A Swants Soiree

by E. J. Russell

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  By E.J. Russell

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  A Swants Soiree

  By E.J. Russell

  Introverted software engineer Brent Levine struggles with the life part of work-life balance, but to hold on to his new job, he’ll have to embrace his employer’s dreaded “staff enrichment” events. This year’s annual ugly holiday sweater party will strain his ambition to remain inconspicuous: everyone has to wear sweaters converted into pants—aka “swants.”

  Brent’s an ace at coding, but when it comes to handcrafts, he’s definitely at the far left end of the bell curve. Luckily he encounters seriously cute theater costumer Jonathan at the Goodwill Outlet. Jonathan offers Brent both an acceptably ugly sweater and his expertise in swants conversion. Attraction sparks on Brent’s side, but can Jonathan be interested in a guy like him?

  For Ross

  Thanks for the inspiration, my dear.

  Chapter One

  “BA-DUM.”

  Beyond the glass wall of Brent Levine’s office, the corner of a cell phone rose above the edge of his privacy panel.

  “Ba-dum. Ba-dum ba-dum. Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. Bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum.”

  Brent sighed and finished typing a line of code. “Okay, land shark. What have you got?”

  His one and only work friend, Riki Chan, peered around the panel, grinned at him, then zipped over to the doorway. “I found my ugly holiday sweater, and it’s awesome.” She waggled her phone at him, and he obediently took it to check out her selfie.

  “Uh…. Jeez, Riki, that is the most appalling thing I’ve ever seen.” He peered closer. “I get the reindeer and the menorah. But what’s the cake for? And the burning ring of fire?”

  “That’s a king cake, of course. For Three Kings’ Day. And that’s not a burning ring of fire. It’s a candle wreath, for St. Lucia’s Day.”

  “The apple humping the butternut squash?”

  “Kwanzaa.”

  “And is whatever’s being dumped out of that goblet supposed to douse that flaming log?”

  She poked him in the elbow, which, given his ridiculous height and her petite frame, was as high as she could reach. “That’s a bonfire and libations. For the solstice.” She pointed at a bowl of what looked like earthworms. “Udon for Ōmisoka, a wren for St. Stephen’s Day, and of course, the Festivus pole.”

  Brent raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

  “Hey, it’s an inclusive holiday sweater. Something for every denomination.” She leaned against his sit-to-stand desk, which hit her in the middle of her shoulder blades. “What’s yours like?”

  Brent’s gaze shifted to the three code windows spread across his dual monitors. He was on track to meet his deliverable deadline this afternoon, but it had been a tough problem to solve. “I’ve been a little busy. I haven’t had time to—”

  “Brent. The party’s on Monday. People snap up the best sweaters starting on Black Friday, so if you haven’t gotten one by now—”

  He patted the air in a calm-down gesture. “I’ve got one. Don’t have a cow.”

  She snickered. “‘Have a cow?’ You really are old-school, Grandpa.”

  “Shut up.” At thirty-seven, Brent was the oldest employee at HubPilot. Hell, the CEO was only twenty-four. He’d started the company when he was nineteen, for God’s sake. Way to make a guy feel like an ancient failure.

  “Uh-huh. So come on. How ugly is it?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “Well, it’s red.”

  Since patience was not one of Riki’s failings, she waited approximately six point two nanoseconds before jabbing his elbow again. “And?”

  “Um… it has a V-neck?”

  She stared at him, her face perfectly blank. “You were going to wear a plain red sweater to the ugly sweater party?”

  “I figure ‘ugly’ is relative, right? I never wear red, so it counts.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Maybe it’s the atheist’s holiday sweater.” He handed back her cell phone. “Yours represents a bunch of other traditions. Where’s the respect for people who don’t have any traditions at all?”

  She pursed her lips, one eye squinted. “That’s not why you picked it. You’re just afraid of looking weird.”

  Can’t argue with that. Brent could never be completely unobtrusive—at six foot eight, that ship had sailed when he reached his full height at sixteen. For some reason, his being ridiculously tall tended to bring out the belligerent posturing in some people, even when his inches were paired with a beaky nose and a physique that rivaled the average flagpole. So he’d made a career out of being otherwise as nondescript as possible.

  Keep it bland, do your job superlatively, but fly under the radar. That had led to others—his ex, for one—taking credit for Brent’s work for years. He’d used the split with Christopher as an excuse to leave his old company and landed at HubPilot within two weeks.

  He still wasn’t entirely sure why they’d hired him.

  “It’s highly improbable that my participation or lack of it will ruin the party for everybody else.”

  Riki propped her hands on her nonexistent hips. “That’s not the point. You’re an awesome coder, but you hold yourself apart.”

  “We work together, Riki. We’re not married to each other. A little distance is a good thing.” Brent wouldn’t have gotten so trashed with Christopher if he’d kept that maxim in mind.

  “Not at HubPilot. Don’t you think it’s a tad ironic that one of the lead coders on a product that’s supposed to promote engagement won’t participate in any of the job-enrichment events?”

  “I hardly think—”

  “Nope. You don’t. But you’d better start. People have already noticed how resistant you are to our corporate culture, and that won’t look good during your next performance review.” She tugged him away from his desk. “So come on. It’s time for the party theme announcement.”

  “What’s to announce?” he groused, although he let her pull him through the floor’s common space to the staircase leading to the lower floor. “Wear an ugly sweater. Drink eggnog. The end.” When the HR director had told him about HubPilot’s commitment to staff enrichment, citing the regular celebrations that occurred to coincide with virtually every national or cultural holiday, he’d nearly turned the job down. He just wasn’t a party kind of guy.

  “You haven’t been here long enough to know,” Riki said, dodging one of the work-lounge pods that dotted the commons, “but there’s always a twist.”

  As they walked down the stairs amid a leaping shoal of other employees, Brent felt every minute of his age. He wasn’t exactly old enough to be anyone’s father—well, other than the two whiz-kid interns who showed up for three-hour shifts twice a week after their middle school classes, for Chrissake—but he was at least a decade removed from most of his coworkers.

  “A twist. Wonderful.”

  They emerged from the stairwell into the flexible meeting area that encompassed the whole floor. All its moveable walls were pushed aside to create one big room, with a temporary stage backed by a giant white screen at the far end. Madison, the HR director and total corporate cheerleader, was already onstage, adjusting the microphone pinned to her collar. A dozen cardboard boxes were stacked next to the stage. Madison lifted the flaps on the top one and peeked inside, her Julia Roberts–si
zed smile breaking over her face.

  “Oh God,” Brent muttered. “She’s gonna say the f-word, isn’t she?”

  Riki frowned, puzzled. “What are you talking about? The strongest language Madison ever spouts is ‘Holy guacamole’—and then she apologizes.”

  “Not that f-word. The other one.” Brent shuddered. “Fun.”

  “Stop being so… so thirty-seven. If you’d only—”

  “Hello, everybody!” Madison said, her hands clasped under her chin. “And welcome to our holiday party theme announcement!”

  Everybody—except Brent, of course—hooted and cheered.

  “Can you believe it’s our fifth annual party? I can’t! And thanks to you, HubPilot is the fastest-growing social engagement and collaboration tool in the market. You should all be proud of our accomplishments!”

  This time, Brent joined in the applause, although he couldn’t bring himself to cheer—that just invited attention. But he truly was proud of the company’s mission and product excellence, grateful yet again that he’d found a place here.

  Madison turned to one of the interns. “Ashley, would you join me, please?”

  As the impossibly young intern stepped out from behind the screen and mounted the stage, Madison clicked on a slide that displayed the front and back of a long-sleeved black T-shirt, identical to the one Ashley was wearing. The front had the HubPilot logo on its breast pocket, and the back listed the company’s major milestones by year, with an appropriate icon for each one. “Ashley is modeling this, our five-year-anniversary T-shirt, designed by our own graphics guru, Riki Chan. Riki?”

  Riki lifted both hands in the air as everyone cheered again.

  Brent leaned down to murmur, “It’s a great design, Rik. Fabulous job.”

  She grinned at him. “I know. I’m awesome.”

  “In these boxes,” Madison continued, “we’ve got a T-shirt for each of you, which you’ll wear to our holiday party on Monday.”

  Relief washed through Brent. Thank God. No ugly sweaters. And if we’re all wearing the same thing, I won’t stand out as much.

  Everybody else groaned, though, and someone shouted, “But I’ve already got my sweater! It was bound to win this year.”

  Brent looked down at Riki. “Win?”

  “There are prizes,” she whispered. “We call ’em the Uglies.”

  Dodged that bullet too, thank goodness.

  Madison made settle-down motions with both hands. “Don’t worry, people. I would never cancel our favorite holiday tradition. Everyone can still wear their most ridiculous, out-there holiday sweater. But in a twist—and you knew one was coming, right?” She grinned, then clicked over to a new slide. “You’ll be wearing your sweater sleeves on your legs instead of your arms, because this year, our holiday bash is our first ever Ugly Swants Soiree!”

  “The what?” Brent muttered. The slide showed a group of people—some standing upright, some doing handstands, some squatting in pliés—all of them wearing ski sweaters on top and extremely peculiar knitted pants on their legs.

  “Fun, right?” Madison beamed at the crowd as Riki poked Brent with her elbow, mouthing f-word. “When our CEO saw a performance by a local dance company featuring swants as costume pieces, he pointed it out to me because he said it reminded him of us. That our success is likewise built on thinking outside of the box. So get out your needle and thread, and sharpen those scissors. You’ll find instructions in your inbox on how to convert your ugly holiday sweater into swants! After our in-office party on Monday afternoon, we’ll all walk over to Small Plates for dinner, so we’ll display HubPilot pride to the Pearl District, just as we always do.”

  Brent’s belly clenched as the crowd headed back upstairs, chattering excitedly. “You mean, we not only have to wear something less dignified than a toddler onesie to work, but we have to go out in public?”

  “Chill, Brent. Everyone else’ll be wearing them too, so it’s not like you’ll stand out.”

  “Do I need to remind you that I always stand out, whether I want to or not?” Few people in the company—or anywhere for that matter—came up much higher than Brent’s chin. He glanced back at the screen, which still displayed the dancers in their swants. And I thought eighties leg warmers were unfortunate. “I don’t suppose you can buy those in a store.”

  Riki gave him the stink eye. “What do you think?”

  “Oh God.”

  “Madison said she emailed instructions to everybody. I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out.”

  “Yeah? I’m a coder, not a tailor. Can I beg for a special dispensation? Claim handicraft-impairment?”

  “No. It’s time you really joined the company, Brent, so suck it up and make your swants.” She gave him another narrow-eyed glare. “Although you’d better score a truly ugly sweater, or… or….”

  “Or what?”

  She stuck her snub nose in the air. “You don’t want to know. But remember—I’m responsible for the company’s social media branding, and my powers can be used for evil as well as good.”

  “Fabulous,” Brent muttered as she marched back to the glass-walled studio she shared with the rest of the graphics team. Why is “fun” always so freaking painful?

  Brent had been hired just before Halloween, and he’d endured the traditional holiday sock exchange. His Secret Great Pumpkin had given him orange socks dotted with bats and featuring drooling purple zombies. That would have been bad enough, but the damn things had a chip embedded in them that played the same ten seconds of “Monster Mash” every time Brent moved his feet. He’d given his assigned Secret Great Pumpkin pal, Miri from Accounting, some black knee socks with a tasteful narrow pumpkin-pie-colored scroll border. He’d thought anyone would be glad of something a bit more dignified, but Miri had looked oddly disappointed.

  Thanksgiving had been easy to navigate—just an office potluck on the afternoon before the two-day holiday. Brent had left early. He’d heard from Riki the following Monday that he’d bailed before the traditional group sing-along and dance-off to “Turkey Lurkey Time.” He counted that a narrow escape, but everyone acted as if he was to be pitied for missing out.

  Now that he knew Riki better, however, he didn’t doubt her ruthlessness if she decided his sweater didn’t meet her ugliness standards. He glanced at the clock. He’d been in early all week to finish this module. Once he checked it in, he’d be ready for the code review on Monday morning. Since HubPilot embraced flexible work schedules, work-life balance, and results rather than timecard minutia, he could justify leaving an hour or so early on a Friday afternoon.

  Besides, Riki was right. As a HubPilot development lead, he needed to fully engage—with his team, with his coworkers, with the company.

  So he shut down his workstation, grabbed his jacket, and headed downstairs to the sidewalk. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he studied the storefronts along Twelfth Avenue. He doubted that he’d find what he needed in the trendy Pearl District shops, so he walked toward downtown.

  But two hours later, having exhausted every store between City Hall and Pioneer Courthouse Square, he was getting desperate. When a store did have a holiday-themed sweater, it didn’t approach his size—being six foot eight with most of his height in his legs was a disadvantage for last-minute shopping at the best of times. Which these definitely aren’t.

  He finally found something on a bargain rack at Target—but it was a Halloween sweater. He shot a desperate text to Riki:

  Halloween is a holiday. Does this count?

  She didn’t bother to respond with words, but her emoji explosion was quite explicit.

  He sighed. At least he had tomorrow and Sunday to scour the outlying towns. He caught a MAX train and headed home, reconciling himself to losing the entire weekend to searching for a dog-ugly sweater.

  Then he remembered—finding the sweater was only the first step. Then he had to convert it into something approximating pants.

  I’m doomed.

  Chapter
Two

  BY THREE o’clock Saturday, Brent was starting to panic in earnest. He’d worked his way steadily outward from downtown—department stores, retail clothing stores, upcycle centers, thrift stores. Nothing. Now he was standing inside the Goodwill Outlet in Hillsboro, realizing he was in no way qualified to navigate such unfamiliar waters.

  Unlike the other used-clothing stores he’d visited, this place didn’t feature racks of clothes on hangers, or even stacked on shelves. No, here everything was jumbled in giant open bins that the other shoppers were sorting through with deadly intent.

  He gulped. He’d never been good at comparative shopping—not that he had much to compare, since most retail clothing stores were aimed at reasonably sized people, as opposed to outliers like Brent. When he couldn’t avoid it, he usually just walked into the nearest not-too-upscale chain, found something that fit reasonably well, and bought several in the available colors. Online shopping was even better—no need to venture into the retail wilds at all.

  But his online options had failed him too. Most were out of stock, and those that weren’t couldn’t deliver until sometime mid-January, which would defeat the entire point of humiliating himself in front of his coworkers on the altar of team solidarity.

  He took a deep breath and plunged into the fray, passing bins full of jeans, socks, and T-shirts. He paused by one that was full of suspiciously silky and lacy items.

  “Underwear?” he muttered. “Seriously?”

  A man at the next bin—the only other man in the store other than salesclerks—glanced over at him. “They’re not used, if that’s what you’re worrying about. They’re factory seconds. Sometimes thirds. Imperfect in some way that wouldn’t qualify them for retail stores.”

  Brent’s face heated. “Oh. Right. I’m, um, not exactly familiar with this universe.”

  The man smiled, pushing his half-full cart past Brent toward another bin. “That much is clear. Good luck.”

  Brent hurried past the underwear bin and one full of swimwear, until he found one that contained sweaters and sweatshirts. He started picking over them, sneaking glances at the man who’d spoken to him, trying to copy the efficient way he sorted through a bin full of packaged tights.