By Claire Erasmus

“Mason, what do you think?” Aunt Peggy asks, beaming.

It’s terrible.

Of course, I don’t say that out loud. Aunt Peggy would be inconsolable if I do. So I swallow and hope my face doesn’t express my shock. “Aunt, you shouldn’t have.”

She giggles and gives a little hop.

I step toward my Jeep Wrangler, throat tight. “It… It’s like a dream.” A bad one. Bright green stripes radiate over the original white. Sunlight plays over the color and sparkles in the depths.

“I’m so glad!” Aunt Peggy says in a singsong voice.

A walk around the vehicle buys me time before answering further. It also reveals that the green stripes start at the grill and meet again at the back in a swirl reminiscent of a candy cane. Of course. Aunt Peggy loves those. And she loves green. And glitter.

Maybe it’s just stickers that can be peeled off. Or maybe it is a really bad dream and I’ll wake soon. I touch the hood and pick at the side of one of the abominable stripes, but the edge doesn’t move or peel. I pinch my arm but don’t wake, confirming that I’m not dreaming. “Whatever made you do this?” My voice squeaks oddly at the end.

My aunt joins me and sweeps an aged hand over the stripes. “You’ve been so kind to me, and you said it needed a paint job, and I just had to repay you somehow. It’s one of the best tints, or so I was told. It should last you decades. I’m just sorry Dwayne couldn’t drive it back.”

I close my eyes, seeing how she arranged the “surprise” by asking if her son could borrow it for the day. That should have made me suspicious. He usually asks himself.

Dwayne pulls up across the road in Aunt Peggy’s red VW Beetle with flowers and butterflies painted all over it. She gives me a great big hug, apologizing that she can’t stay longer, and practically skips away. He rolls down his window and mouths, “I’m so sorry,” while she hops in. Out loud, he says, “Looks… fancy.” He grimaces.

“Yeah.”

They drive off, leaving me with the monstrosity and my list of groceries to get.

Drivers honk their horns and people turn to stare as I take the astronomically long two-mile drive to the store. I’m pretty sure I see a teenager videoing me at a traffic light. How long until this goes viral and my life ends? Maybe an hour, if I’m lucky.

I keep my head down in the parking lot and speed walk for the store.

“Mommy, look!” a child squeals. I glance toward him. He hops, pointing at my Jeep, and laughs. “Nice car!”

I slow, a smile starting to break across my face. The mom meets my gaze, and I look at my sneakers. Moments later, she steps into my path, child in tow, and I almost don’t stop in time.

“Do you do birthday parties?” she asks.

“Huh?”

“I saw your car. You’re a clown, right?”

No, but right now I feel like one.

I brush past her and hurry into the store, muttering something about that not being my line of work.

The store is a haven where I can ignore my current sad reality, and I take longer than normal to do my groceries, savoring the sweet respite. When I step out of the store again, though, I see that I should have hurried. Or just walked from home.

Passersby stop to stare or take pictures. A group of teenagers poses and snaps a selfie.

Great. There’s a picture to go viral as well.

Maybe I can walk home. Leave it. Either let it get stolen or come and collect it at midnight when the world is sleeping.

I look at my month’s worth of groceries spilling from the bags and overflowing from the cart. That’s not going to happen.

Face burning, head down, I shuffle to the car and load it as quickly as I can.

“Sir, I love your car,” one of the teens says with a giggle.

I somehow manage a nod at her, then hop into it and leave.

Back home, I hide in my living room with the curtains closed and a consolatory cup of coffee in hand while looking at my options.

A good paint job will be most of my savings, but it’ll be cheaper than a new car, and I doubt anyone would want to buy mine in its current condition. I turn to doomscrolling Instagram, hoping a solution will drop into my lap as abruptly as the paint job did. But maybe there isn’t a solution. Besides dressing in the Santa suit I used at the family Christmas last year, posing with my candy-caned car, and becoming an influencer or something.

The picture of the group of teens in front of my Jeep slides into my feed, and I pause.

Maybe there’s something in that.

I peek through the curtains at the green and white vehicle, my mind drifting to the toddler squealing with delight over my candy-caned car. Maybe it could be fun to dress up like a clown and do birthday parties. And who knows? I could earn a bit of cash from that and redo the paint job one day. If I still hate it in a few years, that is.

Before I can change my mind, I don my Santa suit and fake beard, hurry out to my Jeep, and snap a selfie with it behind me. A few minutes later, it’s on my Instagram profile with the words, “Need a Santa? I do Christmas appearances. Can also dress as a clown and do birthday parties.”

I’m not prepared for the number of comments and messages that roll in, most along the lines of “Love this!” and “Definitely hiring you for my child’s next birthday.”

Maybe Aunt Peggy’s gift isn’t so bad, after all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Claire Erasmus is a freelancing copyeditor and proofreader who lives in the beautiful South African countryside with her husband, Michael, and their cat. Besides reading and writing, Claire enjoys needlework, cooking, and archery. Most importantly, she is a Bible-believing Christian who tries to live out 1 Corinthians 10:31 in her life and work.

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