I did not give in. I did not invite that little terror to live in my house and torture my kids or me. I did not make more work for me every day leading up to Christmas. I had enough to do with finding and wrapping presents and baking cookies and planning parties and putting up the tree and getting my husband to string up the lights and the garland. You know the lists that await us if we want our children to have the perfect holiday season. No wonder our mothers were so exhausted by the time the new year rolled in.
Yet here I sit, staring at Elvis, the elf on the shelf. Grandma bought him and grandma named him. And he does look a little lonesome tonight, hanging out on his shelf in blue-suede shoes I made myself because why wouldn’t I? But I have a feeling our little friend has been up to more than just sitting on the shelf and not because I am planning to plop him into a giant mug for a faux cocoa bath before the kids get up. Something just isn’t right about his cheerful blue eyes. Is there a hint of mischief? A taint of guilt?
I shake my head. This is ridiculous. No matter what yarns I spin for the children, that elf does not move. He also has nothing to do with my current dilemma. This is the second day in a row that I have opened my wallet to find it is short a twenty dollar bill. What on earth would an elf do with twenty dollars, especially a stuffed one? But it couldn’t be my toddlers. I didn’t take them anywhere to buy anything and my feet are painfully familiar with every toy cluttering up our house, so where did the money go.
I open my wallet again, shuffling through its contents one more time to be sure that it has gone from five twenties down to two in the past three days. “That’s so odd.” I mutter to myself, glancing at Elvis as I set my wallet back down on the counter.
Did his lips just twist into a smirk for a fraction of a second? I shudder and shake my head. I don’t dare ask my husband if he borrowed the money. I don’t want him to think I am losing my mind. Of course, I might be, since my plans this evening involve sneaking downstairs to spy on an inanimate object. For the moment, however, I must return to the task at hand.
I select a giant blue mug shaped like a grinning penguin and gently place Elvis inside. I sprinkle a little cocoa powder around the rim and carefully place a few cotton ball marshmallows in his lap. I pat him on the head.
“Enjoy your bath.”
No response from my tiny friend. “I really am losing it.”
“Yes, you are.”
I jump.
“Calm down. It’s just me.” My husband says from behind me as he steps in to kiss me on the top of my head.
“Sorry. I was just focused on making this perfect.” I assure him.
“I know, honey, but the kids don’t care if it is perfect. You could just put him on a different piece of furniture every day and their imaginations would fill in the rest.”
“Says you.” I turn around to stick my tongue out at him.
“Can we go to bed now?” He asks.
“Of course.” I follow him up the stairs, taking one last peek over my shoulder before Elvis is out of sight. He smiles back at me unflinchingly from his fake cup of cocoa.
I wait until my husband’s even breathing morphs into light snores and slowly slip out of bed. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs and listen. No noises interrupt the evening calm. I tiptoe down the stairs, hugging the wall to avoid any creaky steps giving me away.
A voice in my head nags me the whole way down. “This is ridiculous. You are sneaking up on a toy. You are going to end up in the mental hospital.”
That voice disappears instantly as I reach the bottom of the stairs and peek into the kitchen. On the counter, Elvis sits with his legs dangling over the edge. He has a tiny cell phone pressed to his ear. My face wrinkles in distaste as I give a moment’s thought to where he might have been hiding such a thing. Then a frown takes its place I realize he has tossed his blue suede shoes aside.
I hear soft shushing sound that must be his voice, but I can’t make out any of the words. They stop and he closes the cell phone, hopping lightly down from the counter and taking long hopping strides toward the living room. I fully expect him to disappear up the chimney, but he waves his hands while mumbling something and the cat door flap opens for him. He slips through and out onto the street.
Should I follow him?
More importantly, did anyone think I wouldn’t? I peer out the long skinny window next to the door to see what he is doing. He bops his head up and down.
“Huh?” I clap my hand to my mouth to squash the sound.
Elvis doesn’t notice. He looks up and down the street quickly to reassure himself that all the good boys and girls have retired to their beds. He doesn’t look around again after that first glance. As he passes in front of my neighbors’ house, I open the door as narrowly as I can and still squeeze through. I send up a silent prayer of thanks that I dressed in navy blue jeans and a dark sweater.
While Elvis struts down the sidewalk as if nothing terrible could happen if anyone saw him, I slink through the shadows. I even appreciate the overgrown bushes at the intersection that normally make me fear for my safety since no one can see around them. He never turns around. He never stops bopping to whatever tunes he has chosen for this late night meander.
Eventually, the residential neighborhoods give way to a city street. I stop just under the last row of trees and observe him. He stops dancing and pulls the tiny cell phone out of the little pocket on his plush red coat. He squares his tiny little shoulders and marches boldly into an establishment called Carl’s Karaoke. I cross the street slowly and stand outside the door.
I let a couple more minutes elapse before I muster up the gumption to open the door and step inside. A fog machine works overtime giving the room a smoky ambiance. As the door closes behind me, I peer into the darkened interior, hoping I haven’t already been spotted. After playing “Where’s Elvis?” for a few minutes, I finally spot him. He stands on a table at the front of the room, peering into an open binder as a portly gentleman in a white t-shirt and sagging khakis turns the pages and points at a line on the page. After a few page turns and brief arguments, they finally agree. The portly gentleman steps to the microphone.
“He’s back again, ladies and gentlemen, the king of karaoke, Elf-is. And he says he has a new Christmas classic for you.” His voice is deep and resonates through the room, waking up a woman who was dozing in the corner.
He leans down to lift Elvis, Elf-is, to his shoulder and raises the microphone to his tiny toy mouth. He motions to a pimply-faced college student hunched over a laptop and the first strains of “Jailhouse Rock” pour out of the speakers. I take a seat in the back and watch mesmerized as Elvis begins to sing in a disturbingly reedy voice.
“Santa threw a party on the workshop floor
The reindeer band was there and they began to wail
The band was jumpin' and the joint began to swing
You should've heard them merry toy makers sing
Let's rock everybody, let's rock
Everybody on the North Pole block
Was dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Elfie Gumdrop played the tenor saxophone
Little Joe was blowin' on the slide trombone
The drummer boy from train-carving went crash, boom, bang
The whole rhythm section was the Candy Cane Gang
Let's rock everybody, let's rock
Everybody on the North Pole block
Was dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Gingersnap said to Cranberry
"You're the cutest little elf I ever did see
I sure would be delighted with your company
Come on and do the Workshop Rock with me"
Let's rock…
Misty Toes was sittin' on a block of stone
Way over in the corner sippin’ cocoa alone
Santa Claus said, "hey, shorty, don't you be no square
If you can't find a partner, whittle one over there"
Let's rock everybody, let's rock
Everybody on the North Pole block
Was dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Fizzle Cake said to Hugs, "For Heaven's sake
No one's lookin' now's our chance to take a shake"
Hugsy turned to Fizzle and he said, "Nix, Nix
I want to stick around a while and get my kicks"
Let's rock everybody, let's rock
Everybody on the North Pole block
Was dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock
Dancin' to the Workshop Rock”
He finished the song to a smattering of applause and one drunken request for an encore. As he stepped down from the stage, his eyes rested on me and his triumphant smile faded. He slowly turned his head all the way around, sending a shudder up my spine. But he didn’t run. That bold little sack of cloth hopped down from the stage and came to greet me.
“I see you found me out, mom.” He calls out to be heard from the floor.
“Don’t call me that.” I pick him up so we can be face to face.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t resist. “What would you like me to call you?” He grins.
“Um… I don’t know.” I say. “But I do want you to stop stealing from me.”
He sighs and pulls my most recent missing twenty out of his shirt and hands it to me. “It was good while it lasted. At least I have a ride home after this, my final performance.”
I sigh. “Maybe it won’t have to be your final performance.” I offer as I head toward the door. “The kids would love to hear your songs, I’m sure.”
“Leaving without buying an elf a drink?” He asks, turning to gaze longingly at the bar.
“You shouldn’t be drinking.” I turn my head to frown at him.
“But their cocoa is so good…”
“Because they put a shot of something in it?”
“Oh, yes, cream?”
“Do you mean crème de menthe.”
“No. Crème de vache.” Now he is looking at me like I am crazy. “Or as you would call it, milk.”
I am carrying on a conversation with a doll, so he isn’t wrong. “Oh. I can make you that.”
“Would you?”
“To keep you from stealing from me, sure.”
“Great. Let’s go.”
I step out onto the sidewalk and as the door closes, he announces dramatically, “Elf-is has left the building.”
~~This is due on Friday, which is actually Christmas Day. It occurs to me that my dear readers might be buried under piles of cookies and wrapping paper after spending the day doing exciting things, with family even if only virtually. On a side note, I claim no ownership of the fine musical works of the non-Elf Elvis. Feel free to buy an album with the song or movie of the same name that was mentioned within this fun story from a legally licensed seller. If I weren’t worried about copyright law and people suing me for traumatizing them for life, I could make a video of my rendition of this Christmassy version of the song though. Maybe I should stop and wish you a Merry Christmas before you flee this page.~~
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