tiny pair of brown shorts, shoeless, his ripped chest and hard nipples on full display along with his dog ears dangling over the sides of his face.

And then Cole…

Oh.

My.

God.

Cole.

He…he looks unreal.

Wearing a pair of brown lederhosen with red stitching—which I saw the other day in Antlers Antiques—his ripped, yet green, chest is on full display. Thick, muscular pecs, trimmed chest hair, bulky shoulders, and carved arms…my God. And I have no idea what kind of makeup work Atlas did, if any, but Cole’s stomach looks like it was carved out of clay, the definition of each ab so prominent that he’s going to have every human in the crowd wanting to reach out and see if he’s real.

Not to mention, the lederhosen are short, showing off his impressive thighs and calves.

But it’s the green all over his body that’s sending me because somehow, it’s highlighting every ripple of muscle he possesses, every curve, every contour. And I hate to admit it, truly…truly hate it, but holy shit, he’s hot.

The two of them together look like Christmas Chippendales, ready to strip down and give everyone a show. And I’m in the crowd, ready to watch.

“Cole, you’re up,” Bob shouts.

Cole steps forward, but then stops right next to me. “Get a good look?” he asks, shocking me right out of my green-muscle trance.

“Yes,” I say, chin held high, not wanting him to see one ounce of my appreciation for the view. “And it’s confirmed—you look like a jackass.”

He lightly nods. “That’s not what the drool from the corner of your mouth is telling me.”

And with that, he steps around me and then up the steps, where he waits for Bob to announce him.

“I wasn’t drooling,” I say to myself, even though his back’s toward me and he’s not giving me the time of day.

Huff.

I was not drooling…at least not physically.

Maybe in my head I was.

Most definitely in my head.

Cole

“If this doesn’t win us first place, I’m firing you,” I say from the side of my mouth to Max.

“Trust me, this is going to get us first place. Sherry is going to lose her mind when she gets a load of these bodacious bods.”

“Can you not say dumb shit like that?”

“It’s true, though. Farm chores have done us a lot of good. Get ready to be ogled.”

He’s not wrong about the farm work.

“Okay, but I’m standing my ground on the hip thrusting. There will be no hip thrusting.”

“Dude,” he groans. “We talked about this. You have to hip thrust at the end. You’ll make her wet.”

“Ew, Jesus fuck, man. I don’t want to make a seventy-year-old woman wet. Show some respect.”

“I am,” he counters. “Seventy-year-olds deserve to be wet too.”

“Can we stop saying wet?” I shout-whisper.

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“No, you did,” I counter.

“Yeah, but you’re the one who brought up the pelvic thrust.”

“Because I don’t want to do it.”

“You’re doing it!” Max says just as our music starts and Bob introduces us.

Max’s plan is simple—put a spin on a Christmas classic. He mixed some audio on his computer to create the perfect soundtrack. How he learned to do that, I have no idea, but he did, and now we’re recreating a scene from The Grinch.

I start over by the stairs, out of view while Max struts like a dog down the stage where he’s going to sit, letting his “package,” as he put it, hang for the crowd to gawk at.

Then, as audio from The Grinch plays—the scene where the Grinch is trying to find something to wear to the Whos’ party—I’m going to toss clothes from Antlers Antiques on the stage until it’s time for me to flash a leg. That’s when I make my appearance, and the sound is mixed with some Thunder from Down Under-type jam—something not only Sherry will love but also Martha and Mae, which will bode well for us in the long run.

It’s stupid.

It’s ridiculous.

There is zero dignity and not an ounce of merit.

But it will cater to Sherry’s wild side—we hope. Or else we’re going to look like a couple of dumbasses.

The sound starts, and just as planned, Max “gets on his hind legs” and pants like a goddamn moron while I toss out the clothes. The crowd laughs, but it does nothing to boost my confidence because I know what I look like.

Painted all in green, sporting these fucking green hairy sideburns Max said were necessary, and wearing goddamn lederhosen, I feel like a dick.

Especially since Max said there was no way he was going to allow me to wear a mask. “They need to see your handsome face,” he said.

Well…they’re going to see it all right, and a whole lot more.

With the crowd roaring and Max panting like an asshole out on the stage, I wish I at least had a bag covering my face so no one knew my real identity.

The sound halts, and just as Max planned, “I Am the Grinch” by Fletcher Jones starts playing—my cue to join Max onstage. I glance behind me and catch Storee staring at me, arms crossed, looking none too pleased with the setup. It’s the last bit of courage I need to walk out on that stage, because I’ll be damned if Storee wins this.

So I flash my leg to the crowd, teasing them with the green lederhosen, wool socks, and hiking boots, and when it’s time, I walk out in front of what looks to be the entire town, way out of my goddamn element.

But the hoots and the hollers that ring out over the crowd…they do something to me.

And I’m not proud of this, okay? But fuck…it gives me a pep to my step, a boost in the britches…a lift in the lederhosen. And before I know it, I’m going for it. The music plays in the background, the cardboard backdrop we made last night adds flair to the scene, and Max pants next to me, hands held up to his chest like the good little dog that he is.

It just…

It…makes me think…

And up on the stage, Cole thought of something he’d never thought before:

Perhaps he’s been missing out, perhaps…these cheers, he wants more.

And then what happened next? Some in Kringletown might say

that Cole’s repressed ego grew three sizes that day.

I spin around—the catcalls resound through the park.

I flash my jazz hands—the squeals feed my brimming mood.

And when I smooth my hands over my backside and give it a wiggle, I feel a pulse of adrenaline shoot right through me. I turn toward the crowd, their hands raised joyfully in the air, smiles stretching across faces, mouths agape…

I am killing it!

I am entertaining.

I am owning this fucking audience!

And as the music builds and builds, I know what’s next.

I spin again, point to Max, and with a wink from him, I turn back to the crowd and end the show with a solid pelvic thrust, right into the air.

The crowd goes wild.

Mae Bawhovier faints into Martha.

And Sherry leans on the edge of her judging chair, licking her lips.

She wants this.

They want this.

Everyone wants this!

Max stands from his squat, takes my hand in his, and we both raise our arms and take a bow as we soak in the chants, the cheers, the praise for a job well done.

And I know for a fact that we’re winning this.

Storee might have pulled at the crowd’s heartstrings, but as Max put it, we pulled at the judge’s weakness. Sherry Conrad, a closet perv, can’t resist a shirtless man, and we took advantage.

If they’re going to use Cadaver Cindy, then we will use our bodies.

All’s fair in love and jingle jangling, right?

And let me tell you…my jangle was jingling. It was jingling all over that stage.

We walk off the stage together, Bob Krampus giving us both a raised brow as we pass, but we just smile at him and head into the tent, where Storee’s standing, hands on her hips. She looks pissed. An angry Storee I can enjoy.

I walk right up to her, lean forward, and whisper in her ear, “You’re playing with fire, so you’re going to get burned.”

She stiffens next to me. “That wasn’t even remotely close to a scene from a movie. At no time does the Grinch pelvic thrust at the crowd.”

“Hmm, I guess we’re watching two different versions then.” I pat her shoulder and head toward the back, where Max is holding a bottle of water for me.

“Dude,” he whispers. “You thrusted.”

I nod. “I thrusted.”

“That one thrust, man, it was like a cosmic boom that shook the whole town. I saw trees faint.”

Usually, I’d tell Max he was stupid for saying such an idiotic thing, but I’m high on adrenaline and the glory of a job well done. So I say, “I saw it too, man. I saw those trees faint too. It was magical.”

Max grips my shoulder.

“It sure was.”