Rommel and Euclid walked down a quiet suburban street. Their path was lit by a bright moon above, and a new, bright star. It was a comet, or a supernova, or a UFO. Let’s go follow it. Maybe some other time. But it fades away, and whatever it marked has a story that will be forgotten. It was probably just a jet plane taking everybody home for the holidays.

The houses were all adorned with wreaths on the doors, and on the eaves hung white Christmas lights, the dangly icicle kind that twinkle slowly.

“What’s with white Christmas lights?” asked Rommel. “What’s festive about that? It’s like the Vegas strip made wholesome.”

“Color would be better,” said Euclid. She had been unusually quiet all evening.

They stopped in front of a plantation-style house, minus the cotton fields and slaves (replaced respectively with a 2-car garage and illegal immigrants who came every other week to cut the grass and trim the hedges, then hauled the clippings to the dump, Zoysia and azalea not being the cash crop that cotton was).

Euclid deftly jimmied open a window with the crowbar she had slid out from the leg of her pants. She dropped it below the window, behind a neatly trimmed hedge, and crawled into the house. Rommel followed.

“What are we doing here again?” asked Rommel.

“We’re observing the holiday habits of upper middle class white folk.”

“At 1 a.m.? So we’re not stealing Christmas presents?”

“Of course not. This is a sociological study. This is science.”

“How come science for you usually involves some sort of felony?”

“Like you haven’t committed your fair share of felonies.”

“Yeah, but I don’t try to justify them as science.”

“Yes, yes. They’re art. I know.”

She poked around at the decorations; red candles that had never been lit, wicker reindeer, porcelain Santa. She peeked inside the stockings dangling haphazardly above the gas fireplace, and she kicked the fake, fire-retardant logs. She plugged in the Christmas tree, and lost herself for a moment in the pretty lights. These were colored, and she felt grateful that they had saved the colors they didn’t use outside for inside. A pink-clad angel stared down at her from the top of the tree, and Euclid looked away, disturbed.

Rommel ambled around the room, remembering why he avoided the suburbs. Everything was so much cleaner. Cleaner looking, at least. The same filth was everywhere, but it had room to spread out in the suburbs, so you didn’t notice it.

“I think I’ve seen enough,” said Euclid, and she exited the living room to the kitchen.

As soon as she left, there was a rustle outside the window, the sound of geometrically precise flora being disturbed by nervous fauna. It was a sound Rommel had heard before. The window slid open, and a ski-masked figure fell through, landing in a heap by the recliner with a red and green afghan draped over its back.

“There’re no cameras,” said Rommel.

The intruder looked around terrified. “Who….who are you?”

“No worries, man. I don’t live here, if that’s what you’re asking. But there’re no cameras, you don’t need a mask.”

“I don’t need a lot of things. Ain’t that what Christmas is all about? Things you don’t need”

“That, and the joys of modern childbirth.”

The intruder looked over at the tree, and the mound of presents beneath it. His eyes grew wide, and his mouth fell open beneath the mask. He opened a large red sack, and walked to the tree, Christmas lights twinkling brightly in his still-wide eyes.

Rommel stepped in front of him. “You’re not stealing the presents.”

“Haves and have-nots, man.”

“Wills and will-nots. You don’t have the will to say no to me.”

“Come on, man, look at everything they got in here. Think they won’t forget this by next Christmas?”

“I think they’ll forget it as soon as the security system is installed, but there’s nobody so rich and happy that a present once in a while won’t do them good.”

Euclid came back from the kitchen, clutching something rolled up in her sweater.

Rommel smiled at her. “Give the nice man the silver.”

“Let him steal his own stuff,” said Euclid.

“Hand it over,” reiterated Rommel.

“Don’t you mean fork it over,” she said spitefully. “You and your goddamn code of honor, karmic, caring for your fellow man, Bushido bullshit.”

Pouting, she shoved her sweater and the fine silverware inside to the intruder. He nodded in thanks to her then Rommel, and slid back out the window. Cold air rushed in carrying the scent of fresh snow.

Rommel looked around to see if any cookies and milk were left, but Santa, it seemed, didn’t keep his girlish figure by leaving leftovers. Rommel slipped his hands into his pockets, and gazed at the tree.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” asked Euclid.

“Merry Christmas.”

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Next: 9 to 5