Christmas in LA

by Herb Scribner

  “I don’t understand.”

  He smirks and waves it off. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Suddenly I notice we’ve veered off the road of his business and onto another one about politeness and understanding.

  “Tell me more about your business.”

  “Right,” he says, taking a scoop of spaghetti and slopping it up into his mouth. He slurps it down a little louder than normal, letting the red sauce splash against his cheeks, lip and facial hair. He sets the fork down.

  There’s a bang on the table as he sets his foot atop of it. A thick, blue and white Jordan sneaker sits plainly on the table, moving this way and that, like a ticking clock.

  “Well, I deal with the management of finer intelligence optics. We navigate the technological divide of unified divisions and organizations looking to compile data that guides them toward a bright future. We’re looking to better the planet with better business understandings and experiences, all the while proliferating the experiences and customer dialogue presented in conversations under software management technology and devices. We champion challenge, innovation and diversification of all technological disruption.”

  I swear listening to him is more boring than watching paint dry or reading The Atlantic. His shoe is even more interesting to me. What a jerk. Putting his foot up on the table. Who even does that, especially when a guest is present. This guy is an insane jerk.

  “What do you do?” he asks.

  “Nothing too insane. I work at a car insurance agency. Just sell insurance and work with clients. It sucks, but it pays well. And I work with my best friend. Can’t hate that.”

  He leans forward and grabs his cup of water, takes a sip and sets its back down. He leans his right arm over onto the chair next to them, like he’s sitting next to an invisible date. But then he snaps his arm away and takes his foot off the table. Instead he fidgets with his fork, swirling it around the spaghetti, hitting back to his drink, taking a sip, setting it down, picking up the fork again, cutting his meatball in half, eating it, tossing some more drink down his gullet. He’s one constant busy-body buzz.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “You’re acting all fidgety and weird. All of a sudden.”

  A grin pops up in his face, slightly slanted so it forces him to speak out of the side of his mouth. “I’m just showing you at my worst. That way you can see how bad I am and see if you still want to hang out with me.”

  “That’s you at your worst? Fidgeting and an annoying pest?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Don’t say that yet. I haven’t told you my full story.”

  “You have a story?”

  “Yes, but we shall talk about it after a movie.”

  I’m in shock from his words, my eyebrows nearly touching the sky.

  “What movie?”

  “I figured we’d watch a Christmas movie.”

  “Well, aren’t you presumptuous.”

  “So you’re saying no? I mean, you’re fine to say no. Go to bed if you like. I just wanted to set up something special for you since I was such a jerk this morning and lied to you.”

  That’s kind of him. I don’t understand what he’s playing at, but it’s still nice. We don’t really meet a lot of nice people in this world anymore. Just normal people who tend to do bad things or occasionally do something nice.

  There’s also the faint possibility that he wants to impress me, flirt with me and convince me to love him. But that would be way more presumptuous than watching a movie. Plus there’s Derek to think about. And he’s a rich tech mogul. He can probably marry any woman he wants. He’s probably received numerous offers for dates. Maybe they’re not all wholesome love requests, but they’re still something. There’s no way he’s desperate for my love.

  “A movie sounds great.”

  And indeed it does. Nothing like watching a Christmas movie during the holiday season. Talk about something that’ll spike you into a good mood.

  15.

  I eat dinner a lot quicker than I thought I would. It’s one of those meals where you hope you can savor it and spend hours eating it, but somehow you wolf it down in less than ten minutes. Soon I’m staring down at a plate sprayed with blood red sauce, crumb snowflakes of the garlic bread and a spare noodle or two, almost like slices of hair.

  “This was delicious,” I tell him. “I really enjoyed it.”

  “Everyone loves it,” he jokes, and for some reason I can’t tell if he means that in a sort of ironic, sarcastic way, or if he’s acting dead serious about all of this.

  Either way, the food he prepared was delicious. My stomach rumbles for more. Just a little bit more of the thick pasta, some meat sauce and those burning hot meatball. How can I be this hungry and this stuffed at the same time?

  Ryan collects the plates, which ding against each other in a lighthearted clash. He carries them over to the sink and dips them into a square bowl of soapy water.

  “Need help with the dishes?”

  He shakes his head. “Chives has got it.”

  “Wow. You’re going to make the drone do your dishes.”

  The insect-like drone buzzes into view, a dish towel hanging from its right claw and a scrubbing brush in its left.

  “I really don’t mind at all, Ms. Cole. I find washing the dishes to be extremely therapeutic.”

  “Weird. I wonder if someone programmed you that way,” she says.

  “You might be onto something,” Chives replies, hovering over the sink.

  Ryan wipes his hands clean of soap and sauce and walks back over to the table. “Actually, I designed Chives to adopt human traits and interests. I obviously asked my coders to put in some requirements, like he wouldn’t try to kill me or take over the world. We have safety nets in there for that. But otherwise, he adopts behaviors as he learns them. I think he said to me once that he finds doing the dishes as a good way to recharge his batteries. The wireless charger kicks up when he’s near the sink.”

  “The water doesn’t destroy him?”

  “Nope. Water resistant. When your drone helps you with all sorts of tasks and errands, you have to make sure those activities don’t fry his brain.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “Sometimes I amaze even myself.”

  I roll my eyes. Here he goes with the attitude again. That cocky but sincere attitude. There is something innocent and wholesome about him, even though his ego is probably as thick as the snow outside. A part of me wants to hate him, toss him into the back recesses of my mind so I never have to think about him again. And yet he’s also kind and thoughtful, at least in some regard. He’s surely a friend I hope to keep. If only for the ability to make me Starbucks on demand.

  “Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together and standing up from the table, “time for you to choose a movie.”

  “Me?”

  “Well, yeah. Guess has to make the choice. That’s the rule around here.”

  “You have rules for your movies?”

  “I guess so. I don’t know, I don’t like to make a ton of decisions.”

  That hurts like a slap to the face. The leader of some famous tech company doesn’t like to make decisions? How on Earth does he lead his business then?

  “You’re a tech executive.”

  “You’re correct.”

  “And you don’t make decisions?”

  “Well, I make choices, not decisions.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Of course there’s a difference.”

  “Explain.”

  He smirks. I’ve never been good at making decisions. Decisions imply you’re doing something that’s more thoughtful and honorable and deeper. People don’t decide to drive to the store instead of walk. They choose. There’s a difference. People decide whether or not to attend college, they don’t choose. They choose which flavor of ice cream. You see what I mean?”

&n
bsp; “Not at all.”

  “Okay then. Agree to disagree.”

  “If that,” I reply.

  “Anyway, my board members end up discussing a lot of the problems our company faces,” he starts as we walk over to the couch and living room area, where the flatscreen clicks on and reveals a screen that shows Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, Disney, ESPN, WWE and pretty much any streaming app you could ask for. “They’ll make decisions and then send me two choices. Sometimes three. Just something simple like A, B or C. And each will have like three or four facts. So, for example. Choice A leads to X amount of job cuts, Y amount of dollars saved and Z amount of press conferences. And so on and so forth. I choose which plan makes the most sense and then go from there.”

  “Wow, that seems like a pretty cold way to go about your business.”

  “It’s the only way I know.”

  “So why are you leading your business if you can’t make decisions? I mean, someone who makes choices just doesn’t seem like a leader to me,” I explain to him. His leadership style includes not making decisions. How is that even possible?

  “Listen,” he says, “I really don’t want to get into it. But if you decide on some movies, I can choose one out of three. Easy. Done. But I can’t decide which ones we pick from. It’s just not in my character. And as far as my business goes, me and my pop built it from the ground up. It wouldn’t be right to put it in the hands of others.”

  That makes sense. I would hate for someone to take over my business idea. Still, there’s something weird about an executive who just won’t make decisions. And I still don’t know what he sees as the difference between choices and decisions. Are choices the simple and easy decisions, while actual decisions are more grand scale that impact more people?

  Was it a choice to go home and avoid Derek for the holidays? Or was that a decision? Was it a decision to stay here for the next few days, or a choice? What is the real difference? They seem like the same word.

  “Listen, just choose one or two or three and then I can decide from there,” he says, pointing to the television. A cold demeanor freezes his face, and it’s not caused by the frosty temperatures. It’s something else. It’s the same mask he wore when we were talking about his business and he sidestepped into something different.

  Mr. Ryan is holding something back. It could be emotion or passion or hatred. Something lingers behind this mask he’s wearing now. There’s something more to the story there. If I’m going to be staying with him these next few days, I need to know what it is. I need to know why he’s acting this way.

  Only then I can I maybe handle his ridiculous nature.

  16.

  We eventually decide on a movie. Or did we choose it? Well, you could say that I picked a movie and then Ryan chose which one we’d watch. It’s one of those random Christmas films that people only watch during these winter months. This one is specifically about a human who becomes an elf and travels from the North Pole to the real world. No, it’s not the popular one. It’s the knockoff. Chives says through his artificial voice that this version of the film was never released properly in theaters, but that it’s miles better. I don’t believe him.

  The credits roll — white text on a black background, sleigh bells jingling throughout the speakers — and I’m splashed in the face by a wave of tiredness. Sleep sounds so good right now. I didn’t even do that much today, but falling asleep in my guest room bed sounds absolutely magical.

  I lean forward and polish off the glass of milky cool egg nog. Ryan’s sipping down the rest of his. Shoutout to Chives for the brilliant idea to give us some of this sugar delightfulness. Nothing like egg nog. Seriously. I’m an egg nog addict. Some people can’t get enough of pumpkin spice. I’m the same way with egg nog.

  Call me basic all you want. But that’s what I’m about.

  “Well, that was okay,” Ryan says.

  Shock overcomes me. And here I thought he would actually like the film since he owned it. He scoots forward on the couch and shuts down the television. The credits blink away.

  Finally. Time for bed.

  “I want you tell me a story,” he says.

  “Sorry?”

  “A story. Tell me a story.”

  “What are you, eight?”

  He smirks and chuckles just a hair, enough to show that he actually found my comment sort of funny. I’ve always thought I’m pretty comedic, in a sort of sarcastic and ironic way. Making people laugh makes me feel joy, it’s also a way for me to see that people are paying attention me. Glad to see he’s joined the long list of people who have laughed from my jokes.

  “Not that sort of story,” he says. “I don’t need you to tuck me in either.”

  “Aww man,” I say with my own girlish grin. Was the egg nog spiked? I’m feeling slightly drunk here, that warm and calming buzz associated with your first drink or two.

  “Listen, I just want to know more about you.”

  “And may I ask why?”

  “Well, we’re going to be stuck here for another two days or so. I mean, we can just keep walking by each other, two ships passing in the morning time, but it might be a good idea to share some sort of story. Just to pass the time.”

  “I’m pretty tired.”

  “Then go to bed,” he says, leaning back into the couch. It’s not a reverse psychology tactic, either. He’s honest. I have my right to go to bed and he knows it.

  Still, I don’t want to. What’s keeping me here? Why is my butt glued to the chair? I have no reason to stay here and talk to this mogul, with his tight Adidas joggers and blank white t-shirt. I should be getting into bed and preparing for the night.

  Do I want to know something about him? Is that it? It must be. He’s so mysterious. There’s little to know about him. Even the few and far between online magazine profiles on him are scarce with details. Grew up in the Midwest, formed a company in the middle of nowhere in Utah and since then has been a burgeoning success in the tech world. Rumors of a presidential run have popped up — he’s still only thirty-two years old, so he is still a few years away — and so too have talks of bringing his company public.

  But there has to be more to him than those rumors, right?

  “I’ll tell you a story if you tell me one.”

  “Fair,” he says, raising both hands, like he’s an innocent bystander in a crime. “Please. All yours.”

  “Well, what sort of story do you want?”

  “I can’t decide that.”

  “Can you choose it?”

  “Har-har,” he replies. But then his eyes turn to the ceiling like he spots the answer hanging from the walls. He claps his hands together. “Alright, I got it. Everyone has a story of the time they didn’t get something for Christmas. Let’s tell each other our versions of that.”

  “Oh boy. Going to need to see my therapist after this then.”

  “It was that traumatic?”

  “I wouldn’t say traumatic, as I would everlasting,” I tell him. “I mean, it wasn’t like the one gift I ever wanted burned down or anything. It just led to all sorts of other developments in life.”

  He parts his hands like he’s opening a curtain and showing me the stage. An open invitation for me to start speaking and telling my story.

  “So I was nine,” I begin. The images slowly emerge through the thick fog of memory. “And I wanted this video game.”

  “A video game?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought girls didn’t play video games.”

  “Then you’d be incorrect and sexist.”

  “Fair point. Go on, please.”

  “Anyway. It was a video game where the main character was the leader of this colony on a remote desert island. The whole premise of the game was that you, as the leader, had to solve a bunch of riddles and puzzles on your quest to defeat the demon king.”

  “Sounds sort of scary.”

  “It was.”

  “So you never got it?”

  I ignore his que
stion for now. “All throughout the holiday season I begged my parents to buy me the game. Tugging on their pants, scribing little notes for them to read. Every time we visited the mall I’d hop onto Santa’s lap and I’d beg him, I’d plead, just for that game. I think I even tugged on his beard once. I may have even cried or started up a dramatic scene in the mall because of that. Like, I wanted this thing badly.”

  “Okay, and so what happened?”

  “We started getting closer to the holiday season. You know how it goes. Suddenly the snow starts falling a little more and the excitement grows. Hot chocolate is almost as common as water. Egg nog is everywhere. And your Christmas tree, decorated and beaming with lights, starts seeing presents under it. Boxes and boxes, toys and toys. Little ones started to float in from my parents. Then some big ones. They said there’d be more when Santa came. I shook and inspected each one. None of them were small enough to be a video game. They were either clothes or jewelry. Or they were something for my brother, who wanted nothing more than wrestling action figures.”

  “Smart man,” Ryan said, nodding. Apparently he’s a fan of pro wrestling too.

  “So then Christmas comes. And you have to remember, I wanted this video game so badly. I couldn’t fall asleep the night before, caught in that childhood haze of thrill and joy. Would Santa come? Would he leave me his gift? Every little knock on the door or gust of wind I took as a sign that he was there.

  “The halls are quiet and still. I didn’t hear good old St. Nick hobble through the halls or slide down our chimney. I never heard the hooves on the ceiling. Everything was just the same as you imagine it would be,” I pause a second, almost caught in the images that bring me back. Wow. I’m actually reliving this whole thing.

  “So what happened?”

  “I go downstairs earlier than normal. I’m curious to see if anything’s changed. But the cookies are still there, not chewed. The carrots aren’t gnawed. There aren’t anymore gifts under the tree. It’s all so confusing. Sunlight peaks through the window, slanting with a pink-purple hue of the early morning. Then I hear the rumbles. I hear the footsteps. It’s my dad, with a bag full of gifts and presents. Just in a t-shirt and boxers. He stops dead in the hallway when our eyes lock. And there we are, eye-to-eye, parent to child.”