written by Mike Boylan
The first thing Lima heard when she arrived in the kitchen was coughing. Wet, whistling coughs, each one sounding more painful than the last. It was her little brother, Paddington. He had been a sickly child and was now a sickly young adult. His nose, which started running on the day of his birth, was still dripping like a faucet today.
“Hey Li,” he said, the L sounding like a D due to his perma-congestion.
“Sup, Pad? You ok?”
“Top notch, compared to you Reject McEntire.”
Daddy swatted Paddington on the back of his head and told him to knock it off. Mama clutched her son to her bosom and kissed the top of his head.
“Don’t you hurt my baby. He still has a fontanelle.”
Paddington is a fontanelle, Lima thought to herself. One gross little soft spot over a dumb, little brain. She obviously loved her brother, but it was more the way that a person loves a friend’s pet. She’d give him a scratch behind the ear from time to time, but she felt no ownership or huge connection.
“The police called,” Lima announced. Her family froze in place, waiting to hear what she would say next. “I didn’t talk to them. Yet. Do you think I should get a lawyer?”
Daddy slammed his plate of scrapple on the table, scattering syrup-covered pig brains over the table. He held up a hand of apology to his wife and then pointed an accusatory finger at Lima.
“You think we can afford some fancy lawyer? Who’s going to defend someone who tried to kill Santa Claus? You know about The War on Christmas, don’t you? You’re basically Hitler, Hamas, and Ted Kennedy rolled into one person. Coweta County hates you right now.”
One lonely tear escaped from Lima’s eye, and made a path down her cheek before landing on her top lip. She sobbed and tasted the tear as it landed on her tongue. She could understand an entire county hating her. She hated herself too. Lima just wished she could remember what happened after she got in the Uber.
There was a hard knock on the front door and Lima’s heart jumped up into her throat and then crashed into her stomach. She felt herself get clammy and thought she might throw up all over the table. When she saw her father’s scrapple still scattered loose amongst the breakfast items, she had to turn away to keep the rising gorge at bay.
“Is someone going to get that,” Paddington whined. “The knocking is giving me a headache.”
“What if it’s the po-lice?” Mama asked the room. “I don’t want them to take my baby. I’ve seen on tv what happens in women’s prisons. She’ll be asked to put illegal things in places where the sun don’t shine.”
Prison sounds delightful, thought Lima. It would get her away from her family, and society, and her private parts would see more action than they had in years.
“I’ll get it,” Lima said, standing up and walking towards the door with heavy footfalls. She felt as if her life would turn on the next few moments. Lima wondered if she should surrender right away or try to run. She put her hand on the doorknob, closed her eyes, and turned her wrist.
“Good day, young lady. Are you Miss Lima Lee?”
Lima opened her eyes and stared at a small, elderly gentleman dressed in Victorian-era garb. His voice matched his outfit, sounding dignified and as smooth as butter when you first open the tub. She wasn’t sure who he was, but he was clearly not with the police.
“Yes sir. Can I help you?”
“Why yes, I believe you can. My name is Ellis Crook and I would like to hire you.”
Ellis Crook? The Coweta business magnate? He was like Elon Musk and Steve Jobs in the body of one of the hecklers on The Muppet Show. What kind of job did he want to hire Lima for? And why? She thought she would be persona non grata around these parts and yet, here was Coweta’s own Granddaddy Warbucks at her front door.
“Uh, please come in,” Lima said, gesturing for the man to enter their cluttered foyer. Lima’s mother scurried over and removed two bras that were hanging off the bannister.
“Do you have plans for Christmas Eve?” Ellis Crook asked.
“Well, we usually open one present before going to Golden Corral and then Mass.”
“Family tradition, sir,” Daddy said. He had removed his Federal Booty Inspector cap and held it against his chest as a sign of respect.
“I see, well, I’m hoping to convince you to buck tradition this year and perform at the Ells Crook Christmas Eve Spectacular Extravaganza and Light Show. I’ve taken to calling it the ECCE SELS for brevity’s sake.”
“Perform? Me?”
“I’ve been following your career since you placed fifth in “Coweta Got Mad Talent, Yo” twelve years ago. I always thought you’d make an impact and it turns out I was right. That song about Wafflin’ has me tapping my toes all day long.”
Lima couldn’t believe her luck. Instead of the entire county hating her, this fine, proper, Southern gentleman with a voice like a snobby butler was giving her a chance to redeem herself in front of the entire county.
“I’ll do it. Thank you, Mr. Crook.”
“Just a second, young lady, you can’t just quit a tradition. What about Golden Corral? Your brother loves getting close to all the entrees and the chocolate fountain.”
“Oh Daddy, we can go the next day. Or the day after that. Please?”
“Mr. Crook, is this a paying gig? Mama asked. The man chortled and took Mama’s hands in his.
“Of course, my dear. Why this will be the biggest thing to happen here since Edward Furlong parachuted onto the field during the East Coweta -Newnan game when he was here to film “Pet Sematary 2.”
I’m going to be a star, Lima thought.
NOTE: Chapter 1 and Chapter 12 will be written by Harold. Chapters 2 through 11 will be written by separate guest writers in order to create a fresh, improvised, and unpredictable Christmas story. Want to write the next chapter? Contact us on social media or email! First to volunteer will be the confirmed writer for the next chapter and we will not be editing the STORY of any submissions (just small grammar/spelling msitakes), so give your best effort, but take the story wherever you want to take it. We welcome the chaos. The chapters should be between 500 and 1,000 words.
Newnan Time with Harold 