by M. E. Carter
Santa Clause.
ADAM
I hate the mall at Christmas time.
I can’t freaking stand the hustle and bustle here to begin with, and now the crowds are just stifling. The smell of the food court is making me ill, especially the cinnamon buns. The line for the unhealthy baked pretzels and cookies make me cringe. And can we not forget the music, decorations, and the children waiting in line to meet Santa? It’s pitiful that children put their faith in a hired employee, thinking he can make all their dreams come true.
Poor things.
Seriously, its the middle of the week. What the hell are people doing here? Doesn’t anyone shop online shop anymore? I mean, go back home and use your damn computers like regular people!
I’m such a damn hypocrite.
I can only blame myself for forgetting about the Ugly Christmas Sweater party Jason’s making me attend in a few days. Which means I need gifts for his two kids.
I don’t have a fucking clue what kids play with these days, so I was grateful for the pretty blond cashier’s help picking out a few remote controlled cars. She swore up and down they were perfect for both a three-year-old and twelve-year-old.
Two cars. Boom, done.
Wrap ‘em up.
I was, however, less grateful for her very obvious advances toward me.
Three months ago I would have flirted back in a heartbeat. Three months ago, I didn’t have a certain dark haired, junior agent on my mind twenty-four hours a day. I have no idea why Meg has me tied up in knots, but it’s starting to piss me off. It’s not like we ever work on any accounts together—we should be able to at least be friends.
Hell, these days, I only have one account to work on, so any conflict of interest wouldn’t be a concern. But the few times I’ve said, “How about those Cowboys?” she’s bolted from the break room faster than, well, a college football running back.
So instead of getting to know her, I spend my days glancing out my door to watch her work.
What do they call them these days? Creepers? That’s what I’ve turned into.
A creeper.
Smooth, I know.
“Oomph!”
I rub my shin and stare at the pint-sized person who’s just plowed right into me, almost knocking me on my ass. As I regain my bearings, I glare down at the kid—a boy, maybe five years old. And he looks…well, he looks kind of scared.
“Hey, you okay there buddy?” I ask him, looking around to see who he’s with. Where are his parents?
He just shakes his head.
“Are you hurt? Did I hurt you when you bumped into me?”
He shakes his head again.
Ok, so this isn’t going well.
“So if you aren’t hurt, why aren’t you okay?”
The sniffles begin and I cringe. Yeah. I cringe.
There are few things I can’t stand:
Shopping at the mall
Shopping at the mall during the holidays. Any holiday.
Crying children.
Put the three things together, and you have the recipe to why I’d rather spend the night in a one room cabin with my creepy Uncle Frederick after a long night of drinking. Don’t ask for details, just trust me.
“I can’t find my mom,” the kid mumbles, on the brink of having a meltdown.
“Okay, okay buddy, don’t start crying.” I’m sure I sound harsh, but seriously—if he starts to wail, I’m out. I don’t care if he’s lost.
Fine, I care, I’m just not equipped to handle this. Where is security when you need them?
“Where did you last see her?”
“In the store.”
Good thing the mall is full of stores, I think uncharitably.
“Ok, let’s try this again. Where were you guys going when you got separated?”
“Over there.” He points towards the main thoroughfare, where hundreds of people are milling about, with six different walkways going this way and that. Basically a veritable treasure trove if you’re looking to disappear.
I stare blankly at him for a few seconds.
He is obviously not the brightest Christmas bulb on the tree. Then again, he only looks five-years-old.
“Okay, last time before I give up and ditch you on a bench somewhere. Do you know where you were trying to go?”
He nods. “We were going to see Santa.”
Ah! I clap my hands and rub them together.
Now that’s information I can work with.
“That’s a good place to start. I betcha she’s there waiting for you. Come on kid. I’ll walk you over there.”
Instead of following me, like I assume he’s going to, he narrows his eyes and puts his hands on his hips. “But you’re a stranger.”
“Look kid, you ran into me and almost started crying because you’re lost. I’m heading over to Santa anyway because I parked my car in that direction. If you want to walk with me and try to find your mom, you can. If not, you can park your little butt on that bench over there until security finds you. What’s it gonna be?”
He thinks for a few seconds, obviously sizing me up. “Fine. But if you try any funny business, I’m telling Santa.”
I’d laugh, except that’s a pretty serious threat coming from a kindergartener.
“Fine. But if you try anything funny, I’ll tell Santa myself. And you don’t have money to buy your own toys like I do.”
His eyes widen momentarily before he takes my hand in his. It’s sticky and sweaty and pretty fucking gross. But what am I gonna do?
“What’s your name?” he asks me.
“Adam Roberts. What’s yours?”
“Clark.”
I snort. “Clark? Like Clark Griswold?”
He looks at me like I’m stupid. “Like Gable.”
“How do you know who Clark Gable is?”
He shrugs. “My mom likes old movies.”
“Makes sense.”
“What’s in the bag?” he asks gesturing towards my bag of gift for the Harts.
“Remote controlled cars. I have to give some gifts to a client’s kids.”
“What’s a client?”
“Someone I work for at my job.”
“Why do you have to give his kids presents?”
“It’s good business.”
“My dad says clients can buy their own presents.”
“Your dad probably doesn’t have any clients that make several million bucks a year.”
Before we even round the corner where I know Santa is holding court, Clark releases my hand and takes off running as fast as his tiny sneakers can carry him. “Mom! Mom!” He shouts, throwing his arms around some woman’s legs.
She looks down at him like she didn’t even realize he was missing. No wonder the kid seemed savvy on stranger danger. I’m probably not his first encounter, or his first time being lost.
I’m turning toward the parking garage when a familiar red sweater catches my attention.
It’s Meg.
She’s wearing the same thing she had on at the office and holding a goofy Christmas ornament shaped purse. And she’s sitting on Santa’s lap, smiling at the creepy old dude.
I’m not normally one to feel jealous.
I’ve never been that guy, even when I’m dating someone and it’s serious. But for some inexplicable reason, I’m jealous now.
Jealous of Santa Clause. Of Jolly old St. Nick.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I watch, like the creeper we’ve established I am, as she chats with the fat bastard for a few minutes longer. As much of a scrooge as I am, the smile on her face makes me smile. Maybe I could wait around and talk to her for a while? Maybe I could invite her for coffee? Invite her to the Ugly Sweater Party?
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Goddammit Roberts, make a fucking move.
As she jumps up off Santa’s lap, I watch him check out her ass—the one with his face plastered all over it—and if there weren’t children around, I might have words with
Kris Kringle.
Instead, I start to approach as Meg pays for her overpriced photo with the pervert. But before I can get to her, a tall, broad chested man with chiseled features reaches her first and kisses her on the cheek. She looks over at him and, much to my dismay, her face lights up. She obviously knows him and worse, likes him.
I should have figured.
A woman with her spunk and tenacity would obviously be taken. As they walk away together, he takes the garment bag she’s holding, and I feel like an idiot for pining over a woman an entire three months without ever taking the time to find out any real information on her.
Obviously, I’m losing my touch.
“I need to get laid,” I mutter loudly, running my hand down my face. The woman standing next to me gives a horrified look, and steps away. “Don’t worry. Not by you.”
Her jaw drops in indignation before she quickly grabs her child’s hand and huffs, stomping away. I shake my head. Maybe some intern will get drunk and horny at the office party tomorrow night and I’ll get lucky.
Because the rest of my luck seems to have run out.
Chapter 3
Meg
“I want to keep our office romance a secret,
but everyone keeps asking what I’m laughing at.”
I love my peppermint mocha.
I love my red plastic holiday cup—the one I get every year from the coffee chain in town (you know the one). Every year, I look forward to seeing what color cup they’re going to release for the Holidays.
They’re so festive, and always get me in the Christmas spirit.
I’m holding one now as I click open an email, scanning the contents and furrowing my brow. This entire email…none of it makes sense. Setting the cup down, I guide it across my desk so it will be safe from spilling, and widen my arms so I can respond to this message with—
“Now what the fuck are you wearing?”
“Good morning to you, too, Sheila,” I say as kindly as I can, given her rude greeting. Seriously, some people.
“Yeah, yeah, morning, blah, blah, blah. What the fuck are you wearing?”
I swivel around in my chair to glare at her, but she is once again putting lipstick on and not paying attention, so I can’t even level her with an angry scowl. “Why are you so worried about my clothes?”
“Because I was gonna win ten bucks from Frank in Human Resources if you’re wearing an ugly Christmas sweater today.” She glances up at me and notices my shocked expression. “What? You didn’t think you could dress like Rudolph threw up on you every day for a month and not expect people to take bets, did you?”
For the one hundredth time, “I’m being festive!”
“I’m not complaining. Whatever it is you’re doing, keep doing it because you’re making me a lot of money.” She looks me up and down again skeptically. “I’m not sure if that counts as an ugly Christmas sweater, though.”
“First of all,” she rolls her eyes as I begin speaking. “It’s a tee shirt. Just because the picture on it is an ugly sweater, doesn’t make it an ugly sweater. So you lose. Second of all, it’s cute and fun.”
“It’s not cute, Meg. It’s ugly. Hence, why it’s designed to look like an ugly sweater. And don’t tell Franklin I lost. From far away, he probably can’t tell the difference. He’s not wearing his glasses today, so mums the word.”
I press a few fingers to my temple to ward off an impending headache. “You’re horrible, and distracting. I need to get back to work.”
“…Says the woman who wore a shirt that literally had bells on it last week.” Sheila snickers.
My head shoots up. “Hey! I said I was sorry for jingling all day. Are you ever going to let that go?”
She crosses her arms stubbornly. “Only if you stay across the room from Franklin today.”
“Fine.” Sometimes I hate working here.
Sigh.
No that’s not true.
I love it.
But sometimes I wish this was college, and I could put in a request to change dorm rooms—I mean, cubicles—so I could neighbor with someone less insulting, less into making bets, less…gold digging. What I would love is for her to show me how things get done around here. How to climb the ladder. How to use the tools and online resources McGinnis has downloaded onto each of our computers.
Take this contract in front of me, for example: I’ve been writing it for a potential client since yesterday, had several questions, and Sheila has been no help whatsoever.
I hate bugging my interoffice messenger buddy, but at this point, I’m not sure I have much of a choice.
See, McGinnis Agency has a unique system to help newbies—like me—get through the learning curve. It’s an inter-office messaging system called IOM. Basically it’s a clever acronym for “Inter-Office Messaging,” because no one around here was creative enough to call it something fancier.
When you open IOM, you have a list of departments. When you click on the department, it brings up a list of registered staff members, management, and executives who have signed-up to mentor anyone with questions.
Here’s the kicker: they’re corporate assigned usernames so it’s completely anonymous.
It’s weird and takes some getting used to.
But fantastic.
New employees—like me—are able to contact anyone in any department with a client related subject you might normally be too intimidated to approach the department head about; there’s no stigma if you’re ignorant on the issue you’re researching. McGinnis was built on team work, for team members, and models the entire corporation on that principle.
So the IOM, in a nutshell, is mentoring.
No one on the IOM gets accolades for assisting. No one gets penalized if they choose not to mentor, because the program is voluntary. Everyone is on equal footing. No one knows who you are, so feedback is usually unbiased. Which is great, because when you’re working in a cut-throat field like this one—where every agent is gunning for the next big contract—equality and anonymity is crucial.
At least, that’s the idea.
So that’s where I turn now, because Sheila sucks and is the least helpful person within grabbing distance. Better yet, I found someone with some contract negotiation background, and they’ve helped me tremendously as I try to perfect this tedious work.
Man, woman—I have no idea. But they’ve been amazing.
Clicking through the IOM database, I see the icon for MentorTeam259 lit up in green.
Good, who ever MentorTeam259 is, they’re here and online. They’re also one of my favorite go-to mentors in this department. Whoever it is.
I quickly type out a greeting.
Me: Good morning. When you’re situated this morning and have had some coffee, do you have a few minutes? I need to pick your brain about a contract discrepancy.
They respond within seconds. Excellent.
MentorTeam259: No problem. I’m not quite caffeinated yet, but I have time right now. Hit me with it.
Me: Great. I’ll cut to the chase. I’m running into several questionable demands by a rather new client, and I’m not sure where to categorize them in relation to the standard compensation package.
MentorTeam259: What kind of questionable demands? Like a new car every year, or hookers after each Victory?
Me: THEY ASK FOR THINGS LIKE THAT?!?!!? Sorry I’m yelling, but THEY ASK FOR THINGS LIKE THAT? I think I just scared my cubicle mate.
MentorTeam259: Lol! No. Well, yes. Sometimes. My point though is gauging how ridiculous these demands actually are.
Me: Please don’t do that to me, lol. It made me both afraid of what I’m about to get myself into and delighted about the drama that could arise. Obviously I have a very boring personal life. Ha ha.
MentorTeam259: Ha! Somehow I doubt that. But. Getting back to the point; Typically, if it’s anything beyond the standard compensation package, we use an addendum noted at the end of the contract. There should be a link on how to create one in the s
ystem. Keyword search: Comp Standard. It should be in the Appendix file.
Me: There’s an Appendix file? I’m assuming the Appendix file is where all other files are hidden.
MentorTeam259: You’re lucky you have me if they haven’t trained you on this already.
Me: Sorry. You’re right, I haven’t been trained on this. Now I’m wondering what else I haven’t learned. It’s either that, or the fact I spent last night drinking wine with my next door neighbor. Cheap wine.
MentorTeam259: Sounds more exciting than my night. I spent it wrapping Christmas presents and getting ready for a party I don’t want to go to.
Me: A holiday party? My favorite!
MentorTeam259: I’d rather take a hard pass. Stay in and watch the NFL season ticket.
Me: You just gave me a clue about yourself.
MentorTeam259: Are you collecting evidence for something?
Me: I was going to say ‘I’m going to assume you’re a man’, but then I remembered I have the NFL season ticket, too.
MentorTeam259: Ah, so now I have some information on you—you’re a woman.
Me: Don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret. LOL
MentorTeam259: Fine, I’ll let you in on my secret: I’m not a woman either.
Me: Wait. Are we going to get in trouble for this? I thought the IOM was confidential.
MentorTeam259: It’s possible we’ll get in trouble, yes, but I’m going to blame you, so…
Me: Do you take bribes?
