Merry Random Christmas by Julia Kent

Author:Julia Kent [Kent, Julia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Prosaic Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

Trevor

We left Sam and Amy’s place with waves—no hugs—because who wants to hug people who’ve been puking their guts out all day? Especially on Christmas Eve.

Nobody was really desperate to hug us, either.

We walked toward the T, to take the Red Line home. I hoped the subway was still running this late, and as I started to worry we’d have to find a rare cab in the middle of the night, I was distracted by the sight of Santa Claus jacking off.

And a really strange sound, like a woman’s muffled high-pitched groans.

“It came upon a midnight clear is the name of a fucking Christmas song, man. Not an order,” I shouted to the guy behind the dumpster as we confronted him. I turned away from the shot of spooge I knew was next. That homeless dude was choking the chicken like it was about to shoot hundred dollar bills.

Chicken.

Mavis.

Aw, fuck.

An actual chicken on a leash darted by, between a dumpster behind the vegan restaurant and a Tesla Model X parked next to it.

Ah, Cambridge. Don’t ever change.

“Nothing I do will ever make her happy,” Joe declared, clearly deep in his own thoughts, his voice tight with worry and fury. I’m not sure how he managed both, but he did.

“Who, Mavis? She just ran behind that recycling dumpster.”

“Are you high? You only see Mavis out in public when you’re on something.”

Just as I was about to defend myself, the chicken ran right over Joe’s foot, dragging its leash.

“Fucking hell, Trevor, you’re not kidding. That’s Darla’s chicken!” he shouted.

“Darla has a chicken?”

“No! It’s Tortilla’s chicken! The guy she was arrested for giving a blow job to behind this vegan restaurant!”

I placed my hands on Joe’s shoulders. His eyes tracked the chicken. I forced him to make eye contact with me.

“Joe? Joey?”

“Don’t call me Joey!”

“Joseph!”

That got his attention.

“What the hell are you on?” I peered closely at his face. “Spice?”

“I’m not on anything.”

“Popsicle!” Darla cried out, appearing from the alley. She lunged, going face down in a wet puddle of half-melted snow, her Santa pants dragged around her hips as the chicken pulled at the leash, making a strange gag-cluck.

Was this really my Christmas?

“Got her!” Darla crowed.

“If I’m not on anything right now, I really need to get high after all this,” I said to no one. Joe had broken away from me and picked up the chicken, his face beaming with joy at Darla.

“You found Popsicle! She’s real!”

“Of course she’s real.”

I reached down and carefully slid my hand under the trembling chicken. She flapped her wings, the leash getting caught under one wing, her throat tight and bleating with a bizarre cluck that transported me back to Mavis.

Two and a half years ago I ate a bag of peyote and stole a chicken. I proposed to her and called her my fiancée. Last year, after Darla broke up with us, I performed a repeat, except the second time I declared Mavis a candidate for president. In Nashua, New Hampshire at a rally.

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