Almond (ONC2021)

Chapter 2 - Christmas Nemesis

It was almost noon by the time I was able to convince myself that I had simply misread the note. The human brain, though soft and mushy, was naturally tethered to reality, and eventually, it reeled my imagination back in. Still, I tucked the "98" note into my pocket in the event I found more almonds. No one was changing the math again without me witnessing it.

I didn't consider myself a superstitious person. Sure, I avoided black cats, didn't walk under ladders, or leave the couch on Friday the Thirteenth, but those were all pretty standard precautions. Nor did I firmly believe in any folklore or urban legends, unless I was put into a position where they may seem plausible. For example, Beth and I vacationed one year in Scotland on the shore of Loch Ness. During the day, while solidly on dry land I didn't believe in the nonsense that was the Loch Ness Monster and ridiculed those who did. But I had to admit, walking the shore at night or swimming in the always-dark water, well, it had a much different vibe—a cautionary tingle in the spine that said what-if.

So, it was with a lot of what-ifs in my head that I proceeded with the day. My grand plan—a sweeping romantic gesture to Beth—was to have the house fully decorated for Christmas by the time she came home. Within a couple of hours, I had purchased a lush six-foot pine tree, lugged all the Christmas boxes up from the basement, and had finished most of the decorating. I popped open the last box and narrowed my eyes in spite.

It was him.

My annual December nemesis.

Santa Bear.

I'm sure that it's technically impossible to have a reciprocal feud with a stuffed animal, considering one-half of the warring factions is an inanimate toy. But every year I did my part to maintain the animosity. And every year Santa Bear ignored my provocations. I knew just by looking at him that he had no respect for my position of authority, despite my clearly being second-in-command in our two-person household.

He didn't look anything like Santa Claus. No beard. No belly. He wasn't even dressed in red. Instead, his vest and hat were green and lined with little silver bells, clearly the uniform of Christmas's subservient toy-making race.

Santa Bear was a teddy bear that didn't look anything like Santa.

Santa Bear was a teddy bear that was dressed like an elf but didn't look anything like an elf.

Creatively, I was offended by every aspect of his existence. Nothing about the little bastard made sense. Nothing—which is also what he brought to the table. He wasn't animatronic. He didn't dance, or sing, or read stories. He just sat there, doing nothing.

Despite all of these red flags, Santa Bear held a level of holiday esteem in this house that was unmatched. Each year Beth placed him under the tree, front and center, prime real estate, with a pillow to prop him up since the little shit wouldn't even stand up on his own. When the gifts started piling up, she'd arrange them into an ever-growing pedestal upon which the stuffed animal sat like a king.

The reality was, regardless of my animosity, Santa Bear was untouchable. He'd been Beth's beloved Christmas bear for over twenty years. That was longer than I'd even known her. Two decades of nostalgia were an impenetrable suit of armor. His stupid hat and vest may as well have been made from Kevlar.

Normally, the "privilege" of placing the bear never fell to me. Beth would lift him lovingly from his box, cradle him like a baby, and ooh and aah over him just long enough to make me grind my teeth. Then she'd set him up in his spot of honor. But it was all me this year.

I pulled him out of the box by his hat which was sown to his head, so the moron didn't lose it, and carried his jingling ass over to the tree. Using a shoebox as support I sat him in the spot I thought Beth would pick. Throughout the process, I never praised him and avoided all eye contact. I'd play nice for Beth, but not too nice.