Meet Glorpington
A not entirely untrue tale of an alien, a santa hat, pizza, and family.
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Meet Glorpington. Or, as we call him, Glorp.
He appeared one day on the dash of my car in his seasonally appropriate hat and that bit of a grin conveying cheer. Where he came from I don’t know, but figured the kids must have begun an alien version of the elf that pops up in strange places as if it moved by itself. I especially suspected my son since he gave us his name, saying it just seemed to be right.
That was the first indication of what was to come.
It’s rare that my children and I get to go out all together anymore. Work, family, and personal preferences all seem to conspire against us. But the day Glorp appeared was one of those rare occasions. We sunk into his cheerful appearance and let him keep his position of pride at the front of the car. Where, despite some evasive driving (don’t ask), he stayed. No assistance, or Velcro, or glue, needed.
The sun set early as it does in the winter, and that’s when I noticed the change. Glorp’s happy face took on a sinister hue, not just mischievous as it might have been before. Downright sinister. While driving, I kept glancing at him, thinking it must be a trick of the light, or my tired mind not seeing things right.
I told my kids, “He’s not such a happy holiday mascot anymore.” They argued with me a little, claiming the hat was so cute he couldn’t be anything but happy.
But then they saw it too. Something distinctly evil, a shine of darkness within the darkness of those flat black eyes. An aura that oozed out of him. Even when daylight arrived the next morning, it didn’t leave.
Nothing too dramatic happened at first. Just a series of things gone wrong. The garage door was stuck closed, so I had to release it manually. A tree was down across the road, making me late for work. When I got there, the coffee maker broke. My steak sandwich had gone off, and I puked in the trash in front of my boss. And his boss.
Embarrassing like you wouldn’t believe.
But as I pulled into the driveway that night, the house lights flickered, and the garage door closed on its own. Not slow and methodical but slammed like it’d been yanked down by the devil himself.
I jumped on the brakes just in time to avoid driving into the wreckage of bent metal and broken glass.
Glorp never moved.
I could feel him glowering at me though, just before I rushed out of the car to reassure my family I was okay. Though our garage door was not.
Inside, I got busy calling the insurance company, arranging for cleanup and repairs before collapsing on the couch with the dinner my daughter had made for me.
I was halfway done when I remembered the pizza in the back seat. The one I had picked up on the way home so I didn’t have to cook. In all the excitement, or distress really, I’d completely forgotten it. Since it was colder than a fridge outside, I didn’t worry about it. Tomorrow’s dinner made.
Though I’d taken the day off to handle fixing the door, I still had to get my son to school early. When I backed up, Glorp fell over. He slid down the dash as I turned to get on the road. My son picked him up, carefully, and placed him back on his perch.
He immediately fell over again.
My son cradled him, assuring him everything was alright now.
I snatched the thing and threw him into the back seat over the protestations of my son. There was a lightness driving without him staring at me. I blamed the sensation on a restless night’s sleep, filled with dreams of phone calls, walls falling down, and little creatures of some sort scurrying away from under the rubble.
I got home not long after and remembered the cold pizza. There were worse breakfasts to be had.
The box was open. Just a smidge. But maybe that’d happened when I put it in the car, or when I stopped short.
Or not.
We’d never even had sightings of rodents at the house, but they obviously were out there in the wild. I pulled the top up slowly, waiting for a mouse or rat to come running out.
None did.
And my anticipated treat of a breakfast wasn’t there. Sure. A few crumbs were left, showing it had been there and the pizza shop hadn’t shafted me.
I lowered the top, sad and perplexed.
Next to it on the seat lay Glorp. A satisfied smile on his green fuzzy face. The urge to throw him away overtook me.
I marched into the garage, stepping over the pile of debris, and ripped off the cover of the trash can. One last look and I saw how adorable he really was. There was a spot on the mantel that would be perfect for him. A nice warm spot above the fireplace was just what he needed.
Author Notes:
The origins of some Christmas traditions are really messed up. I watched a documentary about the pagan rituals incorporated into the holiday by the church and some of it is really weird. What inspired this tale was the practice of leaving offerings out for the spirits in order to keep them happy so they wouldn’t cause mischief or grief. It’s the reason we give gifts and leave milk and cookies for santa.
Glorpington is real though. He still sits in my car (currently in the back seat) and enough of this story is true that my daughter asked if the parts she wasn’t there for actually happened. No they didn’t. I made all the worst parts of it up, but Glorp still is our Christmas car mascot. Mostly because I’m afraid to remove him…really.
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