Hot Josh and the Christmas Eve-Eve Crisis
It’s December 23rd — that magical time when the organized people are sipping cocoa and watching movies… and the rest of the world is sprinting through parking lots like Santa declared martial law.
Not me, though.
I glide.
I walk into the busiest mall in the county wearing a winter coat that says “I have never once used a coupon.” The place is chaos. Parents are arguing. Teenagers are filming content. A man is asleep in a chair clutching a Build-A-Bear box like it’s a life raft.
I’m here for one thing: the perfect gift. Not because I forgot to shop — but because I believe gifts should be sourced under pressure. Diamonds form from heat. So do my standards.
The crowds part for me the way they do for emergency responders and people carrying nachos. I head to the luxury candle store — the only place cultured enough to understand me. The shelves are almost bare. Only one premium candle remains. It smells like pine, snowfall, and faint emotional distance.
As I reach for it, another hand touches the box.
We lock eyes.
He’s mid-40s. Wears pleated khakis. A man who calls email “electronic mail.”
“I saw it first,” he says.
I smile. “But I appreciated it first.”
He squints, trying to process that.
A clerk approaches. “That’s the last one.”
We both turn slowly, like cowboys in a peppermint-scented standoff.
I lean closer. “Look, this candle needs a home where it will be displayed — not burned while someone reheats meatloaf. Be honest with yourself.”
There’s a moment. A pause. A rare alignment of self-awareness.
He lowers his hand.
I take the candle.
At the checkout, the clerk asks, “Do you want gift wrap?”
“No,” I reply. “I want people to see what excellence looks like.”
I walk back into the cold December night, candle bag swinging at my side like a trophy. Somewhere, a child is crying over a sold-out toy. Somewhere else, a man in khakis is reevaluating his life.
But me?
I’m ready for Christmas.
Because Hot Josh doesn’t panic shop.
He arrives — and the universe restocks accordingly.
