Christmas Chameleon

I hung my keys on the third hook, my coat on the third peg, and plopped my tushy on the third sofa cushion from the door, like always. That's my life - pathetically predictable.

I wouldn't want there to be any misunderstanding. I have no problem with predictability. I'd be happy as long as it gave me enough to pay bills, rent a larger apartment, and occasionally buy something nice. But, no! Unfortunately, it turned out to be more like a deadbeat dad. But what can I do? I don't have any control over it.

I hadn't realized it was Christmas Eve until I clicked live TV. Holiday specials filled the guide bars. I couldn't stomach a green freak stealing Christmas, World War actors singing a white Christmas, or a successful businessman turned into Father Christmas. There was too much Christmas. Besides, there were no gifts under my tree. Predictably, life took that as well.

I turned off the TV, picked up my phone, and doom-scrolled shorts until I fell asleep.

Gift-wrapped packages haunted my dreams. I fought back by opening them, only to discover that each one was empty. I continued wrestling, frantically hoping one would have something for me. In the flurry of shredded wrapping paper, a man-sized gift emerged. Fear gripped me. I knew it wanted me to open it. It called out to me, repeating my name over and over.

I awoke, shaking off sleep, and heard my name—a deep voice—a man's voice. I jolted. In front of me stood a large man wearing an outlandish outfit printed with books placed haphazardly on a bookshelf, a brick fireplace, a window, and a basket. I shook my head and took a second glance. His suit mirrored my living room.

I tried to scream but couldn't. I tried again but could only hear my breath.

"It's no use. No one can hear you except me."

Was I still dreaming? This can't be. I checked my door - still bolted. I irrationally checked my windows before realizing I lived on the twenty-first story with no balcony or ledge. I did the only thing I had left: I slapped myself.

"Please, don't do that." He grimaced. "I hate seeing the pinching, slapping, rubbing eyes until they sting – all so unnecessary."

He's real. My stinging check confirmed it. Then why am I not afraid? Who is this guy?

"If I'm not dreaming, tell me how you got into my apartment."

"It's unimportant, and you wouldn't believe me anyway," he paused. Well, you might believe me, but you couldn't understand since it breaks every law of your world." He pulled out a bag from behind his back. It, too, matched my living room perfectly, like a chameleon, making it difficult to see. He dug into it, searching. "I'm here because it's time to receive your gift." He pulled out a small wrapped package.

"What is it?"

"You have to open it to find out."

Suspicion rose. "Why won't you tell me?"

"It would spoil the surprise."

Pictures of spiders, poisonous gas, rats, and snakes filled my mind. Did this intruder expect me to trust him?

"I'll pass." I could see I stumped him, but he recovered quickly.

"May I sit?"

I motioned towards my couch. I stared in amazement as the suit changed from fireplace and books to pictures and lampstand to couch and door.

Once seated, he turned his face towards me. His gaze made me feel like a child again. "It's yours to ignore but not to refuse. Once given, it becomes a part of you—a part of your DNA. No refunds. No exchanges."

"But what if I don't want it? Can't I choose?"

"Why act like you're offended? You don't believe you're in control of your life anyway," he smiled, "Do you, Norra Banks?”

He knows me, and I'm not surprised. It feels like I’ve known him since childhood. I met his stare and really looked at him. He looked harmless and dreadful, jolly and sad, carefree and wise. He kept changing between looking like an old man and a Greek god.

I took the small decorated box from him. It weighed as much as a rock and as little as my phone. The sensation boggled me. I moved it hand to hand, hoping the gift would settle on a consistent weight. "I can't figure out if it's heavy or light. How is this possible?"

"You could make your gift heavy, but I hope you make it light. People with a light gift enjoy it more."

I determine its weight? How can that be? And if I can, then why can’t I refuse it?

"So, now I have control?"

"Of course you do."

"But what about no refund, no exchanges?"

"You control what you do with your gift. You determine if your gift is a burden or a blessing. You would be surprised by how much control you have."

I studied the old man, slash, Greek god, sitting in his chameleon suit. For some inexplicable reason, I trusted him.

"Will this change all this?" I pointed to my apartment.

"No. It's just a gift. You are the only one who can change your life. Perhaps you'll use this gift to change it, but the gift only does what you tell it to do."

Resentment boiled inside. He blames me for how my life has turned out. I can see it on his face. How unfair! Does he believe I'd choose this rat hole? That I'd choose my crappy job? That I'd choose to be alone?

"So it's all my fault?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"There are powers capable of pushing you into undesirable situations. But you have a greater power inside. You can push back. You can change your situation."

"Let me see if I understand. You're not blaming me for being here, just for still being here?"

He laughed. A jolly laugh similar to another popular laugh heard around Christmas time.

"You are something. Very sharp. I've always liked that about you." He stood, "I've got a few more stops tonight."

"Wait. Aren't you going to stay while I open my gift?"

"That's not how it works. Even if I stayed, I couldn't see your gift. Only you can see it. Although, I see every path your gift could take."

"What do you mean?"

He walked back to the fireplace. "You can take your gift almost anywhere. Some paths are dark and dismal, others bright and joyful, and hundreds are in between. I can see those. But I'm unable to see which one you will choose. However, if I might make a suggestion, choose a bright and joyful one."

He smiled at me, appearing as an old man. He looked down on me with kindness. Suddenly he changed and appeared like a Greek god. He looked down on me with dread. I smiled and shuddered. His suit shifted and mirrored my fireplace so effectively that I could no longer see him.

I got up and felt the fireplace. He was gone. I turned back to my couch and spotted my gift lying on the third cushion where I had placed it—always the third cushion, always predictable.

I walked over and moved it to the middle cushion.