SOME TWENTY-ODD HOURS after the psychopath left, Mike’s chair pushed far enough out of reach to tease, his wrists handcuffed to the bed frame, a strip of duct tape firm and sticky against his mouth, someone rings the doorbell.
Three years ago, before Jamie, there was Tiffany. She was perky, one of those girls who had too many aspirations: fitness trainer, nutritionist, talk show host, celebrity—the least and most attainable of which was life coach. She was hired as an assistant, but viewed Mike as a life coach project, someone to practice her insanity on before she reached the point of charging for her inspirational pushiness. They didn’t last long together. Six months. Long enough for him to find Jamie. Six months of healthy food, no soda, no weed, cheery Post-its next to his sink reminding him to Brush Your Teeth! and Don’t Forget to Smile! Six months of misery. The sole reminder of the Tiffany servitude now exists in a white box that sits atop his fridge. It connects wirelessly to a cheap doorbell mount on the front door, and plays a cheery tune when the doorbell button is suppressed. There were twenty-two tunes to choose from, but it was December when Tiffany installed it, so “Jingle Bells” was chosen. The button, a cheap white piece, permanently affixed to the brick with liquid nails, sticks if pressed too aggressively, causing “Jingle Bells” to play on repeat until the button is gently worked free.
The visitor this morning was an aggressive type. Probably a delivery. Jamie knows his hatred of the bell. It’s been discussed, amid clouds of reefer smoke, sticking the entire box into the fireplace and lighting the shit on fire. But it has become a source of humor, a way to bring back up the ridiculousness that was Tiffany. So they had left it. And now, that decision is causing this aggressive visitor’s push of the bell to stick, starting an incessant repeat of “Jingle Bells” to blare loudly through the space. Propped up against the bed, Mike sends a curse out to whomever is listening.
One round of cheery chorus.
Two rounds.
Three.
Four.
Thirty.
Seventy-two.
He vows to stop counting at one hundred, but gets up to two hundred and thirty-nine choruses before he manages to, while in the confines of holiday hell, his right shoulder now just a roar of dull pain, fall asleep.