Runaway: an unorthodox Christmas tale

"Runaway"
A Short Story

         You know, I'm at the point in life now where I don't feel the need to pretend to be someone I'm not. I don't care anymore whether or not I impress anyone, or turn anyone off, for that matter. Maslow might've called this state self-actualization.

         I just call it not really giving a shit.

         Anyway, I was at home, late tonight, mid-December, randomly perusing through names from the past in Facebook. We all do it, but I've been doing it a lot more than usual lately. I've felt a bit of a void in my life of late. I can't totally describe it. It's not as if things are going particularly badly or anything, it's just more that things... aren't quite what I feel they could be. Something's missing. Sartre might call it a God-shaped hole. But, me, well...

         I just call it not really giving a shit.

         And, really, I guess that's the problem. If you feel like you really don't care, it inevitably takes the zest out of anything you're doing. Sure, things may be moving along just fine externally-speaking, or even if they aren't, it may not be getting to you all that much, but, still... at what cost? Is desensitization, is apathy, the way to go about all this? To go about... life?

         As I pondered these things, on the wall above me hung something called the Elf on the Shelf. Said elf resembles a barbie doll in red jester Christmas clothing. It is supposed to keep watch of the kids, charged with scaring them into doing good under the pretense that it'll rat them out to Santa if they're not. And if that happens, their Christmas bounty won't be quite as good as a result. So woe be Christmas tidings.

         And it was below this elf, and below that shelf, that I thought about my predicament, so to speak, of this life-pervading-not-giving-a-shit-ness. And as I did so, I clicked on someone's Facebook site who I didn't know, a random friend of a friend who wasn't really a friend. And a Kanye West song started playing, a song that really resonated at the moment. It was a song called "Runaway."

         Here is what I heard:

                   Let's have a toast for the douchebags
                   Lets have a toast for the assholes
                   Let's have a toast for the scumbags
                   Every one of them that I know.
                   Let's have a toast for the jerk-offs
                   That'll never take work off,
                   Baby, I got a plan,
                   Run away as fast as you can.

         And I began feeling chills. This noted egomaniac, Mr. West, was speaking directly to me. I could relate to exactly what he was saying. To all the days I cruised through my own job, one designed for the service of people, never really caring about those people at all. To all those days I nonetheless threw myself pointlessly into this work, caring about nothing except whether my self-imposed deadlines would be met, about whether my next promotion would be attained, about whether I could make that extra ten-grand to afford the new deck I always wanted outside, for nothing more than improving my home's resale value. Not thinking about the toll all those extra hours would take on my spouse, on my kids.

         I thought about how the Christmas season had become nothing more than a nuisance for me: a longer commute home because of the extra shopping traffic along the way. All the extra toy commercials that distracted from my TV viewing enjoyment. The necessity of writing holiday cards to people I hadn't talked to for years, other than writing them through yearly holiday cards. It was clear I had become a veritable Grinch. I didn't like what I had become. And almost immediately the thought struck me: how could other people like me, either? And why didn't I care anymore?

         As all these thoughts came crashing down within my ears, a chilling piano interlude concluded outside of them, and Kanye began singing again:

                   And I always find, yeah, I always find something wrong
                   You've been putting up with my shit for way too long.
                   I'm so gifted at finding at what I don't like the most
                   So I think it's time for us to have a toast,
                   Let's have a toast for the douchebags
                   Let's have a toast for the assholes
                   Let's have a toast for...

         And, suddenly, I began singing along too. Wholeheartedly. The first time I had really felt in a while.

         The song went on like that. And I sang along some more. By the end, I was in tears. I couldn't wait to hear it again, so I googled it, found it, and played it again.

         I played it again, and again, and again, and sang along to it, again and again. By the fourth or fifth time, however, I realized a third voice could be heard in the room, a voice other than mine and Kanye's. It was coming from directly above me.

         It was coming from the elf.

         "Let's have a toast for the douchebags," it sang.
         "Lef's have a toast for the assholes," I replied, blinking.

         "Let's have a toast for the scumbags," it said.
         "Everyone of them that I know," I answered, sighing.

         "Let's have a toast for the jerk-offs," sang the elf.
         "That'll never take work off," I sang, nodding.

         "Baby, I got a plan," we crooned together.
         "Run away as fast as you can."

         At that point, my wife walked downstairs. She observed me lying on the floor in a crumpled, sobbing heap. She couldn't get me out of that state. I apparently babbled on and on about the elf on the shelf singing Kanye West songs, about how no one liked me. She grew concerned. She said the elf was just sitting there, quietly, like always, and, honey, are you all right, God honey, I'm worried about you. Then the kids came downstairs too. They were worried too.

         They all hugged and kissed me, despite myself, and things got fuzzy.

                   * * *

         It's Christmas morning now. They tell me I'll be released from the mental facility within a week if everything progresses according to schedule. Of course they told me that last week too.

         There are no elfs, no shelfs, no Kanye Wests in this room, so I don't know what to think. There is an orderly here, however. He extends his hand and delivers me a cup of water. I smile as a tear comes to my eye. He leaves.

         And I offer up a toast.

THE END