best smash

a festive short story

I don’t really write short stories but this is a Christmas-set one I wrote when I was maybe 27 or 28. It was long-listed for the Desperate Literature Prize and featured in our Perfect Angel Press 1 anthology. I was inspired to write it after an undercover tabloid reporter exposed an endemic of semi-intentional gift-smashing in various Hermes and Amazon warehouses. Will have some more essays and book-related stuff up in the new year.

Max had assumed that, at the very end, a kind of dignified calm would take over. The Centre seemed designed to cultivate this feeling: the mid-century furniture, the stark beauty of the garden, the serene yet frank expression on the receptionist's face. But Dad’s special Spotify playlist had looped three times by this point, and they were approaching the end of their slot.

“I love you both so much,” Dad said, glancing at the wheel again.

“We love you, too,” said Mum.

They didn’t want to rush him. But they’d already been through the long, tearful farewell, and this was clearly the moment.

“I love you,” Dad repeated, more resolutely this time.

Mum placed a hand on his knee, and Dad gingerly touched the edge of the wheel. Max wondered if he was going to back out. But the whole point of taking him here was because his fear of dying cancer-ridden in an NHS Wales hospital outweighed his fear of the wheel. Finally, it was embarrassment that nudged him over the edge. A white-blonde nurse popped her head through the door, made an ‘oops’ face and now could be seen through the little window, head bent, scrolling on her phone.

“Right, well. Better get on with it,” Dad said, “Bye gang. I love you both so much. I really do.”

He smiled, frowned, and turned the wheel a bit hurriedly. Max and Mum leapt on him then, and pressed their foreheads into the chest of his corduroy shirt. There was more weeping, and an intake of breath as the drugs were administered into his system. Max felt Dad stiffen, but continued hugging him through the last verse of Yes’s A Living Island. When the harpsichord waltz of The Strangler’s Golden Brown (one of the only non-prog songs Dad liked) began again, Max cried more because he remembered how Dad used to sing it while frying the onions for his Famous Chilli.                                                                                            

*

A few weeks later it was Christmas. They spent it in their usual manner- low maintenance roast, some festive programming, a modest exchange of presents. They weren’t one of those families who made a big point of ignoring Christmas but, since Max had reached puberty, there’d been a mutual lack of interest. That particular year, though, it was relieving to have no rituals, and the day passed easily without them having to force its insignificance.          

*                                                                             

Seven months later, Mum got together with Adam Cumber, one of Dad's friends and a fellow founder of the Merthyr LARPing Festival.

“I’m sorry if it’s a bit weird, love,” she said one evening, slicing their Dr Oetker pizzas.

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Max said, “Well, maybe a bit. But he’s like a known quantity, isn’t he? Which is a plus. He won’t turn out to be a dickhead.”

Mum looked pleased with this.

“Exactly. Dad always liked him, too. And I know it might be wishful thinking… but I don't think he would have minded? He was never the possessive kind, and neither of us knew Adam that well.. .”

“I think he’d be relieved. I am a bit, too, if I’m honest. I was worried you were about to start going on dating apps or something.”

Mum laughed.

“I was a bit worried about that, too.”      

*                                                                                      

Max took a few drags on his Lycee Elfbar and opened Pornhub. He searched out the video in which the small hairy middle-aged man is humiliated by the group of feminists (minor pornstars with green hair and transparent glasses). He particularly liked the way the women would call him a ‘hobbit bitch’ and hurl sophisticated objects- wine glasses, hardback art books, cafetieres- at him. After he came, he watched a video on Bit Chute about the conspiracy surrounding Silica Gel packets, and why you actually should eat them, before surfing some of the Gangstalking threads on Reddit. After that, he removed some posts on the r/mental health subreddit he moderated.

“Maxxy," Mum called from the landing, "Do you mind if I have a quick word with you? Sorry if you’re in the middle of something.”

Max entered the dining room.

“Hiya love. I just wanted to have a little chat with you about possibly- erm- finding some part-time work? I wouldn’t normally ask but we are a little tight at the mo, especially after Dad’s trip to Switzerland-”

“Of course, Mum,” Max said, “I was gonna say the same, to be honest.”

Neither of his parents had ever been judgemental about his lifestyle- even when Max’s friends had begun finding girlfriends, moving to Cardiff etc- so he wanted to make this as painless as possible for her. He said he’d “start looking this evening” and Mum thanked him and told him there was “honestly no rush”. 

Part of him did wonder if Adam had something to do with it. Not that Adam was the type to play imposing stepdad. If anything he was the opposite- scrupulously sensitive about Max’s boundaries or “any potential weirdness” as he called it.  No. Max suspected it had more to do with Christmas. Cumber Christmases were apparently quite lavish affairs and, despite Adam’s protestations, Mum had vowed to join in the festivities by buying a present for each member of the extended family. Max wondered now if the costs were proving greater than expected. But again- he didn’t resent the idea of paying for the Cumbers’ presents. Or the fact that Mum had likely omitted this as a contributing factor. And so, as promised, he spent the evening scouring Indeed and Gumtree for vacancies. He applied for about 120 and heard back from one: a Christmas temp role at the Hermes warehouse just outside Merthyr.                

*                                                                    

“Then you just chuck em in the right cage. Normally it’s easier if you bounce 'em off the wall behind. You’re technically supposed to like place them over the top to avoid ‘em getting damaged or whatever but that would take a million years and we’d never meet target so we just chuck ‘em. People get fuming cus it's their Christmas presents but Hermes literally just tells em they’re ‘damaged in transit' or whatever. Anyway try not to proper blast 'em but remember you’ll get a bollocking if you don’t reach target so do what you need to do, like.” Liam rolled up one of his sleeves to reveal a tattoo of a flaming Ace of Spades, picked up a parcel from the conveyor belt and flung it across the warehouse floor. Max watched it ricochet off the concrete wall and land in one of the eight steel cages. “See what I mean, butt?”                

*

He was given an electric blue & black themed Hermes uniform, which he liked, though the boots were painful and required him to wear memory foam insoles. At the start of each shift, his pockets were searched to check he hadn’t brought his phone inside with him. He was allowed to take an unpaid break between 4am and 4.20am. Sometimes he’d spend this time vaping in the car park, watching the blue-white Hermes trucks reverse in the moonlight. More often he’d walk to Mum’s car, fire up Pornhub and wank lying on his front, penis aimed into the footwell in case anyone looked in.  Unloading the vans and scanning the barcodes was boring. But he liked throwing the parcels into the cages. Initially, he’d tried to lob them over the top without ricocheting them off the wall. But, as his mentor suggested, this proved to be sluggish so he began to ‘proper blast em’. There was something enjoyably low IQ about the act of hurling a package against a concrete wall. He especially liked the noises and began to establish a hierarchy of cracks, thuds and smashes. Glass presents were the crème de la crème: the surprise on impact, the way the high pure shatter would reverberate through his whole body. Sometimes the force would sort of hone in on his balls. But this felt wholesome rather than erotic and, if anything, seemed to result in less trips to Mum’s car. One evening, while barcoding, his manager, Abdyl, approached him. Max worried he was going to be told off for ‘proper blasting em’. But Abdyl just said he was happy with Max’s numbers and offered him an extra weekly shift, which he accepted without hesitation.      

*                                                                                    

Instead of attending the Cumber Christmas Eve Quiz, Max worked through the night and clocked off at 6am on Christmas Day. After bidding goodbye to Abdyl, who was wearing a yellow paper party hat and smoking in the car park, he went home and napped for a few hours. When he woke up, he drove to Adam’s newbuild which sat on a hill overlooking Merthyr and the Brecon Beacons. Before entering, he spent a few minutes vaping and surveying the panorama of rolling green mountains. Then he placed his Lycee Elfbar in his pocket and rang the wireless doorbell. He was greeted by Freya, Adam’s niece. 

‘Hello Max Christmas!” she wailed, waving her broken arm at him. Her cast was covered in little sharpie hearts, flowers and Christmas trees. 

“Hello Freya Christmas!” Max said, and Freya scrambled up the stairs. He entered the greyscale open-plan living room and encountered an even more festive scene than anticipated: Christmas cocktail jazz, woolly jumpers, elf hats, fake beards, novelty mugs, a mini chocolate fountain. Mum was sitting at a glass dining table sipping from a champagne flute and watching Adam’s sister Angharad parodically ballroom-dance with her husband Rhodri. It later became clear that Angharad was the instigator of festivities, and had also been in charge of interior-designing Adam’s house. Everyone cheered Max’s arrival, and after accepting a flute from Adam, took a seat next to Mum.

They were clearly out of their element. But as the afternoon rolled on, and the booze settled in their stomachs, Max and Mum began to enjoy themselves and even had a little dance of their own. After the Jamie Oliver Mulled Wine Glazed Ham, there was another round of present-opening. Freya was particularly excited about this round and kept screaming about her ‘OMG PENGUIN!!!!’. It transpired that an Omg Penguin was a toy, and Freya’s most anticipated gift despite it being cheaper than her ‘proper presents’. When she was finally permitted to open it, she dived onto the heated tiles and began tearing at the wrapping paper with her free hand. Adam kneeled beside her and helped while Freya panted like a dog beside him. When the Penguin materialised, Freya immediately hugged it to her chest. Then she held at arm’s length to inspect it, and screamed.

“What’s wrong, Frey?” Angharad said, rising from her seat, “Is it your arm?”

"No! NO.”

“What is it then, love?”

Freya wailed again, and held the toy up in the air like a sacrifice. The Penguin’s forehead was dented grotesquely and instead of a right eye were some loose wires sticking out of a socket, behind which something green was flashing. There was something grotesque about the way it remained smiling. It seemed to suck the atmosphere, the cocktail jazz from the room.

“Jesus Rhod. Didn’t you check the toy itself? The parcel was all battered.”

“I thought I did? There were so many to wrap…,” Rhodri said weakly, “Don’t worry Frey. I’ll get you a brand new one tomorrow. Okay, lovely?”

But Freya continued to scream. Then she fell to her knees and started pounding her cast against the tiles. Her parents restrained her, and she began to weep in their arms. Watching them, Max found himself overtaken by a warm, victorious feeling.