Elf Reporting [FICTION]

Life in a box gets boring fast. Even when that box has a nice plastic window so you can gaze out at the world and all he potential friends who peer into your box from time to time. At least the store makes the effort to make every aisle feel like home at this time of year. Across from me, a display shows other adorable elves, just like me, cavorting on snow flocking. Nearby, a yeti, a slightly less adorable elf wielding a drill, and a reindeer with such a terrible cold that his nose glows red sing carols to an angel perched atop a tiny stable. Hidden amongst more flocking, faux evergreen trees promise gifts to come to all the good little girls and boys if they make the trees beautiful and obey their parents. I can’t wait to be part of that process, but first someone has to pick my box and invite me into their home.

Today, I earn my wings, or my shelf. The handsome man with the piercing blue eyes and jet black curls grins at me as picks up my box. I smile back at him, but then again, I smile at everyone. 

“Time to come home, Elf.” He continues grinning at me.

I sigh internally. Apparently, I have been christened the most generic name ever bestowed on my kind. But now I have a home. And what a home. This guy’s house proves both clean and spacious. My shelf offers a great view of the whole room. And he doesn’t seem to have any children. No sticky hands reaching for me. No fights over who gets to play with me next. Of course, this means no marshmallow bubble baths in an over-sized mug and no antics to perform daily, which allows young elves like myself to get energy out for long hours of sitting immobile and observing young humans. After the first day, my new friend doesn’t bother to move me—at all. A nice young woman does dust me and my shelf off once a week and boop my nose, and he has lots of conversations on speakerphone to listen in on.

As night falls, I prepare for my first report to the head office. My subject doesn’t seem to be concerned that he won’t receive the best gifts from Mr. Claus, since he barely acknowledges me. Lucky for him, he models good behavior and does have some lovely holiday decor for me to admire while I wait on my shelf for something to happen.

I have my pick of shiny surfaces to check that my hat hasn’t fallen askew and my standard issue red pajamas still speak of Christmas and warmth and Santa’s arrival. My subject, whose name I still haven’t heard, snores loudly from his bedroom, so the time has arrived. I close my eyes and think of home. Tapping my red-covered heels together and thinking “there’s no place like home” isn’t necessary, but I do it anyway. When the air feels a bit cooler and the scent of peppermint offers its welcome, I open my eyes. I look down the hallway at doors derated in various versions of red, white, and green delight. I walk down the hall until I reach the correct door.

I take a deep breath and step into the office labeled “President of Naughty/Nice Relations”. The interview starts out as maudlin as one would expect with questions about the behavior of my subject. Then it takes on a different feeling.

“You have lucked into a prime location, my friend. ‘The National Enquirer’ wants information that only you can get for them.”

Perplexed, I stare at the president. “What do you mean?”

“How do you think we subsidize the increased cost of materials for those billions of toys?”

His words only heighten my confusion.

“Son, we need you to give us the dirt on your ‘owner’, Dustin Green, the country star.”

“Who now?”

“You don’t know you have been living with a celebrity for the last week? Where have you been, son?”

“In a box, in storage until about a month ago.”

“Don’t be a wise guy. Just get the info.” He waves his hand at me and I feel myself slipping back through time and space.

I land on my shelf with a plop that dislodges me from my normal perch. I scream all the way down to the enveloping softness of the plush couch. I lean my head back, take a deep breath, and promptly pass out.

“There you are, Elf. It’s your big day,” a rich deep voice pulls me back to wakefulness.

Dustin lifts me with gentle hands and places me back on my shelf. I stare back at him with wide eyes, resisting the urge to break one of cardinal rules of elfing by asking him what he means by my big day. Surely, I haven’t slept through my assignment only to awaken on Christmas Day. 

“Just hold these for me,” he winks as he places three candy canes in my lap.

I breath in the rich peppermint smell happily as he turns toward the door. The bell rings and the man dances to answer it. Since he can’t see me, I practice a few groovy steps of my own while juggling the three candy canes. 

Then the door opens and my world suddenly makes sense. Three tiny humans come barreling into the room with shrill cries of “Uncle Dusty.”

My little stuffing heart fills up so much I fear it might explode. Then it fills up again when they finish hugging their uncle and set eyes on me.

“Elf, you’re here.” 

As they fawn over me, I try to eavesdrop on Dusty and the young woman at the door. Of course, I don’t hear anything. Then the children decide a game of toss the elf is in order. I find it annoying at first, but it grows on me. By the time they lose interest, I am so dizzy that I barely remember my role as investigative reporter. Luckily, being able to focus brings important information back to the front of my mind. Especially when something newsworthy drops in my lap.

“Thank you, Dusty, the kids love you so much and I need a break.”

“I know, Darla. And I need some Christmas cheer. Maybe I’ll write a song.”

“Right. You clearly don’t spend enough time with your niece and nephews.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She laughs and pats his cheek. “By, bro. Thanks again.” Then she disappears out the door.

Dusty turns to face my little troop of believers. They have moved on to taking turns passing me around like the world’s most oddly shaped football. He laughs and joins in the fun. When he catches me, he holds me up like the trophy I am.

“I’d like to thank all my songwriters and muses for helping me win the award of best uncle ever.”

“You’re our only uncle.”

“Until your aunt Margie gets married.” They all laugh at this.

“What about it, Uncle Dusty, do you have a new song for us.”

The man’s normally tan face pales at the question, but he lowers me toward the children and waves my arms around as he speaks in a falsetto, “How about you kids help your uncle write a song for Santa?”

“Aren’t there enough of those?” The oldest boy crosses his arms and looks at the floor.

Internally, I gasp. Is he crossing over into the age of unbelief—on my watch? Luckily, Dustin’s deep rich voice belting out some classic Christmas carols brings the boy back from the brink of disaster. Over the next week, Dustin keeps using the power of music to keep the children’s spirits up. I learn that they will be leaving on Christmas Eve to be with their mom, who has been working double shifts. Dustin offered to fund their festivities, but she refused, so he is watching them instead while she earns a little extra money for Christmas. 

The children make me a bed out of a super fuzzy slipper shaped like and elf shoe, and I find it the perfect place to put thoughts to paper as I observe how wonderful Dustin is with the kids. I know everyone in America, particularly single ladies of a certain age, will thrill to hear he has all the earmarks of a loving and supportive father.

Then they spend the twenty-third finishing up his new Christmas hit, which I can tell will bring him back to the top of the charts. He even plans to release it on Christmas Eve before what he is calling his release party (in reality, Christmas Eve dinner with his sister and her kids).

Christmas Eve comes too fast yet not as quickly as I desire. Inspired by all the Christmas spirit flowing from these children, I can’t wait for the lights to go off and the sleepy sounds to fill the air. I quickly write down the specifics of Dustin Green’s inspiration for a holiday hit and dispatch it to our liaison with ‘The National Enquirer’.

The next day, he brings me in for a consult. I stand proudly before his desk. My chest puffs out and my shoulders throw themselves back. I tilt my head down just slightly to meet his eyes. He quickly adjust my posture with a few well-aimed words.

“Loved your story. Just not the way you wrote it. I will fix it up and send it out to boost holiday cheer by the next printing.”

“Pardon me.” For not wanting the job, my feelings seem awfully mangled by his review.

“You are free to go.” He waves his hand, misinterpreting my meaning.

Before I can argue, a glittering ball of magic whisks me back to my cozy shelf. 

“Humph. I think that elf needs to be added to the naughty list for stealing my story.”

Of course, before I can do anything, the phone rings, waking Dustin. He answers it groggily but quickly answers on video to bring the kids in to talk to their favorite elf, who sits motionless on his shelf while he ponders how to make right what his editor has made wrong, but that isn’t a Christmas story…

~~~

Sorry this offering arrives a day late and short of my desires for it. It seems the anti holiday spirits have tried to keep this one from seeing the light of day. Every time I work on this, someone or something interrupts. I ended up with tension headaches twice yesterday for my efforts, so be kind and enjoy.