God Hates Us All by Jonathan Grotenstein, Hank Moody

can imagine her, thirty years from now, playing canasta with a long brown cigarette dangling from her mouth. Strangely, I don’t find this a turnoff.
    “
Gesundheit
,” I reply.
    “It’s a jelly donut.”
    I should admit that hooking up with one of the Kirschen-baum elves has long been a fantasy of mine. In the past, they’ve seemed remote and unattainable, like supermodels. But now that I’ve spent a little time next to supermodels, an elf from the Island doesn’t feel like such a stretch. “If I wereSanta,” I say, accepting a donut, “I don’t think I’d let you out of the workshop.”
    She’s already moving away with the tray. “Be careful,” she says over her shoulder. “Bad boys usually wind up with coal in their stocking.”
    “What was that?” asks Tana, who at some point has materialized behind me.
    “Just me figuring out what I want for Christmas this year.”
    “Uh, hi,” she says, annoyed that I haven’t bothered to turn around. My jaw drops open when I do.
    “Holy shit,” I say. “Look at you.”
    Tana is definitely something to look at. A short black cocktail dress makes the most of her already formidable cleavage. And heels. Tana
never
wears heels. “Who are you trying to impress? Is Bono coming this year?”
    “You could just tell me I look great,” she says.
    “You look great. But you could have just looked around the room and gotten the same opinion.” Indeed, most of the heads are turned her way, their faces forming a continuum between “sneaking glance” and “drooling stare.”
    Tana blushes. “I need a drink,” she says.
    A few minutes later, armed with spiked eggnogs, we settle into the couch for what’s become an annual Christmas tradition for Tana and me: taking turns guessing the sins of each of the guests. “International terrorist,” I say of a man with a pencil-thin mustache.
    “Not even close,” replies Tana. “That’s Mr. Atkins. Tax evasion. What about the guy over there in the red sweater?”
    I see Red Sweater but my eyes keep going until they reach my father. Scotch generally keeps my Dad in one of two states—
loose
or
too loose
—but right now he just looks uncomfortable.
    He’s glancing nervously at a frosted blonde in a business suit on the other side of the room. She isn’t a head-turner, but she’s attractive. She’s standing next to a tubby, balding guy in a brown Christmas tree sweater. He has his hand wrapped around her waist. They’re talking to another couple, smiling. She looks sidelong at Tubby, making sure his attention is on the other couple, then throws a half-smile across the room to my father. I’m not exactly sure how I know, but I’m sure this is Janine.
    “Your ten o’clock,” I say to Tana. “I think it’s the trollop Dad’s leaving my mom for.”
    Tana whips around to face me. “Excuse me?!” I quickly bring her up to speed on the morning’s conversation.
    “What a fucking prick!” she says, jumping off the couch.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To find out who she is.” And then she’s parting the crowd, making her way toward the two couples. I watch her introduce herself. So does my father, who looks at me with an expression teetering between anger and confusion. I toast him with my glass, which I discover is empty. Rising from the couch, I return to the bar and order a scotch. Dottie, who is talking to my mother, calls me over.
    “I’ve just been hearing all about your job,” fawns Dottie.“And living in the city. Maybe you can help my Tana find a job when she finally finishes college.”
    “She’s got your looks, Dottie. She doesn’t need my help.”
    “Oh you,” Dottie says, patting my arm like a frisky cat. My mother, in contrast, looks glassy-eyed.
    “You all right, Ma?” I ask.
    She doesn’t respond. Dottie zooms in. “Judy?”
    Mom jerks awake. “I’m fine,” she says. “I just need some water.”
    “Come on,” says Bonnie, taking her by the arm. “I’ve got some of that Evian