Thinking of You

by Rachel Kane

  Charlie doesn’t like arrogance. It’s one of the few things he can’t put up with. But he’s not going to say anything.

  It turns out he needs this job.

  The manager stares at Charlie in the eye. Charlie’s not the tallest guy, and he can tell when people want to use their height to their advantage over him, and Mr. Rumson clearly does. So he’s glaring all superiorly, as though he hasn’t just glanced down at Charlie’s chest, at the line of his tight abs trailing down into the green and red pants with the gold trim.

  “I’m saying, follow mall regulations. The prices are posted all over. They’re just trying to cheat us out of that $25 is all. We like you here, Charlie, don’t we Gino?”

  More scratching. “He’s all right.”

  “So just follow the rules, collect your check, and we’ll all have a happy shopping season.”

  He’s not going to argue with Mr. Rumson. He could. He knows there’s an anger, deep down, that he can tap into. An anger fueled by injustice, by the idea that some people deserve things at Christmas, that other people don’t.

  But again, he needs the job.

  Charlie dreams of a life without moral compromises.

  “I hear you,” he says to Rumson. Not I agree or I obey, but I hear.

  It’s good enough. Rumson nods, snatches another look at Charlie’s body, and turns to go away.

  But something catches in his mind and he turns back.

  “One more thing. Santa’s mailbox is getting full. I told Wendy to empty it, but she forgot. Would you bag up the letters and take them to the dumpster?”

  It’s late, and the lights are low. Gates have come down over all the stores. Weary assistant managers carry the bank deposit bags to the ATM in the middle of the mall, or drag big trash-bags through the back hallways.

  This is when Charlie likes the mall best. It’s beautiful in the half-light, tranquil and simple and sleepy. His outfit is carefully folded in its box, tucked away into the locker in the break room. He’s wearing three shirts, and his knitted alpaca gloves are in his back pockets, ready to be pulled on when he gets outside. But first, the mailbox.

  It’s a cute idea. Here in Santa’s town, with its plastic snow and big styrofoam candies, the tall Christmas trees and buzzing animatronic reindeer, there’s a blue mailbox that says North Pole, where kids can mail off their lists. He opens up the trash bag, then unlatches the box in the back, so all the letters can come tumbling out. Mr. Rumson should really recycle these; it’s a lot of paper. But maybe you can’t, maybe the ones drawn in crayon can’t be recycled?

  One of the notes doesn’t fall into the bag; it isn’t in an envelope, it’s just a slip of paper, and it catches the air just right to flutter away into the snow.

  He stretches out to get it. You can’t walk in the snow. The last thing Santa’s Village needs is a big muddy footprint in its pristine whiteness. His fingers just barely touch the note, and he puts a little more stretch into it, relaxing his back, his arm, getting just a millimeter more… There it is.

  About to throw it into the bag, he glances down at it.

  Maybe it’s the picture that catches his eye, he doesn’t know. He has never looked at the notes before, and he has no reason to now, but it’s in his hand, and he reads it.

  Dear Santa my daddy needs a job. I don’t want any toy just help him. If you have a job for him take it to grandmama’s house because thats where me and my sister are at while he looks for work.

  Five figures at the bottom of the letter, all holding hands. The tallest one, there in the middle, has a heavy mustache. DADDY, it is captioned, with an arrow pointing to him. Just in case Santa wasn’t sure.

  Some people, like Mr. Rumson, don’t know what they want in life, and it twists them up. Some people do know what they want and need, and the simplicity of it is as beautiful as it is painful. Charlie’s just kneeling there, staring at this letter, its stark urgency, its belief. I don’t want any toy just help him.

  He’s supposed to put the letter in the bag and the bag into the trash, but he finds he can’t.

  Why not? What does he expect he’s going to do with this letter? Track down this kid and give his dad a job?

  But Charlie doesn’t ask himself these questions. The moment says to him that he should keep the letters, and so he keeps the letters. He puts the bag into his backpack.

  “Have you ever read these?” he asks, spreading a few on the table in front of his fellow elves.

  “Aw, that’s so sweet,” says Wendy, setting her beer down and picking up a letter. “This girl wants a tea party set. Do they even make those anymore?”

  “Some are just kids wanting toys and stuff, like you’d expect,” he says, “but then some are really sad.”

  He taps the letter he was looking at earlier. Their sounds of dismay—oh no, that’s so sad, look at that—tell him he did the right thing to bring it up. He’s not alone in finding it troubling.

  Not that they offer any solution. And probably it’s wrong to feel like there is a solution. They’re not social workers or anything like that. It’s just a group of college kids making minimum wage for playing dress-up during Christmas.

  “I think it’s so great that you care about those kids,” Wendy says, and she gives him another look.

  Under the table, he feels something, and it startles him.

  It’s her foot. Her toe, really, touching his ankle, moving up under the cuff of his jeans.

  He hasn’t had a chance to have the talk with her.

  Charlie doesn’t dread anything, but her touch has his heart beating fast, and not in a good way. He’s going to have to do something before the night is over, and it might mean breaking her heart, it might make the rest of the season tense and awkward between them. But it has to be done.

  In a minute. Soon.

  “Anyone need more beer?” he asks. “I’ll grab another pitcher.”

  He’s got to have a second to think. Nobody else is looking at him the way she is. They’re all either returning to their conversations or laughing about some of the funnier letters. She won’t stop looking at him. He grabs the pitcher and heads to the bar.

  There’s someone ahead of him. Someone familiar, although at first he doesn’t recognize him. Someone holding up a glass to the bartender.

  “I’m sorry,” says the guy, “could I please get a refund? This is awful.”

  3

  Val and Charlie

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I groaned, “I just need my assistants back.”

  “You got thrown out of the line at the mall Santa,” Theo said on speakerphone. “I’m starting to think you need a security guard to protect the public from you.”

  A glum, glum night. Not even a bowl of small yellow ravioli could make me feel better. The ravioli just sat there, the last bits of steam rising from the bright orange sauce. They looked like autumn leaves, almost. Except they’re not crunchy at all. Ravioli is very soft.

  “Maybe I’m just not cut out for this world of yours,” I said to him.

  “It’s not my world,” he insisted. “It’s just the world. The world people live in, when they’re not in their special CEO-bubble.”

  I poked my fork into a ravioli, but didn’t pick it up; I just let it fall off the tines, back into the bowl. Plop. Spots of orange sauce appeared on the table.

  There were three cases of cans sitting under the table. There were more next to the sofa. The kitchen was full. The boxes lined the hallway leading back to the bedroom.

  I hadn’t mentioned this part to Theo yet.

  “Look, you’re going through a big change, and it’s natural that some of it would be uncomfortable,” he said, sounding like the confident big brother, even though he was a few years younger than me. “I don’t think you should expect to know what you’re doing with your life yet. You’ve been so focused on the business, your entire adult life—hell, most of your teen life, too. So if you feel—”

  “I don’t like talking about feeling
s,” I said.

  “I know. Believe me, nobody knows your opinion on that better than me. But you’re going to have to deal with the feelings nonetheless. You’re going to have to learn to have fun—and don’t you dare say you don’t like fun.”

  I closed my mouth. How did he always know what I was going to say?

  He continued: “You’re young (well, physically anyway). You’re still rich, you’ve got a million options in front of you. You just have to relax and have a good time.”

  “I am relaxed,” I said.

  “I’m not even in the same town as you, and I can hear your shoulders tensing up.”

  My mind turned to my neck and shoulders. Sure enough, they were tight. I consciously loosened the muscles there.

  “Okay, you’re the expert,” I said, “tell me what people do to relax.”

  “Well, there’s always meditation and yoga, but I don’t think you’re quite there yet. But what about having a drink? I know you had that on your list.”

  “I don’t like drinks.”

  His sigh made the phone crackle. “Do I have to come up there and take you to a bar?”

  “Would you?”

  “No! It was rhetorical! I’ve got this entire house to decorate, I don’t have time to come up there and hold your hand while you try out alcohol!”

  He was laughing. I was not.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I will eat my ravioli and go to bed.”

  “I know you don’t realize it, but what you’re doing right now is self-pity. It’s a very unattractive trait, Val. Nobody likes it. So pull yourself together, grab your jacket, and go to a bar. Order a drink. Just one! Just for the experience. Don’t call me back until you’ve done that.”

  “Is this another of your assignments?”

  “You know it,” he said.

  The line went dead.

  “Hello,” I told my taxi driver. “I would like to go to a nearby bar, tavern or pub.”

  “All right, which one?”

  “Can you pick? Something close by; I don’t want to spend the whole night traveling.”

  He gave me a skeptical look through the rearview mirror. “Whatever you say, buddy.”

  The bar was called The Lantern, and it was only four and a half blocks away from my apartment building, although it felt like an entire world away. A small brick building, it had the titular black wrought-iron lantern out front, rocking in the stiff December breeze.

  I geared myself up. Who knew what kind of clientele a bar like this had? Perhaps it would be bikers. Maybe there were fist-fights every night, while honky-tonk music played on the jukebox. Theo had a knack for sending me into alien territory every time.

  When I looked back at the taxi for moral support, I saw it was already driving off. It was all I could do not to hail it back down, take me home, this is the wrong place, it’s a bad idea.

  The heavy wooden door opened, and the sound of music emerged, and I was surprised that it wasn’t loud. In fact, the couple that came out holding hands looked like lower-level corporate employees, rather than street toughs. I watched them, the man in his blue shirt with khakis, the woman with a large sweater that stretched down midthigh, trying to determine whether they seemed representative of the customers here, but then they saw me looking and glared at me, their steps quickening.

  I took a deep breath. Just go in, I told myself. One drink. If it goes badly, you can blame it on Theo.

  In the back of my head, I could hear the objections, all rushing through my thoughts: But I don’t like alcohol, I don’t like sitting in public, I don’t like being out at night, I don’t like—

  Look. Theo gives me a hard time, I know, but I also know he’s not wrong. I just don’t live the same way other people do. Back at the company, I was able to make it work by surrounding myself with bright, clever people who could do things for me, while I focused on the things I do like, but I couldn’t do that anymore.

  I don’t believe in symbolic victories, really, but going in, sitting down, and ordering a drink would be one nonetheless. It seemed important: Even though it scared me, I was going to do it anyway.

  “Hello,” I said to the bartender, “do you have anything that has very little alcohol in it?”

  It was surprisingly quiet. Not the sort of place fist-fights broke out. People seemed to be gathering after work, having murmuring conversations.

  “Like a light beer?” he said.

  “I don’t know, do those have less alcohol than whiskey?”

  I wasn’t sure why he laughed.

  “A ton less,” he said.

  “Yes, then. I will have a light beer. In a clean glass, please?”

  I watched him as he pulled a glass from under the bar. He made a big show of holding it up to the light, and using his towel to remove a smudge from the side. I wasn’t sure if he was humoring me or making fun of me, but I decided it didn’t matter.

  The beer tap hissed, the glass was filled, and he pushed it over to me.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Is there a cash register, or do I…?”

  “You never been in a bar before?”

  “Of course I have, many, many times, but my brother generally handled the ordering, and since they were for business, they generally went on the corporate card, as it’s a deductible expense, at least usually it is, as long as it qualifies as ordinary and necessary, so you wouldn’t want to order a—”

  “Six bucks,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  I settled back in my seat, holding my glass by its handle. So here I was, just like anyone else, at the neighborhood bar, enjoying a workmanlike beer. This is how people do it, I thought, lifting the pale yellow drink to my lips. Theo is going to be proud of me.

  I took one sip, and immediately looked for somewhere to spit it out.

  Oh god, I thought. I can’t spit it back into my glass, can I? Is there a napkin? Oh no, this is awful, how do people drink this?

  It was the most terrible thing I have ever tasted. If someone had taken a slice of white bread, added a pine air freshener, and turned it into a drink, they would have made a beer like this.

  I couldn’t bear to have it in my mouth, and I couldn’t swallow it, and I just wasn’t sure what to do.

  Theo, help!

  Okay. Okay. I could do this. It wasn’t poison, it just tasted bad. Grimacing, I swallowed, feeling the cold liquid work its way down my throat. The flavor was still in my mouth, and all I wanted to do was brush my teeth.

  I looked back down at my glass. What was I going to do with this? I couldn’t finish it.

  “Hello,” I said to the bartender. “Hello? I’m sorry, could I please get a refund? This is awful.”

  “A refund?” the bartender asked. “Buddy, come on.”

  Another customer had arrived, with an empty pitcher. I half-wondered if he had been drinking the same terrible beer I had. Surely not, he looked happy.

  Actually, he looked familiar.

  Oh.

  Oh no.

  The Christmas elf. The one from the mall.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t recognize me. I turned back to the bartender.

  “I understand if you couldn’t give me a full refund,” I said. “That’s absolutely fine, but perhaps you could pro-rate it? I’d say I drank between 1 and 2%, so—”

  The bartender started laughing. “Jesus, man. Fine. Here’s your six bucks back, now can I help the paying customers?”

  He took the pitcher from the elf beside me…and before I could slip out of my seat and get away, I realized the elf saw me, was looking at me, was recognizing me.

  The smart thing to do would be to run. Sensible. Head for the door, don’t make eye contact, and return to the world of canned pasta and late-night talks with my increasingly impatient brother. If I could escape into the cold night air, then I’d never have to worry about awkward social interactions, conversations, bad beer or anything else I didn’t like.

  The thing was, though, his clothes. When I’d seen h
im earlier, he’d been in costume, and it was strange to see him now in such casual clothing. A t-shirt, then a thin flannel shirt, then a thicker shirt, his throat exposed, making me wonder if he was staying warm enough. His throat was long, with pale skin, and just the beginnings of stubble. A woven bracelet around his wrist. A single silver ring on his right ring finger.

  See, Theo, I do notice things about other people. I’m not blind.

  His eyes were on me. His face was neutral…carefully neutral, if I had to guess. No wariness in his eyes, but an open expression that hinted at—

  Oh come on, you’re making all this up. I could hear Theo’s voice in my head. From the day you were born, you’ve had no idea what other people’s facial expressions meant, nor have you cared at all about them. You just blunder on no matter what they’re thinking or feeling.

  I understood that I had disrupted the elf’s day earlier. It had been an honest mistake, but the right thing to do would be to apologize for it. Or would that be the awkward thing to do? I could feel that old paralysis creeping up, the inability to make a decision without advice, without assistance.

  Stop, I told myself. You can keep it simple. Think of this afternoon as a transaction. You used up his time, and now you owe him a certain amount of compensation. While an apology does not have monetary value, it may—

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted out before I could finish the thought. “I was unconscionably rude to you and your customers today, because I didn’t understand how the mall was organized.”

  The bartender set down the pitcher in front of the elf, but the elf was looking at me instead.

  “Really?” he said. “You’re apologizing? Dude, that’s so unexpected. But thank you.”

  “I have to warn you, though, the beer tastes awful here. I don’t know how it normally tastes, but millions of people drink it, and they probably wouldn’t if it tasted as bad as this, so—”

  “Damn it, buddy—” began the bartender.

  But the elf was laughing. His face was different when he laughed. His cheeks, which were so sculpted, seemed to rise, and his eyes nearly closed. He had the longest eyelashes. That was interesting. Very long eyelashes. They looked soft. “It’s all right, Herman. We love you no matter how the beer tastes.”