Page 3 of War on Christmas

He’s half bent over, wrestling his feet into suede, lace-up boots. “Don’t you get sick of it? Of hanging out with the latest crop of Sphere actors until they move onto bigger, better things and leave you behind?”

Whaddya know, Tim’s turning out to be more interesting than I gave him credit for. Not interesting enough to keep around, mind you, but I stay silent to see what he’ll say next.

“I’d say to call me when you’re ready to grow up and have a real relationship, but you know what? Don’t. I don’t care if youdohave amazing tits.”

“Aww,” I singsong, “you think my tits are amazing?”

He rips open my front door, and when it bangs off the wall, I finally allow myself to smile. Imagine if he’d been this passionate in bed.(To be fair, he didn’t get much of an audition. We only messed around a little.) He steps into the hallway, chest heaving and dark hair mussed, and I cross the apartment to stand in the doorway.

“Take care, Tom,” I say as I close the door in his face, almost laughing out loud at his expression when I deliberately call him by the wrong name.

I’m still smiling to myself ten minutes later as I drift around my apartment picking up dirty laundry and coffee mugs. My phone is squished between my ear and shoulder as I relay Tim’s magnificent exit to Leo, my best friend from work.

Leo and I are close. We bring each other take-out pho when we’re sick, and before he started dating Todd, we spent the past four Christmases together. But Leo is my third “Leo.” Jolie was my first. She showed me the ropes around Chicago until she left for LA, where she now plays a supporting role in a popular sitcom. Rebecca, my second Leo, relocated to New York after being discovered and has been in several popular Broadway musicals.

Now, our interactions consist of occasionally liking each other’s Instagram posts. Still, Leos are nice while they last. I’ve simply learned to accept that, with the exception of Thad—because there’s no escaping your twin—I’m on my own.

My current Leo guffaws with laughter.

“‘You’re going to end up alone, you know,’” he imitates with a perfect London accent. “Jesus, Freya, what did you do to him?”

“Nothing I’m proud of,” I say, then add, “but nothing I’m ashamed of either.”

That’s when I look up to see Hecate perched on the coffee table, shiny fabric hanging from her teeth. My heart gives a painful thump at the flash of silver in her mouth, and my phone crashes to the hardwood floor as I leap for her.

But it’s too late. She swallows the needle before I can stop her.

Two

JEREMY

20 days until Christmas…

“I’mtellingyou,man,you’re going to be so glad you came.” Wes, a friend from work, bounces on his toes, hands shoved into his pockets.

It’s cold. Winter in Chicago cold. The people standing in line with us huddle and shiver in pea coats and puffy coats and parkas that envelope them from neck to snowy boots. Still, they seem in good spirits as we wait for the doors to open at The Sphere, the hole-in-the-wall theater that hosts these once-a-month, off-beat burlesque shows. Wes discovered them last summer and has been bugging me to come with him ever since. According to him, they’re becoming a cult phenomenon. No advertising. Word of mouth only. First come, first served, tickets at the door. Each month there’s a new theme, and nobody knows in advance what it’s going to be. When Wes came in June, it was summer solstice themed, with the performers dressed as fairies and flowers.

I’ve been looking forward to this little adventure. I moved to Chicago a decade ago when I started working at Andersen & Sons Architecture, and all of my theater experiences have been work related. Which is to say, mainstream.Phantom of the OperaandWicked. MaybeHamiltonwhen out-of-town customers are feeling extra spicy. But The Sphere? This place is different. As we filter inside to its dozen rows of moth-eaten seats, I pick up the scents of weed, body odor, and patchouli, a nostalgic reminder of my college days.

Wes grins as we shrug out of our coats and get seated. He’s got that blond, blue-eyed, prep-school look. Like he spent his adolescence in blazers and ties eating meals that require four forks. He’s an all right guy, though.

“Glad you get to be fun again now that Elaine’s out of the picture,” he quips.

I roll my eyes. I’m not going to badmouth my ex. But he’s not wrong. Elainewasthe reason I didn’t come to one of these shows sooner. She would’ve spent the entire night nagging that it didn’t go with her “Instagram aesthetic” and that we should’ve gone toThe Nutcrackerinstead.

Personally? My eyes flit around, taking in the hipsters and black-clad college students as the house lights dim. I like this place. It’s unique and artsy. Something out of my routine.

And I think I need that.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve completely paid off my student loans, bought my condo, and got a big promotion at work. I’ve done all the right things to feel secure and safe, but to what end? So I can stick to the same boring routines? Daily gym, work, TV. Drinks on Friday or Saturday. Over and over again. Have I been busting my ass for the past seventeen years so I can keep spending Christmas alone with takeout andDie Hard?

A dragon in an orange, shimmering costume wanders onto the circular stage, dragging a long, stuffed tail, and I shrug off my dark thoughts, grinning with anticipation.

Shit is about to get weird.

“Welcome, welcome,” the dragon says, lifting his arms in greeting. The crowd goes wild, hooting and hollering. It’s the same fun, frantic energy as the showing ofThe Rocky Horror Picture ShowI went to in my early twenties. The dragon beams a Cheshire-cat smile as he waits for the cheers to die down.

“Do we have a treat in store for you tonight, folks,” he continues. “Especially for the freaks and geeks out there. You know who you are. While the rest of your classmates were worried about the school dance and who was going to be named captain of the basketball team, you were locked up in your room…” He pumps his hand like he’s jerking off, then rolls his hips. My surprised laughter gets lost as the theater goes berserk again. “Daydreaming of a faraway galaxy. Fantasizing about mythical creatures and epic quests. Tonight, my fellow dorks, is for you. Welcome to our original burlesque performance ofHardcore Nerdcore.”

---