Kris Nickelclaus had lived outside Valdosta, Georgia, for nineteen years, yet he had never noticed the small township of Kramptown Kove, situated a mile and a half beyond the Super Fresh Grocery and just before the JESUS IS REAL billboard. He had driven past the road leading to it countless times. The modest green marker reading KRAMPTOWN KOVE registered in his vision only as visual clutter. He always assumed it led to a failed subdivision or an abandoned RV park.
It never occurred to him that it was, in fact, an incorporated town with a hundred forty-seven residents, a functioning town council, and, most recently, a municipal ordinance banning holiday snow globes.
The snow globe ban was what finally brought Kramptown Kove to Kris’s attention. It triggered an alert within Seasoned Greetings, the upstart Christmas outreach firm where Kris served as “Cheerman of the Board” and co-owner.
Kris was more than concerned. Seasoned Greetings regarded snow globes as the beating, glitter-filled heart of the Christmas experience. No other experience could evoke such joy with just a few shakes of the wrist. At least, not one that could be featured in the company brochure.
Kris resided two miles away in a charming Christmas cottage that was thoroughly decorated and adorned year-round. It glowed with warm white lights strung along the eaves, a tasteful wreath of real fruit, and a giant sled that hadn’t been operated since the last snow in South Georgia around 1992. Despite the comforts of running water, reliable heat, and a memory-foam mattress, company rules strictly prohibited Kris from commuting from his personal residence.
Per company policy, all field assignments required the representative to reside at a commercial Christmas-themed accommodation for the duration of the mission. Despite Kris being an owner, he wasn’t exempt from the policies. The company manual specified:
“Inn, lodge, B&B, or equivalent must exhibit at least three (3) of the following: exposed wooden beams, a cocoa barista, embroidered throw pillows bearing seasonal puns, an elderly proprietor named after a spice or herb.”
Kramptown Kove offered nothing of the kind. The closest qualifying bed-and-breakfast was in Tifton, but it was closed while the rooms were being painted with airbrushed murals. Eventually, the company executives came up with what they called a “creative solution”: the Kramptown Motor Lodge. It was hardly decorated in what one would consider holiday gay apparel; however, according to Google Street View, it featured a single red bulb glowing in the front office window year-round. Good enough.
And so, on a damp Thursday in December, Kris checked into Room 109 of the Kramptown Motor Lodge. The desk clerk handed him real metal keys, accompanied by a Post-it note that read, “If these don’t work, kick the knob.” In the lobby, the hot breakfast bar had a flea-market waffle maker next to a dried cockroach shell, and a sign warning guests that taking coffee from the lobby would result in arrest and a fine.
Kris’s company briefing packet described Kramptown Kove as “a community experiencing seasonal alienation.” In reality, this meant that when he walked down Main Street and tried to greet the residents with a friendly “Merry Christmas” or a polite “Happy Holidays,” they responded with suspicion, hurried walking, or, in some instances, a hiss or a blood-curdling shriek. Frequently a stabbing.
Kris encountered Raven Perry outside the town hall, where she was polishing a metal box labeled “Letters to Santana.” Each year, children in Kramptown Kove sent lead vocalist suggestions to Carlos Santana, hoping their choice would secure a top-ten hit and radio airplay. This was, however, a challenging endeavor in the current state of the music industry.
“I’m Kris Nickelclaus,” he said, presenting his tote bag of officially sanctioned cheer materials. “Seasoned Greetings.”
Raven looked at him the way someone looks at their front yard when they notice the sewage tank has sprung a leak and is seeping upward. “Why are you dressed like that? Is it glitter-fairy night at the Renaissance Festival?”
She was undeniably striking. Tall, with dark hair and lips as red as a room full of poinsettias at the senior home. Her expression suggested she had encountered seasonal outreach efforts before and had a designated drawer for their paperwork.
“I’m Raven Perry,” she said, Janeane Garofaloly. “Town tax assessor, property acquisition, and Chair of the Anti-Ornament Committee.”
“Anti — ” Kris began, then stopped. His heart seared, and it started to affect the conscious control of his lips. “Right. Yes, of course,” he said looking into her sultry eyes and speaking without moving his mouth.
“I feel compelled to warn you that the council might soon approach you about purchasing the land where your Xmas cottage is currently located.”
Kris gulped when Raven uttered the word Xmas. He secretly loved to hear a woman swear. “My cottage? My Christmas home?”
“Yes. The parcel is perfect for the town’s first Taco Bell. It’s conveniently located near the highway, offering excellent visibility, drive-thru access, and solid plumbing infrastructure. Don’t worry, you’ll be well compensated for the property.” She unwrapped a foil-covered Reese’s cup shaped like a holiday light bulb. She took a bite, chewed for a second, then promptly spat it out. “Don’t eat that. It’s bad.”
“I’m not interested in selling my cottage,” Kris said.
“Do you know what ‘eminent domain’ means?”
“Yes, of course,” Kris said.
“How about ‘prima facie’ or ‘res ipsa loquitur’?” She studied the confusion on Kris’s face. “I apologize, I’m studying for a test. I thought you might be of help. I have to go now.”
She walked away, leaving Kris holding his tote bag, cheerful flyer, and paralyzed lips.
After a day filled with unopened pamphlets and evasive glances, Kris returned to Room 109 feeling desolate and hopeless on just the first day. As he approached his door, he heard a faint scraping near the ice machine. A small reindeer — mud crusted on its flanks and one antler slightly askew — emerged from the corner where a hallowed beam of light would normally shine, if the security bulb hadn’t burned out three years earlier.
“Look at you,” Kris murmured, gently stroking the deer’s face. “What’s your name?”
The reindeer sniffed his sleeve and followed him inside, its hooves clicking softly on the warped laminate floor. Kris filled a plastic cup with water and offered it to the animal.
“I think I’ll name you ‘Blintz’ after Blintzen,” he said.
By the time the lights went out, the reindeer had settled comfortably on the lower half of the bed, sighing heavily whenever Kris shifted. Kris couldn’t help but think, This is a sign. Things are about to turn around for me.
Over the next several days, Blintz became Kris’s primary companion and, eventually, his sole confidant in Kramptown Kove. Every failed attempt at community engagement, from a caroling flyer ripped down within minutes, to a wreath returned to sender with postage due, to a mud snowman preemptively decapitated, was reviewed nightly with Blintz. The reindeer listened with the steady, nonjudgmental gaze of an adopted shelter dog or a faithful Amish wife.
Blintz eventually gave Kris the courage to request a hearing before the town council. Standing under the icy fluorescent lights of the multipurpose room, he proposed a modest Christmas feast and festival: a single night of shared food, neutral music, and community presence. There would be no miracles, no angels, no babies surrounded by donkeys. Just delicious seasonal fare and, perhaps, one single string of white lights.
The room fell into an eerie silence, like a chorus of dead men singing Handel’s Messiah. Then a cough broke the stillness, possibly signaling agreement. A motion was made, hands were raised, and, by a margin of one vote, the council approved. The Christmas fête had finally gained its legs.
Outside, Kris hugged Blintz around the neck, whispering, “We did it.”
Raven Perry approached. “Congratulations. To cover for your neglect in asking me, I’ll go ahead and offer to attend as a matter of professional courtesy.” She paused. “Do you know what pro bono publico means?”
On the eve of the grand feast, the community hall transformed into a magical Christmas wonderland. At least as much of one as Kramptown Kove could muster. The tables were adorned with newspaper circulars from Hobby Lobby’s holiday sale. Someone had discovered candles that, when lit, emitted a faint fragrance of citronella and aged carp. At the center of the room, a large silver tray held an assortment of steaming, festive grub.
Raven took a seat beside Kris and, without asking, kept refilling his eggnog mug. The townspeople formed a loose semicircle along the tables with arms crossed, waiting for dinner with wary curiosity, like Kardashians at a soup kitchen.
When the main course was presented, Kris leaned over his plate, captivated. The meat was thinly sliced and meticulously arranged to resemble the Virgin Mary giving birth. It was an astonishing culinary masterpiece. Its tenderness, richness, and impeccable seasoning exceeded Kris’s wildest expectations.
“This is incredible! The best steak I’ve ever had.”
The chef, passing by, paused. “I’m delighted you enjoy it. It’s venison, and exceptionally fresh. This morning, we stumbled upon a stray deer near the Motor Lodge. As you might say in your line of work, ‘A Christmas miracle!’”
Kris dropped his fork.
“It’s always unwise to name livestock,” Raven advised. “But I understand you’re new to town.”
Feeling woozy from his eggnog, Kris watched the makeshift Christmas lights blur softly in the background. Raven shoved a pen into his hand and slid a stapled stack of legal-sized documents in front of him. He began to feel nauseous.
“Sign these, and I’ll bring them to your room later tonight,” she said. “Think of it as an early Xmas gift. No one needs to know.”
A lump formed in his throat. He was unsure whether it was the eggnog, Blintz, or the word Xmas on Raven’s lips. As she flipped through the pages, Kris scribbled his name repeatedly, imagining he was puposefully making a list and checking it twice. The way one imagines after several cups of eggnog.
The next morning, on his nightstand, Kris found a neatly signed copy of the deed to his cottage, now belonging to Kramptown Kove. Taco Bell, somewhere, was undoubtedly working on conceptual renderings of their new establishment.
Raven arrived at his door just as he was packing.
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay last night,” she said, chewing a heart-shaped Reese’s cup. “I should clarify a few things. I’m asexual and also a lesbian. To be honest, the only thing I found mildly interesting about you is that you drive a Subaru.” She glanced out at the parking lot. “Does that thing have leather seats?”
Kris swept deer hair from the bedspread and remembered how Blintz would carefully take a stick of carrot from his hand and chew it while glossy black eyes stared up at him lovingly. He also remembered how much the carrot-flavored meat had hit his tongue last night like a dish from a Michelin five-star restaurant.
“It’s not a complete loss,” Raven continued. “We’re incredibly grateful for your contributions, both culinary and real estate. The town hasn’t felt this united in years.”
She shook his hand, wiped hers on her skirt, snapped a photo of the room on her phone, and walked out.
Not long after, Kris Nickelclaus relocated to Manhattan and secured a position at a multi-million-dollar advertising agency as a representative for a new line of 3-D printed menorahs. He was arrested and subsequently jailed for destroying a convenience store’s display of reindeer-shaped Reese’s cups.
